Hurricane Page 5

  It’s hard work. The mud is sloppy and smells bad. Each shovelful seems heavier than the last. The blisters on my hands from digging before, when we were looking for survivors, tear open and start to bleed, but we all keep digging because the last thing we need is to run out of food.

  What if we’re not even close to where the trucha is?

  What if we can’t find it?

  What if no help comes from the outside, no water, no food, nothing?

  What if …

  I pull up a shovelful of wet mud, and suddenly I see a human hand, its fingers outstretched as though it is reaching toward me.

  It looks like a lady’s hand.

  Mrs. Arroyo.

  NINE

  It takes a while to get all the mud moved away from Mrs. Arroyo. Not wanting to let the blades of our shovels hit her dead body, each of us is very careful.

  When the bodies of little Edgar Barabon and Mrs. Handel were found yesterday, I was with another group at a different spot, so Mrs. Arroyo is the first dead person I have seen other than Mrs. Ramírez, whom I couldn’t look at.

  Just as we’re almost done digging out Mrs. Arroyo’s body, Mr. Larios says, “Hold on. Stop.”

  I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  He doesn’t look at me but keeps staring at the spot where he’s been digging. He sets aside his shovel and kneels down. He carefully moves away some mud with his bare hands. There is another body right next to Mrs. Arroyo’s. Now we are digging out Mr. Arroyo too.

  The closer we come to getting them out, the worse it smells. None of us says anything, but I fight back gagging. My eyes water and my throat stings. Mr. Barabon and Mr. Larios look sad and sick too. Jorge steps away and retches.

  As we get closer and closer to finishing, we see that when the mudslide covered them, the Arroyos were in their bed. They never knew what hit them, except maybe in the final seconds when Mrs. Arroyo reached out. They lie curled up, in sleeping positions, facing away from each other. It looks almost as though they are still just asleep, resting peacefully.

  Finally we lift their muddy bodies out and lay them down carefully. I don’t want to look at them too closely, but I can’t stop myself. You can tell it’s them, but they look like wax statues.

  So many times I bought treats from Mrs. Arroyo, taking peppermint sticks and strawberry candy from her hand. I remember Mr. Arroyo sweeping in front of their little store and lifting the screen over the open window first thing every morning. Now they are dead!

  We lay a black plastic tarp over the Arroyos’ bodies and stand over them silently for a few moments, none of us saying anything. As terrible as it is, we must get back to digging for food. I try hard not to look over at the black plastic that covers them. We placed them under the tarp still facing away from each other in death like they were in bed the last night of their lives. I think about my dad and about when he’ll come home and cuddle close with my mom in their bed again. What if the Arroyos’ bodies were my parents? The thought makes me sick.

  Finally we start to find some food—two cans of corn and another of green beans. We keep digging. Now it’s like finding buried treasure. The Arroyos’ little store is full of soggy cardboard box after soggy cardboard box of canned food: hams, Jolly Green Giant vegetables, creamed corn, soups of every type, chili, meat, and canned peaches, pears, and fruit cocktail. But our luckiest finds are the big containers in which the Arroyos stored rice, beans, and flour. Even though these are simple wooden barrels with loose-fitting lids, they were all against a wall that collapsed right over the top of them.

  “This is amazing,” Mr. Larios says. “All these are still good.”

  I smile. “Now we have plenty for everyone.” As I say this, I make the mistake of looking again at the black tarp. I immediately feel my face turn red and think, Shut up, stupid!

  Mr. Barabon, who has not spoken a single word all morning, notices my embarrassment and says, “It is right to be glad about finding this, José. There is no disrespect. It is good that we found this food, and it is all right to be happy about it. The Arroyos would be the first to say so.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  We are all quiet again.

  After more digging, I’m pretty sure that we’ve found nearly all the food at the Arroyos’ trucha. Of course, with all the muck, we can’t be sure. But we’ve found enough to feed La Rupa for many weeks. This is the good news.

  The bad news is that even with all this food, in our wet, rainy, muddy world of water, water, and more water, we still don’t have much water that we can drink.

  TEN

  There’s no safe water in La Rupa because the sewer pipes burst and contaminated it all. None of our faucets have worked since the night of the storm, and the creek, which runs on the south side of town, was never clean anyway but is now more mud than water. The only flush toilet left in La Rupa is in our house, but since there’s no running water and the sewer line’s broken, it doesn’t flush anymore anyway.

  The Rodríguez family has no plumbing, of course. Part of the reason they put their house on the far edge of town was so that their little outhouse would be out of sight in the nearby trees. But that outhouse has filled up now. Everybody has been walking back into the trees for privacy, but raw sewage, from the broken sewer pipes, oozes up out of the mud in the streets. The stench is horrible.

  We collect rain in bottles, pots and pans, plastic bags, and any container we can find. But this water is used up as quickly as it’s collected. If the rain stops for very long, we’ll be in even worse trouble. We found some bottles of juice and soda and one case of bottled water at the Arroyos’, but this won’t last very long. We have no way of storing a large amount of water anyway, but without it …

  It’s scary to even think about, but how can we not think about it?

  Alfredo Mendoza finds a box of his mother’s home-canned tomatoes and a large bag of ground corn flour. He looks relieved to see the supply of food we found at the Arroyos’. The Mendozas are probably sharing more than they can really afford to. Alfredo also takes some of our neighbors back to his house to stay. He reminds me that they have a large water tank at his house.

  “It is overflowing from all the rain,” he tells me. “We have more water than we need.”

  “So you can give us some, until help arrives,” I say, “and we can share our food with you.”

  Alfredo promises to tell his father about our water shortage.

  We are talking out in the street, in front of my house. Alfredo wrinkles his nose and frowns. “What is this smell?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “it’s bad, huh? We think it is mostly the sewage.”

  “Mostly?” Alfredo asks.

  I look down at the mud. “It’s probably dead people too.”

  “Yes,” he says quickly, his face red. “I’m sorry.”

  “It was good of you to bring this food, Alfredo. Please take some of our canned things back in trade.”

  “Oh no,” Alfredo says. “We’re all right.”

  “Please,” I say, insisting.

  I run back into the house and grab a canned ham and several cans of fruit and milk. When I go back out to the street, I hand them to him.

  “This is plenty,” Alfredo says. “When we need more, I’ll ask for it. Come get some water whenever you are ready.”

  “Okay.”

  It’s too bad that the Mendoza house is some distance away. But it’s only a ten-minute walk, and we’re lucky that it’s there at all.

  As another night arrives and I go to bed, I start worrying again about Dad and Víctor and Ruby.

  Finally I fall asleep and begin to dream. Víctor and I are building rather than tearing down a big brick barbecue on the beach at Omoa. The blue water of the Caribbean laps the shore, and puffy white clouds drift by in the bright-blue sky.

  Víctor says, “We’ll need this for the storm. The mud will not hurt us, you know.” I work eagerly and happily with him, even though a big brick barbecue in the middle of a white beach
, with no house, no hut, and nothing anywhere near us doesn’t really make much sense.

  Ruby is out splashing and swimming in the water. “You’re beautiful,” I yell. Somehow it doesn’t feel funny or awkward to say this to my sister, even if it’s something I’d never say to her in real life.

  Ruby puts her hand up to her ear, signaling that she can’t hear me, and then she laughs and dives under the water.

  My father walks up to us, carrying three huge lobsters. “La Ceiba crawdaddies,” he says, and laughs.

  I say, “But there’re only three!”

  Dad smiles and says, “Three is all we need. Three’s plenty.”

  For some reason I begin to cry. I feel my face burning red and quickly wipe my tears away. But Víctor turns to me and says gently, “It’s all right, José. It’s okay to be sad, but don’t worry, this barbecue will save you all. Don’t worry, José.”

  Now I know that I’m dreaming, because Víctor would never ever give me permission to cry. As I think this, Víctor stops his work and looks straight at me. There are tears in his eyes too. “We all cry sometimes, José,” he says.

  I wake up to an awful rattling sound. At first, still half asleep, I wonder if it’s one of the lobsters from my dream, scratching his claws against the red bricks of the barbecue. But now I realize that this rattling sound, horrible, loud, and gasping, is Juan, trying to breathe.

  I jump up from my bed and hurry over to his side. His skin is a light grayish color. It looks a little bit like the color of the dead people we saw when we wiped away the mud.

  ELEVEN

  Mom holds Juan and rocks him quietly. He looks scared and sick. I keep staring at his skin color. We can’t find the thermometer to take Juan’s temperature, but we know he has a high fever. One moment he sweats, and the next he shakes and quivers from chills. His breathing still makes a bad rattling sound.

  I can barely catch a breath myself; my heart pounds so loudly that I wonder if the others can hear it. Juan is so small and weak. I feel so helpless … I feel crazy.

  “What can I do?” I ask my mom, my voice too loud.

  “I don’t know,” she answers quietly. “We need a doctor.”

  “I’ll go get one,” I say, even louder.

  “But the nearest doctor is in San Pedro Sula,” Mom says.

  “Yes,” I answer, forcing my voice to be quieter.

  “How will you get there?”

  “I’ll run,” I say calmly, and I’m already on my feet, moving toward the door.

  Mom says, “No, José, you can’t! The bridges probably aren’t there anymore, and with all the flooded roads—”

  I interrupt, “I’ll be careful, but I’m going, Mom. I have to!”

  Mom says, “José, we need you here, we need—”

  Suddenly Ángela, who has been sitting quietly on the couch, listening to us argue, says, “Mamá, José will be okay.”

  We both look at her. She looks back and forth between Mom and me. “God will not let any harm come to José, Mamá. I know this,” she says.

  Mom starts to ask, “How can you …?” but she stops and stares into Ángela’s eyes.

  Ángela says, her voice calm and certain, “I just know, Mamá. God does everything for a reason. We pray to Him to learn what His reasons are and to tell Him we love Him. God will save José, Mamá … I just know it.”

  Ángela is a kind of odd little girl. She’s always very quiet and never says anything unless she has something important to say. She and Juan are close, like María and me, like Víctor and Ruby.

  I smile at Ángela and say, “Thanks, Angie.” Then I turn to Mom and say, “Ángela is right, Mom. I’ll make it. It’s what Víctor would do and what Dad would do. I’ll be careful, but I have to go.”

  Mom, with tears in her eyes, shakes her head. “But what if …” She stops in the middle of her sentence. Now she says, “You promise me that if you can’t make it, if it looks too dangerous, you will stop and come back home. Promise me, José. I can’t lose you too.”

  This is the first time Mom has mentioned anything about losing anybody. I understand what she means. “I promise, Mom, but I’ll make it. We can’t lose Juan either.”

  Mom says, “Yes, son, that’s true.”

  As I’m getting ready to leave, Mr. Barabon comes up to me. “I’ll watch over your mother and sisters and little Juan.”

  I look him in the eyes and say, “Thanks.”

  He says, “I’ll watch over them until you return or …” He hesitates and then says, “I’ll take care of them no matter what, no matter how long. I give you my word.” He pauses again and says, “Go with God.”

  I nod.

  I grab a plastic bottle full of drinking water.

  Ángela looks up from the couch and says, “You’ll be safe, José.”

  I nod again.

  Mom gives me one more hug, and I give Juan’s arm a little squeeze. His skin is clammy and cold, and it’s like he doesn’t even notice that I touched him.

  I hurry down the street. I’m sinking into the mud a little, but it’s nothing like before. The mud has hardened quite a bit, so I run as fast as I can toward the main highway south of town, the road to San Pedro Sula. In some spots, the mud is still softer than in others, and I’m slowed down, sometimes almost tripped. That makes me force myself to go more slowly and be more careful. San Pedro Sula is seventeen miles away. I must pace myself.

  I have to make it. I have to get there for Juan.

  TWELVE

  I’ve traveled this route to San Pedro Sula on a bus every school day of my life. But it’s so different now. What was once thick forest and green pasture is now mud and water, brown and dirty and never ending. Once I’m around a corner and La Rupa is out of sight behind me, I can barely tell which direction to go. The few patches of road not buried in mud are covered in muddy water. Over and over again, I slip off the pavement and feel my ankle turn.

  My breaths come faster and faster, not just because I’m tired, but also because I’m afraid. I can’t tell exactly where I am. I stop and look around for a landmark or some sign to guide me. I breathe even faster, and am almost panting as I start to panic.

  What would Víctor do right now? I know what he wouldn’t do: He wouldn’t stand here shaking with fear. But I can’t help it! If I’m lost, what will happen to Juan? If I can’t find my way, what will happen to me?

  I’m not Víctor … I’m not Dad …

  But I keep moving, even though nothing looks familiar. The trees that used to line the road are either washed away or bent and broken. They could be any trees, anywhere. All I know is that I keep feeling the road under my feet. But is this the right road? Could I have wandered onto one of the side roads that lead in the wrong direction?

  I think about Juan again, so sick and pale, about my mom waiting for me to bring back help, about Dad and Víctor and Ruby, maybe dead. No! They aren’t dead! They can’t be dead. They’re alive—they have to be.

  The brown water comes up over my ankles. In some places it nearly reaches my knees.

  I stop, afraid to go forward and afraid to turn back. I’m not even sure which way is forward.

  There is a sudden sound off to my right in a tall clump of bushes, the sound of an animal moving. What kind of animal? Could it be a jaguar? They are the most dangerous predators in all of Honduras. Normally they stay hidden high in the mountains, but with this terrible storm maybe one has come down to hunt, one who hasn’t eaten in many days. I look around for a weapon—a stone, a large stick, anything—to help me protect myself, but there is nothing anywhere, only my bare hands!

  “Get away!” I yell loudly, my voice stronger than I had imagined possible.

  Jaguars are fast, and their spotted coats help them hide until the second before they pounce on their prey.

  “Get! Go!” I yell again, my voice weaker and shaking.

  There is another loud swooshing sound and a sudden burst of motion from the bushes. Water splashes as the animal make
s its charge.

  I brace myself, lifting my fists and screaming out.

  In another second my scream turns from one of terror to one of total joy. “Berti!” I yell.

  Her short fur is mud splattered and matted, her body skinny and soaking wet as she runs as fast as she can toward me. I kneel and she nearly knocks me over, throwing herself into my arms.

  “Berti,” I cry again.

  She doesn’t bark but yelps back at me, whining and whimpering, as excited and happy to see me as I am to see her.

  I hold her tightly around her neck, and she wiggles and twists in my arms.

  “You okay, girl?” I ask over and over again.

  She looks into my eyes. I feel that I can read her mind. She is thinking, I’m back! I’m back! I’m saved!

  I hold her and pet her. She quivers in my arms. How long has she been out here, in this area so close to home? What has she eaten? Where has she slept?

  I say, “Berti, you’re safe now. You’re okay. Relax.”

  We don’t leave this spot for a long time, just standing together quietly as I whisper to her, and she calms down.

  Although the water is nearly up to Berti’s chest at some places, she walks along close to me as we force our way forward. All my fear is gone now. I have to get help for Juan and I will. Berti will help me.

  Suddenly I spot, way up ahead, the tall concrete posts at the entry to the Ochoca Bridge. This bridge is three miles outside La Rupa. I can’t believe I’ve traveled this far already. The Ochoca Bridge is on the road that leads to the highway, so we’re going the right direction. We’re not lost! I feel another burst of energy.