Hurricane (9 page)

“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.

I say to Berti, “There's the bridge! We're almost to the highway. Come on!”

She looks up at me and keeps walking close by.

As we get closer, I see that there is no Ochoca Bridge any longer; the concrete pylons at the entry to the bridge are still here, but the bridge itself is gone. The Ochoca River, which has never been anything more than a slow, lazy, little creek, has become a roaring, muddy torrent.

I stare down at the water rushing by. My energy of a few seconds ago leaves just as fast as it arrived. What am I going to do? It's almost dry up between the pylons—and that's a good thing, because a moment later I've just plopped down onto my butt, too shocked to even stand.

I have to calm down.

My eyes fill with tears, but Berti, panting and wiggling next to me and wagging her tail, stares into my face and licks my cheeks and eyes.

I pet her as I take some slow deep breaths.

After staring at the muddy water for a little while, I realize that although it is going by fast, the river doesn't look very deep.

It starts to rain again, a steady, cold drizzle. I stand up and make my way over to a place on the riverbank that isn't too steep. Berti follows me. Once we are at the river's edge, I look carefully at the spot. This place looks like it's as good as any to try to get across.

“Get across?” I say to Berti. What am I thinking? If I fall, I'll get sucked down and the river will take me away. How can I even think about trying to cross this thing?

“But if we don't go, what happens to Juan?” I ask Berti, who stares back at me. “If I don't go forward, I'll have to go back. And if I stop now, just give up, what do I say to Mom? If I quit and Juan gets sicker … what if Juan … what if he doesn't get well? How could I ever look at myself in the mirror again?”

Berti stares at me as though she understands every word I'm saying.

Again I realize that this place where I'm standing, just below where the bridge used to be, doesn't look too deep.

Staring at the river, I suddenly see the bodies of a man, a cat, and a dog floating by. The man, thank God, is not Víctor or my dad. He is floating facedown but is wearing a red shirt with bright yellow numbers on the back—a Honduran National Soccer jersey, something Dad and Víctor would never wear. I watch his body floating past—it looks almost like a log, but his arms are stretched out and his hands are a brownish black. Were the dog and cat once friends in this man's life? Family? Did they all die together? In only a few moments they are too far downstream for me to see them anymore.

I look down at Berti, who's also been watching them float away.

I take a deep breath. “You ready, girl?” I ask, taking my first step into the current. Berti steps forward too but stops suddenly. I say, “Come on, Berti. We can do this,” but she is staring intently across the river.

Now I hear what she has already heard, a sudden loud sound. Seconds later, roaring and splashing into the river from the opposite bank, only a short distance downstream, is a camouflage-colored military truck marked
United Nations Relief
. Another truck just like it follows, and behind it is a third truck with big red crosses on its side and hood. All three trucks splash into the river and begin to power their way across.

For a few seconds I just stand here. The splash of the first vehicle sprays out. Suddenly I grasp what the red cross means: This is a medical truck! They can help Juan!

I run along the bank, waving my arms. The soldiers in the first truck don't see me. I wave my arms harder and almost fall down as I begin to holler,
“¡Mi hermano está enfermo!”
I yell as loud as I can in Spanish, and the same thing in English, even louder: “My brother is sick!”

I stumble over the round river rocks, and I can barely hear my own voice over the trucks' roaring engines. Berti runs ahead of me, silent and agile, flying over the stones. The two men in the first vehicle still don't see me, but I look at the driver of the second truck and at a man and woman in the third one. They stare straight at Berti and me.

As they come out of the river, the second and third trucks stop abruptly and honk their horns to the lead truck. It stops too. Blue exhaust pours out from their tailpipes, and steam rises from around the engines.

I run up to the second vehicle and say in English, “My brother …” I'm breathing too hard to speak. “My brother sick …” I can't seem to catch my breath. “My brother is very sick … very … he's very sick … can you come to help me?”

The soldier sitting in the passenger seat says in English, “You speak English?” He sounds surprised. He doesn't sound American. His accent is strange to me.

“Yes,” I answer. “I'm a student at the International School. I speak English very well.” I gasp for breath.

“Calm down. You're doing fine,” the driver says. “You've got a brother who's sick?”

“Yes!” I say, almost yelling. “My little brother Juan is very sick! Are you a doctor?”

“I'm not. Captain Albertson is the doc.” He nods toward the Red Cross truck behind him. “He's in the next rig back. I'm not sure we can help you right now, though, son.”

Not help? How can this be? My mouth goes dry and I can't think of a single word in English. If this captain is a doctor, surely he will help. He
has
to help!

“But my brother is
very
sick,” I blurt out. “There are many dead in my
pueblo
.... My brother will be dead if I don't bring help.”

“Talk to the captain, lad,” says the soldier driving the truck.

I hurry back to the truck with the red crosses on it. A woman soldier is driving and a man soldier with gold bars on his shoulders sits next to her. He has a kind face, which is good because he is a
huge
man—he must be twice my height and three times my weight. He has red hair and blue eyes and freckles.

I force myself to speak. “Are you the captain doctor?”

“Yes,” he answers kindly, smiling at me. “You speak English, eh?” He doesn't sound American either—his English sounds strange, like that of the soldiers in the other truck.

I ask, “Where are you here from?”

He smiles and says, “We're with U.N. International Relief. Our squadron is multinational, but I'm from Edinburgh, Scotland.”

I say, “My brother is very sick. He needs help right away!”

“I'm sorry,” the doctor says, “but we're under strict orders—”

“But my brother is just a baby …” I feel tears building up in the back of my throat and at the corners of my eyes. I fight them back. What would Víctor do? What would Dad say? Berti, maybe sensing my mood, rubs against my leg, wagging her tail.

“I'm sorry,” the doctor says again, and I can tell that he
is
truly sorry, “but we're under strict orders to go to …” He turns to the lady soldier who is behind the steering wheel. “Where is it, Lieutenant?”

She says, “Las … Las Ruppa?” pronouncing it wrong.

“La Rupa?” I ask.

“Yes,” the doctor says. “La Rupa. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes,” I say quickly. “Yes, I know
exactly
where La Rupa is.”

Berti sits in the backseat of the truck, and I sit up front, telling them everything—about the rains, the power failure, the mudslide, the water, the food, the Arroyos and all the other dead, and my brother Juan. I try to speak slowly and clearly, and I struggle to remember all the right words in English.

“Jesus,” the doctor says, “you really been through it, haven't ya?”

I nod.

He tells me about San Pedro Sula and the other parts of Honduras that he has seen: towns under water, thousands of people waiting on the roads to be rescued, and the horrible damage across the whole country. He tells me about the shelters overflowing with people, so many of them homeless, and about some children stuck on a rooftop for three days and nights after their parents were lost in the flood.

He says, “People in La Ceiba are fishing from their front porches, catching fish and crawdads from what used to be the streets.”

“La Ceiba!” I gasp.

“Yes. You have people there?”

I take a deep breath and explain, “My dad and my older brother, Víctor, and my sister haven't come back from there yet.”

And now I start rambling, saying crazy-sounding stuff, one stupid thing after another: I talk about Víctor tearing down the barbecue, about Ruby and her modeling portfolio, about my dad and his truck, and about Berti being lost. I know I sound crazy, but I can't seem to keep from babbling.

I force myself to slow down, saying, “Of course, maybe they are all right. Maybe they are staying with people somewhere. Maybe they are—” Suddenly I begin to sob. Ashamed, I turn my head away and stare out the window so that they won't see me cry. From the corner of my eye I see Berti, standing and staring straight at me, worried and protective.

The doctor asks, “What kind of truck does your father drive?”

“A medium-sized one,” I say.

I keep staring out the window, but I hear the doctor's soft smile in his voice. “No, José. I mean, what make, what model, what color is it?”

“It is a white Volvo truck—a large van. It is four years old, 1994, perhaps a '93.” It says
Cruz Reparto
on each side in bright-blue letters.”

“Very good, José,” the doctor says. He picks up the microphone attached to the radio on the dashboard. “This is MEDRUN eight-niner. Come in.”

The radio crackles. “Acknowledge, MEDRUN eight-niner—identify.”

“Captain Albertson, Unit eight-niner.”

“Acknowledge. State your purpose, sir.”

Captain-Doctor Albertson speaks clearly and directly with an official sound to his words. “We're approximately three kilometers outside the village of La Rupa. Have encountered and enlisted support of English-speaking Honduran national to assist in translation. Over.”

“Copy that, sir. Over.”

“Need an all-alert priority search and seek, three Honduran nationals. Identities: Señor …” He pauses a second, letting his thumb slip off the button on the microphone, and turns to me. “What is your father's full name?”

“Alberto Cruz,” I say.

The doctor clicks the button of the microphone again. “Señor Alberto Cruz and two teenaged children …”

As the doctor talks into his radio, he asks me for descriptions of what Dad and Víctor and Ruby were wearing, their height and weight, and all kinds of questions. I answer as best I can remember. The doctor passes all this information along.

The radio crackles again. “Copy all and roger that, sir. Good luck in La Rupa. It sounds pretty ugly out there.”