Hurricane (5 page)

But she squeezes my hand and says, “Be careful, José!”

“I will, Mom. I promise!”

I open the door and step outside.

It's just drizzling now, but it's still dark as I get ready to move off our front porch. My flashlight is useless, a tiny dot of light that doesn't even reach the houses across the street, much less farther away. I stand still for a moment and keep passing the light all around the town. I don't see anything, but I hear people crying out. I move toward their voices.

I take two steps off our front porch and sink into the mud. I scream out, scared that it will suck me all the way down, but the mud comes up to only my knees. My heart pounds and I am frozen for a second.

I take some deep breaths before finally struggling to push through the mud again. I manage to move one foot and then the other, slow and hard, slogging as if I'm moving in slow motion.

I keep waving my flashlight so that the people calling can see and yell over to me and I can find them, but this stupid light is so weak! Where are all the houses? Where are … And now it hits me. The Ramírez house, which used to stand right next door to ours, is mostly
gone
.

I force myself to look into the darkness, squinting as hard as I can trying to find the other houses, but I can't see
anything
. I don't know what time it is, but it must be nearly sunrise, because as each second passes, I can see farther and farther down the street.

Oh my God!

It's not just the Ramírez house that is gone; so are the Arroyo and Álvarez houses and the Larioses' house and … All the houses are gone!

All I can see is a river of mud. Far on the other side of the village there is a sudden fire. Flames rise up for a few moments and then they fade away.

This can't be real, can it?

If all the houses are gone, where are all the people?

Where are the people who were sleeping in those houses?

Where
is
everyone?

All the voices I heard calling for help a few moments ago are suddenly quiet. There's a terrible silence.

But now I hear moans coming from where the Ramírez house used to be. I try to hurry there, but I move too slowly through the mud. The roof has been torn off their house and lies in the street, flattened out. The walls of the house are buried, and only the tops stick up. Mud is everywhere, brown, wet, and thick. It looks like the filthy fur of an animal.

Where are Mr. and Mrs. Ramírez?

Only a few days ago Vera Ramírez smiled at me and waved. I waved back. It was quiet that day, calm and relaxed, with only a warm breeze. Suddenly I see Mr. Ramírez. He is sticking up out of the ground. His hair is matted down with mud. His eyes dart around as he whips his head back and forth. I try to reach him, but I can barely move.

I look down and can't see my feet. The mud covers my ankles. How many times have I kicked a soccer ball on this street, the street that is gone now. How many times have I run past the Ramírez house or the Álvarez house—or all the houses—heading home after school?

Mr. Ramírez's cries jar me. At first, I can't make out what he's saying, but now I hear him more clearly.

“Vera!” he calls over and over again. For a crazy second an image pops into my head of Vera and my mom making tortillas or fried bread together.

“Vera!” Mr. Ramírez calls again.

I call back to him, “I don't see her!”

“Vera?” he yells to me.

“No, Mr. Ramírez. It's me, José Cruz.”

“Where is Vera?” he moans.

“I don't see her,” I yell again, finally reaching him. I am close enough to grab his wrist. His skin is freezing cold, and his bony arm feels like it could snap in my hand.

I ask, “Can you move your legs? Are you hurt?”

“Don't worry … about … me. Find Vera!” Mr. Ramírez gasps. His voice sounds raspy and weak, and while he tries to talk, he keeps stopping to get his breath.

I fight back tears and force myself to think of something to say. “I … I don't know where she is, Mr. Ramírez. I … I don't see her. Let me help you first. Then we can both look for her. I …” No more words will come.

But Mr. Ramírez understands and answers, “Yes. Good, José.” He looks up at my face as I get closer. His eyes are filled with tears.

I move behind him and reach under his arms and across his chest, locking my hands. His body feels so cold. Once I have him in a strong grip, I begin to tug him up. At first I sink in deeper, and I'm scared that the mud will swallow both of us. But in another few seconds Mr. Ramírez begins to break loose. Just as Mr. Ramírez is getting free, Carlos and Pablo Altunez come from where the street used to be. They fight their way through the mud toward me.

The sky is light now, and we can see everything, but there is nothing left to see.

In all of La Rupa, only two whole houses still stand—our place and, way across town, unbelievably, the Rodríguez family's tiny shack, which the mud didn't reach. These two places, the Rodríguezes' and ours, are the farthest apart of all the houses in town. When the mudslide came down, it came right through the middle of La Rupa, wiping out everything between our two places. Parts of some houses still stand, but they lean at terrible angles, held up only by the mud, three and four and five feet deep, packed around them. All that's left of most of the houses are broken rooftops lying on the ground.

Carlos and Pablo ask, “Can you help us? Our parents are buried. Help us, please!”

Pablo begins to cry.

“Vera is lost,” Mr. Ramírez says. “Vera! Vera!” he calls out.

Pablo, crying harder, begins to moan, “My God, My God!”

I stand helpless; if only my dad or brother were here. They'd know what to do. Suddenly I hear myself saying to Carlos and Pablo, “Go back to your house and dig! Hurry! Use a shovel if you can find one, or a stick, or your bare hands if you have to. Maybe your parents are still alive. Go and dig them out!”

Carlos and Pablo move back to where their home used to be. They go as fast as the mud lets them.

Mr. Ramírez begins to dig, using his bare hands, calling out, “Vera! Vera!” over and over.

“Let me help,” I say, pushing my hands into the mud and pulling out handful after handful. But after a few minutes I hear the groans and cries of other people again—other people who need help too. I leave, making my way toward the other voices. Mr. Ramírez doesn't seem to even notice that I'm gone.

I move through La Rupa, toward the broken, leaning houses and past the rooftops lying on the mud. I don't know which way to turn. Where is Víctor? Where's my father? They'd know what to do. My eyes start to burn, but I hold back the tears. I take deep breaths and force myself along what used to be the main street of town but is now just an ugly river of mud. My legs and feet feel like they're being scraped raw with sandpaper, but I have to keep moving. I have to try to help.

Mr. Ramírez sits on a mud-splattered chair in front of where his house used to be. His mouth is twisted tight, and his eyes are dark and red. He looks sad and confused. I walk past him on my way back to my house, looking at him quickly but then looking away. Vera Ramírez lies on the ground next to where Mr. Ramírez sits. She is dead. I can't bear to look.

I'm so tired that I can hardly stand up, much less walk.

After trying to help Mr. Ramírez and then the Cortez family, I went to all the other places where houses used to be. After hours and hours of digging, I am finally back home.

Mom hugs me and says, “Are you all right?”

Tears come to my eyes, so I look down at the floor. “Yeah.”

Mom asks, “How are the others? Who have you found?”

Still fighting back tears, I answer, “Thirty-two people are probably dead. Vera Ramírez, too … so thirty-three in all. Thirty-three of our …” My feelings overwhelm me and I can't say any more. I stare at the floor.

Shocked, Mom says, “From our town of fifty-six, thirty-three are—”

I answer before I can stop myself, “Dead! They are all … dead. They …” I just can't talk.

Mom begins to cry but quickly wipes her tears away and says, keeping her voice low, “We have to stay strong, José, for your brother and sisters.”

Brother? She says this like I only have one brother. Thinking about Dad and Víctor and Ruby again, I ask Mom, “Where
are
they?”

Mom answers, “I sent them all back to their rooms to try and get more sleep. They're all exhausted.”

Mom is telling me where the younger kids are, not answering my question. But I let it go. If she knew where they were, she'd tell me. It was stupid of me to ask.

It feels like we
all
have died. The faces of the people who are gone now keep racing through my head: Mrs. Ramírez and all the times she was there just to talk with me and laugh at my stupid jokes; Allegra Barabon with her hair in pigtails and the gap between her top two front teeth; Raúl Ortega kicking a soccer ball; the entire Hernández and Marpales families; Mr. Baronas, who walked kind of funny (“bowlegged,” Dad called it); and Mrs. Handel, who always smiled about everything, and her two children, Julio and Margarita—all of them … all of them …

I can't do this … I can't stand it …

My eyes start to sting with tears again. I force myself to think of other things, stupid things, soccer,
carne asada
, my school, Berti lying in the sun … but gone now too … I try to think of anything other than my friends, buried in the mud—buried alive....

I sit on the floor in the corner of the living room. My body aches, and my legs and arms feel weak. I don't want to cry, but I'm so worn out.

Mom asks, “Do you need some water or something to eat?”

But I am not thirsty or hungry. “Not right now,” I say.

Mom says, “José, you've done great. Stay strong, son.”

I nod. If I try to talk, my voice will crack.

Before last night, there were twelve houses in La Rupa, and except for going to school in San Pedro Sula, this little pueblo was my whole world. Before last night, there were twelve families living in those houses. This place was home. Now we are gone!

Mom convinces me to go to my room and try and get some rest. I tell her that I'm all right, but to make her feel better I go.

Juan snores in his bed.

I'm asleep before my head even hits my pillow.

When I wake up and walk out into the living room, I am surprised. Nine or ten people sit quietly, listening to María's radio, which tells us that all over Honduras it's just like here in La Rupa. People say that misery loves company, but I don't think that the news about this storm's damage makes anyone feel better.

Ángela says to Mom, “How can this happen to us?”

María answers Ángela. “It's happened to everyone, not just us.” Both girls glance at our neighbors. Some are on chairs or the couch, but most of them are on the tile floor. Almost everyone here has lost at least one family member, and most have lost more than one.