This is from Derrick's perspective.
Gator and I spent the better part of the day hunched over the guts of the truck, our hands smeared with grease and our brows furrowed in concentration. The dark lantern was not helping us in our work, but we weren't giving up.
After a few hours of tinkering, adjusting, and replacing fuses, we finally managed to coax a response from the truck. It wasn't the smooth purr of a well-tuned engine but rather a series of kicks and bucks, like a wild horse resisting its rider. But it was a start, and it gave us hope.
I circled the truck, my eyes scanning for any other potential issues. My gaze landed on the central bundle, and I noticed another broken fuse. I replaced it With a sigh, hoping this would solve our problem. But the truck remained stubbornly silent.
Frustrated, I popped open the hood again and took a closer look. That's when I saw it - the battery was hooked up backward. I busted down laughing. Gator looked confused, squinting at me and, down at the engine, and back at me. I grabbed the lantern from his good hand and held it to show the battery, pointing at it with my other hand.
"Hey, you racist drunk," I barked out to Gator, "you put the battery in backward!"
Gator looked up at me with a smirk. "I was high when I was doing that, not drunk," he retorted, the grin spreading wider across his face. "Not all of us used a wrench for a pacifier."
That was how we communicated, with a constant stream of ribbing, insults, and banter. Strangely, I was getting used to it and even noticed he actually cared.
With a prayer under my breath, I fixed the battery hookup and turned the ignition. The truck roared to life, its engine sounding like a chorus of disgruntled cats in May. But it was running, and that was all that mattered.
"Sounds like a beauty!" Gator exclaimed, clapping me on the shoulder.
I shook my head, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, as I swiped his hand off my shoulder, checking for grease stains. "Trash panda! Check your ears. That sounds awful. It's completely out of tune and sync. You need to get this tuned up!"
Gator waved his hand dismissively, a smirk playing on his lips. "That's what it always sounds like."
The truck's engine sputtered and died as I turned the key. I sat there for a moment, my hands still on the wheel, the smell of oil and heavy metal in the air, making a mental list of things that needed fixing to improve this. "Okay, we'll fix it up later; you prob don't have the needed parts." I finally said, breaking the silence. "It's been most of the day, and I'm ready for dinner."
Gator, who had been rummaging through a box of spare parts, looked up at my words. "Beans and jerky?" he offered, a hopeful look in his eyes.
I shot him a glare that could have melted steel. "Why on earth would I settle for gas-inducing food when I could have Maria's cooking instead?" I retorted.
Gator shrugged, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Sounds good to me," he said, following me as I headed towards Maria's place. I looked at him, confused as he waddled, keeping up with my long legs. We bickered back and forth about his uninvited presence. By the time we reached Maria's door, I wasn't able to shoo him away, so I knocked on the door, pushing it open.
Inside, Maria and Rosalina were busy in the kitchen, the smell of cooking food wafting out to greet us. I called out to them, "Sorry, Maria, this drunk raccoon followed me home. Mind feeding him?"
Rosalina's eyes widened in surprise, her gaze darting between Gator and me. Maria, however, didn't seem fazed. She looked relieved and simply nodded, her hands never pausing in their work.
I shot Gator a triumphant look. "No beans and jerky for you, gas bag," I said, unable to keep the smirk off my face.
Gator returned my smirk with a crooked smile of his own. "That might be best for everyone!" he agreed, his puffy eyes twinkling with amusement.
Rosalina, who had been watching our exchange with wide eyes, leaned over to Maria. "What's going on?" she whispered, her voice loud enough for us to hear. "Why is Gator alive? And how are they friends?"
The meal that Maria prepared was as delicious as ever. She had a way with the spatula that turned even the simplest ingredients into a feast for the senses, seasoned with expert hands. The aroma of the food filled the apartment.
The only one complaining was Mrs. Bitch, but at this point, only Gator gave her crooked looks and witty insults. Mr. Allen swung from laughing and offense but didn't say anything.
As the sun approached the horizon, the dark, smokey sky went black-gray, and we all started to wind down. We said our goodnights one by one and retreated to our respective corners.
I found my spot in the kitchen, the deflated air mattress from the previous night still lying in the corner. With a sigh, I re-inflated it. Once it was ready, I laid down, the soft material molding to my body as I settled in.
The apartment was quiet; the only sounds were the occasional rustle of sheets and the soft, steady breathing of the others. As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I could hear the distant sound of gunfire. It was faint, barely audible over the silence of the night, but it was there.
I listened to the sporadic bursts of sound, my mind drifting. The shots were further away than they had been the previous night. I felt at peace that this night would be good.
I was jolted awake by the sound of muffled sobs. My instincts kicked in immediately, and I reached for my gun, my heart pounding in my chest. I sprang up from my deflated bed, my eyes scanning the room for any signs of danger. The source of the sound was further in the kitchen. Maria stood there, her shoulders shaking slightly. She was standing over a mixing bowl, her hands covering her mouth.
Seeing that there was no immediate threat, I let out a sigh of relief and put my gun away. I got up and walked over to Maria, concern etching lines on my face. "What's going on?" I asked, my voice soft.
Maria didn't say anything at first. She simply pointed to the dough in the bowl. I looked at it, then back at her, not understanding. Seeing my confusion, she finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's my mom's recipe," she said, her voice choked with emotion. "She used to make tortillas for us."
I felt a pang of sympathy for Maria. I knew what it was like to lose a parent, to have nothing but memories and a few cherished mementos to remember them by. Without saying a word, I reached out and took the bowl from her. I wiped my hands on a nearby towel and began to knead the dough, following the rhythm of my own music in my head.
Maria watched me in surprise, her tear-streaked face softening into a smile. "Thank you," she said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "We will need to bury her, at least temporarily. There is starting to be a smell in that room."
I simply nodded in response, focusing on the task at hand. We worked in silence; the only sounds in the kitchen were the soft thump of the dough against the bowl and the occasional sniffle from Maria.
As the rest of the household began to stir, the smell of fresh tortillas and food filled the air. One by one, they trickled into the kitchen.
I was starting to get used to the knock on the front door. This time, it was Tome. He walked in after breakfast, his face serious as he relayed his plans. He wanted to go to another shopping center, this one a bit further away. He was hoping for Rosalina's assistance again.
Rosalina, however, shook her head, declining the request. I could see the exhaustion and fear in her eyes, the toll of the past the previous day weighing heavily on her. Before Tome could react, I found myself volunteering. "I'll go with you," I said, my voice firm. "But first, we need to help Maria bury her mom."
Tome's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he didn't protest. Instead, he offered to help with the burial. I could see the skepticism in his eyes, but he didn't voice it.
Maria and Rosalina looked at me, their eyes filled with gratitude, tears, and a hint of relief. "Thank you," they both said, their voices barely above a whisper. They quickly excused themselves, leaving to prepare the body for burial.
Before I could decide what to do, Tome returned, a group of men who looked eerily similar to him trailing behind. Several of them carried a shovel, their faces set in grim determination. They led me to a park at the far end of the apartment complex, a quiet, secluded spot that seemed fitting for what we were about to do.
With a group this size, the task of digging a grave was completed surprisingly quickly. The men worked in silence, their shovels biting into the earth. As one got tiered, another took his place. Before long, a hole of appropriate depth had been carved into the ground.
A separate group of men returned, carrying the body of Maria's mother. She was wrapped in bed sheets. They lowered her gently into the grave on ropes, their movements respectful and solemn.
As we stood around the grave, a man in a suit appeared, a Bible clutched in his hands. He began to speak, his voice steady and comforting. He led us in prayer, his words echoing around the quiet park. I recognized the language and style of his speech as Baptist, which struck me as odd, considering Maria was Catholic. But in that moment, the specific denomination didn't seem to matter.
As the prayer came to an end, I noticed Mr. Allen standing at the back of the group. He had been silent throughout the ceremony. But as we finished, he stepped forward, offering his condolences to Maria. His words were simple but sincere. Maria and Rosalina nodded in response, their faces streaked with tears.
The shovels were used again, this time to cover the body, as Maria and Rosalina sobbed. It didn't take long, and Tome produced a crude cross, the name 'Marisol' scratched into it. He placed it at the head of the grave, a simple marker for a life that had been anything but. As he did, Maria closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer.