Sole

Mexico knew life and death even before the reign of the Olmecs. Those that didn’t kill, couldn’t hope to survive, so the tread of the eighteen wheeler devoured the stripes of the road 16, chasing the setting sun. The radio played country music, some semblance of warmth for the driver hundreds of miles from his home. He pulled his cap up to eye his snoring copilot through the cabin mirror,.

The smell of rancid piss emanated from the shared gallon jugs and bottles of urine littered around. Sharon took his blue eyes from the jugs to sleeping trainee and back to the road.

This road didn’t have many emergency stopping areas, especially for eighteen wheelers, but there was one just past Coyame. A black SUV rested there in the dirt at the far side of the emergency stop. Sharon pulled behind it with just enough room to get the trailer of the truck off the road. He unbuckled and gathered the five gallons of piss.

The man in the back turned over in bed. Orange light spilling just over the hills revealed the face of a younger man, one less scarred than Sharon’s.

“We’re pulled over? Why’re we pulled over?” the young man said. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed and scratched his hair of tight black coils.

Sharon rolled the window down and poured a gallon out the window.

“You said, don’t pull over, ‘cept for town.”

Sharon kept his eyes down, away from the truck. Buck stood up, rubbed his eyes, and leaned over the driver’s seat. He saw the SUV and a Coyote leap out of the window. He motioned for the passenger door, but Sharon grabbed his shoulder. “We don’t see anything.”

“I saw the damn coyote jump out of the damn SUV.”

“An Escalade.”

“This gotta be the most words you’ve said since we been saddled together.”

Buck snatched his arm away. Sharon shook his head and reached for another bottle to pour out. “We don’t see anything, especially Escalades.”

“We’re not suppose’d to stop either, but you stopped to pour out some piss, know’n damn well who drives Escalades.” Buck hopped out of the truck and walked to it. The orange sun kissed the bullet holes that riddled its side. “Buenas tardes?” He looked through the shattered windows.

Sharon poured the third bottle of piss and leaned out the window to examine the road, the hills, and no movement. Through grit teeth he yelled, “Hurry up.”

From the looks of it, the passenger’s bled enough to makes it seem as though the car was filled with four other bodies, only there wasn’t. The driver wore a flannel, but the original colors were muted with red. He had a wound in the shoulder and looked just as dead as the passenger.

Buck reached in the car to open the door. It swung open then fell right to the sandy floor. “Don’t mind me.” Buck grabbed a briefcase from the feet of the passenger man. “Sharon. You’ve got to see this.”

“No.”

Buck opened the case and snapped it closed and jumped back in the truck.

“No,” Sharon said.

“You don’t even know wha’s in it.”

“Money or cocaine. I want neither.”

“No one in that car is livin’. No one wants it man.” Buck put the briefcase at his feet.

Sharon stared at Buck. “How do you think we’re getting past the boarder with that?”

“I’ll figure something out–you know I need this man–we need this. You got out of prison too. We deserve some recompse’”

“We’re ditching it the first sign of trouble. And you’re driving.”

“Alright,” Buck hopped up excitedly. He moved the briefcase to the middle of the truck. Sharon shuffled past him and they traded seats.

The truck shifted into drive and pulled off. Sharon looked in the side mirror and his eyes didn’t leave it, even after the Escalade disappeared behind miles and hills of sand, even after the night wrapped its cold arm around the desert. He started to drift off after being awake for thirty-eight hours.

Sharon went to the night cab and slept. Leaving the world behind, all but the briefcase. It’s image burned into the back of his eyelids. He was awake with his eyes closed, but at some point time left the picture. He wasn’t awake when the truck stopped in the middle of the road, when the stars where the only source of light, and he didn’t feel the truck resume traveling.

When he did wake, it was because the truck lurched. He leaned up wiping the sweat from his brow. His shirt stuck to him like wet paper. The briefcase sat where it had been, between the driver and passenger seat. Buck still drove and blues spilled out of the radio. Sharon sat in the passenger seat. Headlights breached the darkness to their rear.

“How long has that car been there?”

Buck looked over. “Calm down. It ain’t been long.”

“Buck–” Sharon leaned toward the mirror. “How long?”

“Not long–now–I been drivin’ hours without your worryin’. Your’ stressing me.” Sharon stared at Buck. Buck glanced at Sharon. “What ya’ lookin’ at, ugly? Calm down.” He looked at the road ahead, but Sharon kept his eyes on Buck.

Sharon rolled down his window and leaned his head out. He looked pensive at the vehicle behind them. “Could be cartel, or cops doing the cartel’s dirty work.”

“After a random semi?”

The vehicle flashed it’s lights on and off twice.

“You saw that right?”

“What’s this guys problem?”

“Buck, speed up–”

“I know how to drive.” He kept his foot steady on the gas pedal.

Sharon snatched the briefcase and held it out the window. “Speed up, or I’m tossing it.”

“Don’t–are you crazy,” Buck took his eyes off the road and reached toward Sharon with his right hand. The right wheel brushed the gravel. Buck pulled the truck straight again.

“It’s your fault. Now they’re after us.”

“No one’s–”

“You haven’t heard or seen what I’ve seen–if you’re not going to speed up–” Sharon reached in the glove box and grabbed a multi tool.

Buck looked in the left mirror again and the lights were flashing.

The Sharon jabbed Buck in the neck with the multitool. “What the–” Buck reached to cover the faucet spraying from his neck. Sharon jabbed him again and again, then shoved Buck out to coddle with the night. He took the drivers seat and sped up, but the tire popped. He drove until the truck slowed to a halt. The headlights beamed as it drove up the side on the opposing driving lane. Sharon got out with his hands up and a red face. “I don’t have anything. I didn’t take anything. It was him.” He pointed past the lights.

The old ford parked with an engine that sounded like it was gunshots. The driver turned on the inside light, showing a Mexican man, so familiar with dirt it’d made a home in his pores.

“We didn’t see anything we haven’t seen, senior.” He bowed his hat. “Tienes agua?” The man asked.

Sharon went in the truck and gave them a gallon. They drove off, and he worked on the tire.