He thought he’d lost whoever was chasing him, but the forest grew suddenly quiet. The flashlight beam reappeared. It swept through the mist, like a searchlight from prison movies, back and forth across the grid. The light grew brighter and Matt stayed deathly still. Then the light went out. Darkness, the only sound blood whirling in his ears.
Matt stood ramrod straight, his back against the rough tree bark. Listening for the man’s footsteps. He should call for help, but who? Did Mexico even use 9-1-1? And what did it matter? He had no idea where he was. And even if his phone pinged his coordinates, it would be too late. But shouldn’t he try? He quietly pulled the phone from his pocket. It was dead. Of course it was. His mind tripped back to Hank shoving it in his hand. Who was she? What did they want from him? There were much easier ways to roll someone. And surely there were more promising targets than a college kid with a cracked iPhone and a few hundred bucks. His mind jumped to the man with the cleft lip scar patting him down in the middle of the street.
A small eternity passed, but the quiet finally gave way to the hum of the jungle. Night creatures. Leaves rustling in the treetops. Wild dogs barking in the distance.
At long last, when he thought his pursuer had moved on, Matt took a step. The snap of twigs under his foot seemed to echo in the night. Or was that only in his head? He took another step, half expecting his stalker to materialize from the darkness.
The monster never appeared. But Matt took no chances. He walked slowly, stealthily, one soft foot after the other, navigating through the thicket of trees. It went on like this for a long while until he saw another light. Not the flashlight, thankfully. Headlamps of a car winking through the trees. He wouldn’t be lost in the jungle all night, at least. It was a road, however desolate.
When he made it to the tree line, he had a difficult decision to make: risk walking along the roadside, or travel in the shadows until he reached civilization. The road had the obvious benefit that someone might take pity on him and give him a ride. But that someone could end up being the person who was hunting him. Also, who in their right mind would pick up a stranger at this hour? He decided to use caution. Stalk in the shadows and assess each vehicle as it approached.
So he walked. About an hour passed and only two vehicles appeared. The first, a dump truck that barreled by before Matt could even try to wave it down. The second, a motorcycle, its driver fueled by testosterone and Red Bull given the speed of it.
Fatigue was setting in. He was tempted to find some soft ground and cover and get some sleep. But he feared what might lurk in the jungle. Coyotes or dogs or who knew what else. And the bugs. His mind wandered as he kicked along. He actually thought about the movie The Road, inevitable given his predicament. A father and son traveling a postapocalyptic highway, exhausted and in search of shelter and food. Matt didn’t care much for the film, but his dad, in a clumsy effort to bond, had invited him to see it. Evan Pine wasn’t a movie guy, but he was a reader, and the film was based on one of his favorite novels. Matt remembered Dad trying to conceal the tear that rolled down his cheek at the pivotal scene, the dying father’s words to his son. You have my whole heart. You always did. Sitting in that dark theater, Matt knew that his father was thinking of Danny.
Headlights burned behind him. Matt turned, and down the long stretch of road he saw what looked like a pickup truck. He considered hiding in the brush, but he was so damn tired. The truck drew closer, the sound of its rattling muffler filling the air. He fast-walked to the side of the road, stretched out his arm, and stuck out his thumb. Is that how you hitchhiked in Mexico? As the truck puttered by, Matt met eyes with a kid, about ten or so, who watched him out the passenger window. Matt dropped his arm, defeated. But then red taillights lit up the night, and the truck pulled to a stop.
Matt jogged over. He peered inside the cabin. Next to the boy was an old man, the kid’s dad—no, grandfather probably. The gray-haired man looked warily at Matt.
Where should he have them take him? “Ah, hotel,” Matt said, too slowly and too loudly, as if that would break through the language barrier.
The old man looked to the kid, and the boy said something to the man in Spanish. The only words Matt could make out were zona hotelera. The old man replied to the kid in Spanish.
The kid then turned back to Matt, nodded, and gestured for Matt to get in the back.
“Gracias,” Matt said, and climbed into the bed of the pickup. It was empty except for a rucksack and piles of rakes with what looked like seaweed strung through their teeth.