Signs Preceding the End of the World Read Online Free PDF

where there were bodies. The rancher was big and strong but all his strength was not enough to regain his balance. In the end Chucho stuck one foot between his two and they both fell to the sand. The police trucks had stopped a dozen yards away and the cops inside took aim from behind the open doors.
    Git! said Chucho. Makina moved toward him because even though she knew he was talking to her she thought he was asking her for help. He must be asking for help. Makina wasn’t used to having people say Run away.
    One more bullet exploded from the revolver; Makina saw the barrel head-on, saw the way it dilated the split second it spat fire and the way it contracted just as the bullet clipped her side. The impact caused her to whirl but not fall, and as she span she took two steps forward and dealt the rancher a kick in the jaw. He was still moving but had lost his sense of direction: he was aiming, like his bullets, for Chucho’s neck but where he clawed, all there was was air. Chucho punched him in the chin, which didn’t knock the man out but did curb his momentum, and said, stressing each word, I can take care of this. Makina looked to the trucks, then again to the men on the sand, then to the mountains, colliding endlessly before her, and started to run, guns and evil bastards on both sides. She heard them behind her, ordering Freeze, on the ground, but didn’t turn, not even when she heard another shot that must have come from a police gun because it sounded different, less powerful than the rancher’s.
    She ran uphill till she could no longer hear shouting behind her, then she turned to look. The cops had the two men in their sights, Chucho’s hands on the back of his head and the rancher seemingly unconscious. Another cop looked in Makina’s direction but showed no sign of following. Only then did Makina inspect her side. The bullet had entered and versed between two ribs, ignoring her lung, as if it had simply skimmed beneath the surface of her skin so as not to get stuck in her body. She could see the gash of the bullet’s path, but it didn’t hurt and barely bled. She looked once more to where the men were arguing. Now there was no cop watching her. Chucho was on the ground talking; they stood listening in a semicircle around him. The rancher was still face down.
    Makina remembered Chucho’s mouth saying I can take care of this. She guessed that he was talking, more than anything, about her, and decided to keep on climbing.
    Rucksacks. What do people whose life stops here take with them? Makina could see their rucksacks crammed with time. Amulets, letters, sometimes a huapango violin, sometimes a jaranera harp. Jackets. People who left took jackets because they’d been told that if there was one thing they could be sure of over there, it was the freezing cold, even if it was desert all the way. They hid what little money they had in their underwear and stuck a knife in their back pocket. Photos, photos, photos. They carried photos like promises but by the time they came back they were in tatters.
    In hers, as soon as she’d agreed to go get the kid for Cora, she packed:
    a small blue metal flashlight, for the darkness she might encounter,
    one white blouse and one with colorful embroidery, in case she came across any parties,
    three pairs of panties so she’d always have a clean one even if it took a while to find a washhouse,
    a latin–anglo dictionary (those things were by old men and for old men, outdated the second they left the press, true, but they still helped, like people who don’t really know where a street is and yet point you in the right direction),
    a picture her little sister had drawn in fat, round strokes that featured herself, Makina and Cora in ascending order, left to right and short to tall,
    a bar of xithé soap,
    a lipstick that was more long-lasting than it was dark and,
    as provisions: amaranth cakes and peanut brittle.
    She was coming right back, that’s why that was all she