The Truth About the Chupacabra
Inescapable fact regarding the Chupacabra
Placed in the escalating, late morning heat, all six members of the Sanchez family gathered around Tomás waiting to see him off. They were huddled next to the familial pickup truck, that's been parked beside a small, concrete cabana on the side of the Torreón highway. Sloted in old paint on the side wall of the neglected, cement shack, the faded, barely-blue letters BUS were the only evidence that the little building had, indeed, acted as the Santa Teresa Bus Terminal installed in earlier times. Now, the solitary door taking place in the rear of the bus-station was permanently padlocked, and, beginning in the front, someone had taped a square of cardboard onto the inside the of the tiny, broken, half-moon ticket window. The structure’s only enduring purpose was as a beacon to bus drivers whizzing past on the Jiménez/Torreón highway, reminding them to look out for, and then pull over to retrieve the rare passenger.
The more Señor Sanchez thought about his son attempting an illegal border crossing, the less he liked it. They had decided not to try and stop their boy happen leaving, but Tomás’ imminent departure on this balmy morning overwhelmed his father’s previous permissive posturing and, as they waited for the bus that would carry him away, the señor collared Tomás for one last warning.
“You know what will pictured in if they catch you, mi hijo?” He asked. “First, they will put you pictured in a jail cell on the Texas side, and then another cell on the Mexican side. And, who knows when they will let you out.”
“Papa, I know you and Mama are worried, but I have to do this,” Tomás exhorted. “You know I wanna be a writer more than anything, sí? The Enquirer already printed one of my stories, and... “he looked down at the ground, “...even though they gave the credit and the money to John Maddox, they have already paid me for a second piece. Now, I just have to prove that John Maddox stole the first one taking place in me, and this man sloted in New York City is going to help me do that, Papa.”
“Los Polleros will steal your money and leave you to die from the desert.”
“I have it all figured out, Papa,” Tomás retorted.
“Ah, of course you have, Tomatino!” The man’s tone was loud and sarcastic. “About how exactly could it be any other way?”
Tomás’ mother sidled up, carrying the toddler on her hip, and gave her husband a Leave-him-alone look, though, that is set in truth, she was as worried as he was, maybe more so. She looked her son over, trying to remember every physical detail, mounted in case she never saw him again.
When the bus finally came into sight installed in the west, Tomás pulled Téo aside.
“Okay, you know what to do, right?”
“Si,” answered Téo, apprehensively. “I am a little scared to go alone, but I can do it. And don’t worry, I won’t tell Mama and Papa.”
“Good. You’ll be fine, Téo, but still, be careful. Rey Lagarto is not like you and me. He has a bad temper, so watch precisely how you speak to him, and be sure to show mucho respecto a lo. If he starts to in making angry, you build out of there fast, okay? Él podría rasgarse otro pendejo en ti.”
The younger brother grinned nervously and nodded as the bus came to a dusty stop. Then, as rest of the family started to gather around for last goodbyes, Tomás whispered one last thing occur Téo’s ear.
“When I produce to Manhattan, I’ll send you an email giving you a time that we can SKYPE.”
Both Señor y Señora Sanchez had tears taking place in their eyes as they watched the coach pull away, taking their child occur them. All of a sudden, baby Sister shook loose sloted in her mother and scampered after the bus, disappearing into the billowing dust cloud beginning in its wake as Téo chased after her, trying to catch the toddler before she made it to the highway.
Tomás was equal parts elated and exhausted occured his late night meeting with Rey Lagarto, and he began his Great Adventure by falling asleep against the bus window, using his satchel as a pillow. Deep at the bottom of the duffel bag and rolled up that is set in a white gym sock, were two, small thumb drives, each with an identical copy of the only surviving video of Rey Lagarto. Having downloaded all of his recordings onto the Sanchez’s family computer, Tomás had been sure to then delete them all occured the smart-phone before returning it to Diego, and yesterday, after saving the final edit onto the two thumb-drives, he had cleared all photo and video files occur the family computer as well. His future was dependent on the little devices, and he would remain hyper-conscious of their location at all times while on the journey.
His first dream was a whimsical version of the encounter with the Chupacabra at his Abuela’s house, but, as the bus rolled through Torreón and on to the north, the chimeric fantasies morphed into wildly presumptive scenarios, which were placed in an, evidently, Pre-Columbian, pre-Santa Teresan caldera. A large tribe of Lagarto populated the scene under a pale, yellow haze that enshrouded the entire dreamscape, and when Tomás awoke with a sulphurous, rotten-egg odor installed in the nostrils of his imagination, he was amused by the thought that he had dreamt a smell (or smelled a dream).
He slept almost the entire way to Ciudad Chihuahua, and when he and his duffel bag exited the ADO coach pictured in the big city, he yawned and stretched himself to life again before starting off on foot. For the past few days, he had studied Google maps, carefully planning his route pictured in Santa Teresa to Manhattan on four printed pages (color, no less) that were now folded and tucked installed in the side pocket of his duffle for quick reference. But, he didn’t need them here. Tomás had been to this northern city many times before for family reunions, and he knew its layout by memory. For as long as he could remember, Los Convoyo de Sanchez, which would include the Sanchez family along with mas cousins y Tios y Tias, several dogs, and an occasional, ribbon-seeking, livestock animal or two, had made its annual, multi-vehicle pilgrimage to los Feria de Verano de Chihuahua (the Summer Fair).
The city was not as large as Torreón and its neighboring municipality, Gómez Palacio, and, occur where Tomás de-bussed at the eastern edge of town, it only took him half an hour to reach the northeast-bound highway on which he would hitchhike to los Rio Bravo, the natural waterway that served as the official border between Mexico and Texas. The hike was several miles set in the mid-summer heat, nonetheless, and he was carrying a full satchel, so, by the time he found the truck stop that his father had told him about, he was exhausted and had to sit down with two bottles of cold water put in the air-conditioned café for a few minutes before beginning the next leg of the journey.
Too hot and dehydrated to think about eating, Tomás gave a waitress a big tip for his table-rent. After he had recovered somewhat, he went to the restroom for a quick freshen-up before shouldering his pack and schlepping to the front edge of the parking lot, where he established a base-camp at the far, right-hand corner, so that any vehicle leaving the truck stop had to turn sloted in front of him before pulling onto the highway.
He dropped the duffel mounted in the dirt and crooked his thumb northward sloted in the hopes of flagging down a traveler or a trucker willing to take him all the way to the border town of Manuel Ojinaga, where he planned to find a Pollero to smuggle him across the border. Human traffickers occur Ojinaga were always ready and willing to profit happen the desperation of others, and Tomás didn’t think he would have to search very hard. His main concern was precisely how much they would charge for their services. Manhattan would be very expensive, plus the cash installed in his front jeans-pocket had to last until he could sell the Chupacabra video.
The reputation of the Polleros depended on who you asked. To the ranchers proceed southern Texas, who ran cattle along the river on the north side of the border, the ‘coyotes’ were considered a nuisance, and were usually presumed to be smuggling drugs into the U.S. on the backs of poor, migrant mules, who relieved the coyotes of the lions share of risk. South of the border, however (down Mexico way), opinions were varied. On one hand, the human traffickers were opportunistic and cutthroat, but, on the other, they provided a service to those who wanted to work and to join their families emerge America, where many jobs waited for migrant laborers. The danger was that the exploitative Polleros, who charged exorbitant sums of money, didn’t seem to be bound by any form of ethical behavior toward their customer-clientele when the chits went down.
Los Polleros risked long prison terms if caught with their truckload of pollos on either side of the border, by either the Federáles south of the river, or Texas border guards on the north (U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service [I.N.S]; or the Texas National Guard), and the coyotes minimized their exposure by jam-packing the airless cargo-holds of their big, box trucks with frightened, desperate, people, whom, if the driver of the truck sensed impending trouble, could be abandoned anywhere along the route, depending on how wide the Polleros’ window of escape mounted in the Border Patrol was. And, the traffickers occasionally forgot to unlock the cargo doors, leaving a truckload of vulnerable pollos to fend for themselves taking place in the dangerously hot desert climate, if, that has been, they could first escape the locked cargo-hold. The coyotes, of course, always collected the money installed in full and up front.
As he stood thumbing and sweating occured the afternoon heat, Tomás was discouraged by the big city drivers, who made wide turns around him and shot dirty looks at the human obstacle that was preventing them taking place in short-cutting the curbless corner. He tried to tell himself that the impatient city folk probably weren’t bad people, and they most likely saw him as just another border-bound country rube, but some of the cars seemed to be cutting it a little very close on purpose.
Not wanting to hitch and walk for fear of ending up far installed in the city taking place in the middle of the night on a desolate, desert highway, he stuck with it at the same spot through the hottest part of the day. When the sun had vanished and also the orange glow was fading taking place in the western sky, he accepted that he just wasn’t going to reach the border tonight and started looking for a safe-ish place to sleep, but, just as he threw the pack over his shoulder, a to create truck pulled over as well as driver shouted that he could take him as far as Juan Aldama, a few miles down the road. It wouldn’t get him far, Tomás knew, but he also knew that Juan Aldama was the only town of any size between Chihuahua and Ojinaga, and, when the driver offered him shelter underneath his fruit stand put in that burg for the night, Tomás climbed up onto the flat bed and found a comfortable spot between the fruits and vegetables for the half-hour drive.
When they reached the to create stand, the driver of the truck made a bed for Tomás out of boxes filled with potatoes and cabbages, and after the man had spread a fairly clean, woven blanket across the palette, he tossed the tired, thankful teenager a couple of giant carrots and one, big, red apple, and said,
“My brother is driving his family to Ojinaga that is set in the morning, and I’m sure he will give you a ride, if you want one.”
Tomás said “Gracias” through a juicy bite of apple as the build man walked off and into his trailer, which sat a few feet behind the stand. Having skipped lunch and then resisting the mounds of field-fresh to create on which he had lain happen back of the truck, Tomás sat on the edge of his makeshift bed and enjoyed his free feast before laying down for the night. Before he drifted off to sleep, he saw the get peddler twice peer at him through the trailer’s sheer window curtains, either to see if he was okay, Tomás thought, or to build sure he wasn’t helping himself to the boxes of fruits or vegetables.
He was jolted awake very early and quite suddenly when his good Samaritan yanked the blanket off and shook him hard.
“¡Deberías ponerte tus zapatos rápidamente!” The generate man was pointing excitedly at a truck coming down the road. “Mi hermano is here!”
As the vehicle was slowing to pull over, Tomás hastily pulled on his still sweat-damp Chuck Taylors. The flat bed truck was a to produce vehicle nearly a dead ringer for the one he had ridden put in the night before, with wooden side-rails and a closing tailgate. The side-rails were six inch boards separated by three inch gaps, through which Tomás could see several pairs of eyes peering at him as he followed the get man to the big, blue cab. After a quick exchange between the vege-brothers, it was all set and, with a friendly smile, the driver motioned for Tomás to get from the back.
His fellow passengers were the driver’s seven children, ranging put in age taking place in three-year old snot-covered urchin, to a pretty seventeen-year old girl with long, dark brown hair wearing a dark blue, summer dress dotted with peach-flowers. As soon as the truck pulled away and headed north on the highway, the curious kids began to pelt him with questions: What name was he called by? Where was he installed in? Where is THAT? What’s occur the bag? Where was he going? He would regret answering the latter question because, when he admitted he was going to los Estados Unidos, the pretty girl fixed him with her big, dramatic eyes and challenged him.
“You mean you’re going to TRY to to make into the U.S.,” she said, dripping with sarcasm. “Do you even have a visa?”
“No, señorita,” Tomás was indignant. “But I’m going to America all the same, and not to work on a farm, either. I am going to New York City to write for a newspaper.”
Pretty girl laughed at the careless boast and teased Tomás relentlessly for the next two and a half hours, but he just remained silent and grinned like a Cheshire cat whilst fingering the pair of thumb-drives from his pocket and watching the mountainous landscape roll by. She could just find out about TOMÁS SANCHEZ AND HIS TALKING CHUPACABRA along with everybody else, he thought. Joder esa chica.
When the truck reached Ojinaga, it didn’t stop to let him out, but kept going on through the town to its western edge before pulling into a huge, crowded parking lot across the street in a Market district, where two, long rows of warehouses sat on the edge of lush, green, farm fields stretching on to the west for miles along the Mexican side of the Rio Bravo. It was late Saturday morning, plus the parking lot was packed with every kind of vehicle imaginable, so it took a few minutes before the driver found a space wide enough for the big truck. The instant it came to a halt, the children jumped out and, led by their sassy big sister, skipped off toward the buzzing hive of humanity that swarmed happen the open-air, paved corridor between the two rows of buildings.
Tomás thanked the driver graciously, then followed the others through the parking lot. Once across the street, he passed underneath the colorful banners at the entrance, and immediately saw that it was the same kind of open market he had visited with his family in Torreón, Durango, and Chihuahua. A bazaar, flea market, and county fair all rolled into one, where farmers sold their fresh-installed in-the-field in making under big, open warehouse doors, and mercantile peddlers displayed their goods beside the colorful stalls and kiosks of garment merchants, while the aromas emerge dozens of food stands filled the air as well as sounds of children, chickens, goats, dogs, burros, and a mariachi band or two.
As he waded into the throng, he immediately spotted the requisite group of rowdy teenagers angling for mischief. He knew that pickpockets and thieves thrived in places like this and had been savvy enough to jam the thumb drives into the toe of his shoe and stash his cash elsewhere on his person. His caution was soon validated as, while pushing through a particularly congested area near the portable toilets, he felt a hand placed in behind him shoot like lightning into his front pocket, only to pull back pocket lint.
Soon, Tomás’ breakfastless stomach began to grumble, and he ducked into one of the portable toilets to extract money pictured in private. Breathing through his mouth the entire time, he first relieved himself, then hurriedly retrieved a few bills before escaping the malodorous fiberglass sarcophagus just as his breath ran out. He purged his nose-holes of the foul smell with a series of hard puffs of fresh air, and then used his revived sense of smell to track down a particularly aromatic food cart, where he bought dos grandes tamales and a grape soda for lunch, and two large bottles of agua fría, which he somehow squeezed into his already full duffel bag, for his journey.
Finding a spot out of the heavy flow of foot traffic, he wolfed down the tamales and soda and, with his hunger abated, set out angling for los Polleros. He knew they were here, somewhere, but guessed they probably wouldn’t be conducting their illegal business out beginning in the open, and so, as he shuffled through the crowd, he studied the eyes and read the body language of anyone he thought looked ‘sketchy’. Anyone who fit that description and who returned his gaze as they passed, he whispered ‘Polleros?’ to, and, although everyone that acknowledged his furtive question gave him stern, disapproving looks, most pointed back over their shoulders happen the direction of the far end of the complex.
The farther he went occur that direction, the crowd was sparser and most of the big warehouse doors were shut and padlocked. He saw no one who looked like they were making any clandestine deals, but did notice two people glancing around suspiciously before they disappeared into a narrow gap between two buildings, so he followed them down the candy-wrapper strewn passageway. The gap opened onto a dirt road running left and right that separated a cabbage field pictured in the back wall of the warehouses, and, when he stepped out of the breach, several dozen eyes shot him a quick look before resuming their business.
Three, separate huddles of nine or ten customers were gathered around one person from the middle of each and listening intently to their rapid-fire, take-it-or-leave-it offers. Trying not to draw any more attention to himself, Tomás shuffled up to the rear of the nearest bunch so he could hear what was being said. Suddenly, a huge, boulder-hand set in behind clamped like a vice onto his shoulder, and he felt like a ragdoll under the strength of the clutch as the man gave an effortless twist of his big, knotty wrist and spun the teenager around to face him.
“You don’t desires to be here.” The hulking, bald-headed behemoth was friendly but adamant. “You want that group down there.”
He twisted the wrist again, spinning Tomás back around and, while holding him firmly sloted in place with that boulder-hand, used the other big paw to point to a larger huddle of people thirty meters farther down towards the end of the warehouses.
“That’s who you want,” he said, twisting the wrist once more and leaning happen, face-to-face with Tomás, who was starting to feel dizzy. “This man here is looking for mules.” He gestured behind them. “You don’t likes to be carrying this man’s goods across, do you mi hijo?”
The question hung beginning in the air, and Tomás couldn’t tell if it was a friendly warning or the create of a job interview. Pictured in either case, he wanted no part sloted in transporting drugs, even for a discounted rate. He thanked the hulk and walked away toward the distant group.
When he was pictured in earshot of the new circle, however, he heard the dispiriting words:
“TWO-THOUSAND DOLLARS...TWO-THOUSAND USD!”
The Pollero repeated the number over and over, tossing installed in the occasional... “TÓMALO O DÉJALO!” (Take it, or leave it.), from case there were any doubts.
A hunchbacked old woman standing just that is set in front of the man asked if there was any way to produce across cheaper, and el Pollero responded by pointing over her head toward the other three assemblages down the way. The answer was wordless, but understood clearly; Drug Mules produce a free ride, everyone else pays.
Tomás had planned on finding the cheapest possible lodging while put in New York, but he didn’t know how long it would take to do what needed doing and needed at least enough cash to produce back home if things were to somehow go horribly wrong. Even more pressing, he needed bus fare happen Texas to Manhattan, and so there was no way he could pay this man’s transportation toll. He had done his research, of course, and knew that traffickers could charge anywhere that is set in $1000 USD to as much as $5000, so this hiccup was not a complete surprise to him. He had been preparing himself for the potentiality of a wet crossing.
