Juan threw his hands up, “So am I!” he shouted. “But that doesn’t give the right for a couple of pistol-packing gringos to shut down the airlines for the whole country!” Juan correctly deduced that the entire nation’s airline industry had been effectively grounded by stopping traffic at several major airline hubs.
“You’re right,” Carlos agreed reluctantly. “Listen, we’ve got to try to get out of here.”
Juan gestured angrily toward the windshield, “Where am I gonna go? Traffic is backed up in both directions.”
Carlos shook his head. “What about off-road? That hill doesn’t look too steep. If we can make it past that guard rail, we could cut across to Buckeye Road. Do you think you could make it?”
Juan eyed the guard rail, which was made of a long series of short concrete T-walls. “Those are only about three feet high,” he said. I could knock them over. It might be bumpy, but I think I can get through.”
Before he could say anything more, Carlos slipped out of the passenger door and hopped over the low barrier. He started waving Juan forward.
Juan began by cutting his tires to the right and backing up until he bumped into the car behind him. He ignored the angry honking from the irate driver and cut his wheels back to the left. With a feral cry, he gunned the motor and dumped the clutch, careening at a sharp angle into the obstacle.
The impact sent his front wheels startlingly high into the air. The motor and most of the cab flew above the shattered concrete before the whole vehicle came crashing down with a sickening thud. Juan thought he might have busted an axel. He spun his tires a few times but couldn’t get the traction he needed. He was getting ready to put his rig in reverse and try to rock it out when Carlos ran urgently to his open window.
“C’mon, Dad, leave the truck!” Carlos was scared about something. Juan didn’t think it was his driving. “Get out! We’ve got to go now!”
“I think the axle is OK. I’ve still got power,” Juan began. “I’ll be over this in a second.”
Carlos tried to yank the door open, but it was lodged against the barrier. Instead, he grabbed Juan by the shoulder and practically pulled him through the window, “Can’t you see what’s coming?”
Juan blinked and stared past the long row of protestors. “That’s a D-8,” he said. The D-8 Caterpillar is a medium-sized bulldozer. It was moving slowly along the road to Sky Harbor terminal, pushing parked vehicles out of its way.
“No, Dad!” Carlos shouted, jerking again and again on the door to no avail. “Behind that, the MRAPs!”
Juan’s eyes scanned for a fraction of a second before landing on a convoy of four of the largest military trucks he’d ever seen. They looked angry and evil, and the turrets and gun ports bristled with rifle barrels. “What are those?”
“War machines,” Carlos breathed, looking back over his shoulder, eyes wide with horror. MRAP stands for Mine-Resistant Ambush Protection vehicle. “I never thought I’d see those used on US streets.”
A sound like firecrackers erupted. The protestors were shooting fireworks and setting off smoke grenades.
Carlos cursed, “Idiots! They’re going to get us all killed. Dad, go out the other door!”
While Juan scrambled across the seat, Carlos began waving with both hands toward the driver of the D-8, “Stop! Stop! My Dad’s stuck! Just let me get him out!”
But the Caterpillar driver would never hear Carlos’ calls. There was a loud popping sound, and blood splashed across the D-8’s windshield. The driver released the throttle as he died, and the D-8 ground to a halt.
Escaping out the passenger door, Juan emerged from his truck and raced towards Carlos. They could make their way on foot down to the next street. Maybe they could get someone to give them a ride out of this madness.
Carlos waved him forward as an unrestrained gunfight broke out between the armed protestors and the marksmen in the armored vehicles. Their eyes met. In that moment, he saw the man his son had become: tall and powerful, with a commanding presence and the light of leadership surrounding him like a halo.
In the next instant, that light went out.
When a man gets shot, it doesn’t look like anything in the movies. They crumple and collapse into a lifeless heap with no fanfare or outward mark of their passing. Simply here one moment …and then gone.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Juan knew he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear it. He also couldn’t hear the rattle of gunfire erupting all around him. Juan sprinted forward, but it felt like moving in slow motion. He had the sense that he wasn’t breathing. Perhaps he was holding his breath, but it felt like there was no air to breathe.
Although he couldn’t hear the explosive reports of the weapons being fired, he distinctly heard the sinister snap and hiss of bullets flying past his head as he approached the spot where Carlos lay. He begged God to let one of those bullets strike him dead before he arrived to find what he knew he was about to find…
God did not grant Juan that request, and the cacophony of battle erupted again into Juan’s consciousness as he slid across the gravel to his son’s side. When he placed his hands on Carlos, his worst fears were confirmed. The body was warm and limp, but it was heavy with death. The bullet had entered Carlos’ back near the left shoulder, and the entry wound was in front on the right side of his chest. Bright red blood frothy with tiny bubbles was staining his Marine uniform a dark black color.
Somewhere in the distance, a man yelled, “They’re out of ammo!”
A cheer erupted from the protestors, “They’re falling back! We’ve beat them!”
Juan saw the line of MRAPs gunning their engines in reverse, crushing some of the protestors who were swarming over the retreating vehicles. His vision grew red as a blind rage washed over him.
“We gave our lives to America!” he shouted. “And this is what we get for our loyalty? You’ve taken everything from me!” Juan reached down and grabbed one of the nearby bricks. He found himself on his feet, racing forward to hurl the object with all his might at the war machine. “America can go to hell!”
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