A Task

Today, a dispatch from a too-near tomorrow: We're pleased to present an excerpt from Ken Baumann's forthcoming novel, A Task, which sees American protagonists trying to cross the border—for a better life in Mexico. Per Ken, "A Task is a novel about wounded people—a young woman, a black cop, an artist, and a man struggling with mental illness—trying to escape the imperatives of a suicide cult. As they flee new fascisms, A Task maps the terrain of life amid nihilism." Enjoy. - the ed

The coyote drove a bigger truck. Rose and Paul were parked in the 99¢ store lot at noon, per his instructions, and they heard it rumble up: black, huge, throbbing exhaust as it eased into a wide-open space. He’d parked; that was their cue. They got out and walked side-by-side to the store’s back entrance, squinting against the hard light off the facade’s crisp white, bracing against a real winter wind.

They wandered the first aisle they came to: party supplies. Colorful plates, napkins, confetti, packages of balloons, big bags of individually-wrapped candy: all wrapped in high-sheen plastic, tight and shiny as the new skin growing back after a burn, products set low on shoddy shelving, rarely neatly stacked.

Paul felt his passivity, staring at these things. He realized this was odd, this acceptance—normally long tracks of products would make him boil, each pound of shit an instantiation of the desire that drives the world, and so its wars: more, and cheaper. Now, he felt dead to his regular rage. What was he feeling, staring at the packaging? Was he feeling anything?

Boot ticks brought up his eyes. Here he was: lithe, Northface jacket, maroon boots, raw jeans, closely cropped black hair. He faced the aisle, in profile, and idly grabbed some packaged napkins.

Y’all want out? he asked, more casually than Paul would’ve guessed. Paul looked at him: strong jaw, no stubble, the shine of a good aftershave. His skin a deep brown; eyes steady, not focused on the shit his hands were sorting through.

My muchachita likes blue. He smiled a bit—just enough to convince those catching him in a glance; cameras.

Rose spoke first: We do.

He grabbed a package of kid-sized paper cups, looked it over. Want a car once you’re over?

Paul fought the urge to just watch: to watch this man, a predator, a man whose every move expressed a calm, an efficiency, an internal order which every copy was taught to fear. He could watch this man, an obvious dignitary of the machine, a human for whom any trouble became bread. Paul came awake, said Yes.

Six thousand, or eight for no road trouble anywhere north.

Rose looked up at Paul. They had about twelve left, but he didn’t want them to get bled by the cops. We’ll go eight, he said.

Okay, the coyote said. He crouched down, reached in for a package of confetti near the back of the shelf. Looked at it, paused. Where are you staying.

Paul hesitated.

A friend will come for the eight, then leave instructions. He stood from his crouch, reached past Rose to grab some plates—looking directly at Paul, who understood the gaze: take it or leave it; I’m in no shortage of demand.

Paul named the motel and room number, and the coyote nodded, beckoned with his eyes for them to follow. Pay for something, he said while walking away.

They grabbed bottled waters and candy, and checked out in a different aisle. They trailed him by twenty feet, heading back to the parking lot.

He was walking slowly, waiting for them to pass. Paul grabbed Rose’s hand and they took longer strides.

You’re not alone, he said, putting his receipt in his plastic bag. Fifty-fifty at this point. He grabbed his keys and unlocked his truck.

Paul and Rose had passed, not looking back.

I think it’s smart, they heard. Then the rumble of his engine.

They talked in their room about what the money would mean. They’d have a little under three thousand dollars left. What could that buy them in Mexico? They talked around the question of how they’d make money; the likelihood of poverty kept their desperation together, imbuing each decision with a weight it wouldn’t have had otherwise. Paul could admit they were running to poverty, but he couldn’t bring himself to doubt the goodness of their flight; this life, shedding skin as it went, was lighter, faster, freer. He felt now like he sometimes did in the desert, after days and days of long watches, hiding out and waiting to kill first then go home, get rest: Paul felt shredded awake to the elements, sharper because of it. His exhaustion kept a fatal edge. He knew Rose noticed; she asked if he wanted to slow down, rethink things. He said No. He said This is where we need to be, right here.

They holed up, waiting for a knock. Paul didn’t want to fuck. He struggled to make out his reflection in the old television, which even blank seemed a curse. He had his gun on his lap.

Two quick taps. Paul shot up, held his elbow out, gun eye-level. He was back there, in a bombed-out building, long hours with no radio. He smelled the dust which once covered him, there in the room—on the motel door—beyond it. He cracked the door, flat left foot against it to brace against, boxer’s stance for, gun in the right, elbow locked—

I’m here for the gift. A young voice, no edge. Paul widened his stance, peered into the crack. A teenage boy, acne, pizza delivery blue polo, holding a black square pizza-warming bag. Paul looked at him: unfazed by the gun, not even looking at it. Behind the boy, his old red car still ran, gauzy yellow light on, sky dropping into a sunset. Paul lowered the pistol and opened the door. The boy came in, set the bag on the bed—wordlessly—and pried open the velcro. He took out a pizza box and set it beside the bag.

He looked at Paul. I’ll count it out as I lay it in.

Paul held his gun at his side. He heard his heartbeat. He felt better. He looked at Rose and nodded.

She went around the corner into the bathroom, pulled the shower curtain, then came back holding a stack of bills in a ziploc bag. She held the bag out to the boy, and he quickly unzipped it and dumped it on the bed next to the bag. He sat facing the door, torso twisted to the right, handful of bills ready. He looked at Paul. Ready?

Paul nodded.

The boy laid the bills flat and side by side in the bottom of the pizza bag, crumpled greens against lifeless silver, a sad approximation of metal. He counted aloud in single digits—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, and one—each thousand starting the count again—eight, nine, and two—and saying the numbers steadily, meager chest turned, good posture, thin wrists. Eight, nine, and four—a pause—one, two, three: Paul watched him, this kid, again with a machinic calm, this kid with acne who belonged anywhere else—but then how many kids like him had Paul killed with other people’s weapons? Whose deaths he had later celebrated while sober. Paul watched the kid’s fingers—eight, nine, and six—as they disposed of each hundred and twenty like chaff, like the money passing through the kid’s hands was the point—eight, nine, and seven—and not the money in the bag, the money for another massive truck; the money was valuable only as the kid was ordering it—one, two, three, four—only valuable for the kid—seven, eight, nine—as an unspeakable training—and eight. The kid looked up. Paul nodded, a reflex.

The kid closed the bag, smoothed down the velcro flaps, then took a piece of quarter-folded legal paper out of this pocket and set it on the bed. Then he stood and walked out, closing the door gently behind him.

Paul watched Rose walk to the bed, pick up the piece of yellow paper, then unfold it. A receipt fell out.

They had three days to prepare. They were told to keep only what they could fit inside a backpack, and to lose their phones. Truck, tent: both had to go. They pawned the tent after trying to sell it at a hardware store and a camping store—employees refusing to buy what their stores didn’t own and hadn’t sold—delirious while driving through El Paso, trying to stay warm, eating fast food and peanut butter out of the jar. Many times while driving, Paul thought Why am I doing this? The part of him that loved Rose, the part of him which knew their living for each other was the only life they wanted, the part of him that had been so dominant since fall, that part felt occluded, buried beneath layers of some transparent yet unyielding material. His numbness had no precedent. He wondered if anyone else noticed, doubting that they couldn’t.

Rose made many of the decisions. Trading in the truck for something cheaper would require paperwork: they’d keep the truck until the end. They’d follow his instructions exactly. They’d pack more food than either thought necessary. Rose was holding his hand more often; her grip was warm. She fucked him on the second night; after he came, he felt her eyes, watching him, head on his belly, staring up at him. He thought it cruel to be watched closely while his pleasure cooled, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sleeping through the night; when he woke, he watched the clock.

The day came. They stuffed their backpacks, Rose asking him to pack away his gun, saying that it’d be too risky to wear it on his belt. Paul agreed. He was surprised to feel less anxious with it out of sight.

They drove southeast, hugging the border wall for one hour, two hours, then three. Paul saw what they were trading the city for: broken rolling lands, scrub-desert, giant washes of dirt. The land felt less hostile than what he’d walked, fought, and flown over, but more dead. Closer to a true death: a mute record of rock and abrasion. Paul remembered they were about to cross at night, and felt afraid.

They trailed off the service road at sunset. Clouds sat low and slate-gray over a thin spread of orange. As they made the second turn, past an iron ranch gate that was wide open, they drove straight towards the bleeding horizon.

Rose pointed out the trailer bed, and Paul drove towards it. They parked as told, pointing their truck in the direction of the trailer’s hitch, then turned off the truck, turned the lights back on, and left the keys on the front left tire. It was dark now. Paul expected to see bugs flitting through the truck’s yellow light, but saw none. Too cold, he guessed.

They walked forward, long shadows bringing night into their steps. Rose pointed out the lack of shrubs; said they were on the right path. Their breath frosted in front of them. They descended into a dry gulch; Rose said This is right.

They heard a whistle, looked left. The outline of a body waving—two bodies, more. The waving shade clicked a flashlight on and off, fake moonlight strobing a patch of dirt.

Paul looked up: his truck’s lights shined overhead. The sunset’s light had gone. Paul felt like he was looking at the water in a bath.

They neared the other bodies. Paul counted eight others, seven huddled together, man with the flashlight a step apart. The man spoke Spanish slowly and clearly at regular volume. Paul waited for Rose’s translation, but heard Those who speak English only, listen now.

His voice was clear, accentless, routine.

Your group will have nine people. I’ll give three of you flashlights as you enter the tunnel. The tunnel is thin, so you need to walk in a line. It’s about a ten minute walk. At the other side, you’ll see another man with a flashlight. Follow him. If you’ve paid for a car, he will give you its keys and tell you where to go. You will see Mexican police officers: these are friends. Once you’re on the road, you’re on your own. Last thing, and this is very important: if you have a cellphone still, turn it off completely and do not turn it on until you are twelve hours away from the exit on foot, or six hours away in a vehicle. Questions?

No one spoke. The man clicked his flashlight twice, illuminating a hole in the earth, upright, six feet high or so. He turned off his flashlight and walked to the opening of the tunnel. They followed, quiet except for the crunch of dirt and rocks.

They formed a line, with Rose and Paul at the back. They saw the man hold out something, heard Gracias, then the first body through clicked on a small light and kept walking. They moved slowly. Another flashlight given; Paul looked back down the gulch. No more light from his truck; night without stars.

They followed the bodies right in front of them and reached the threshold. The man held out a small flashlight to Paul; Paul took it and glanced at the man’s face—a glint of moonlight off skin that seemed blue. Paul looked down. He turned the flashlight on, pointing its tight and ice-white beam in front of Rose’s feet.

They walked. Paul caught bits of the tunnel’s walls as they went—gridded wire, cheap wood. The gently bouncing light ahead silhouetted the row of walkers at the beginning; the two immediately in front of Rose were visible in Paul’s light: short mean, jeans, jackets, brown skin, no backpacks.

They walked through the earth, only looking forward. Paul paid attention to his feet, to Rose’s feet, and the light he provided. He thought of television, of the news: hangings, the new war. He knew nothing of where they were going, but assumed the world would continue on the other side. Less of it, he hoped. He was hoping this when a baby cried.

He jumped, and the group stopped walking. The dirt dampened the child’s cries, which were weak already. Paul heard Shhh, a quiet cooing, a woman’s voice. The baby stopped. After a moment in which they all stood still, the line began to move again.

Paul didn’t wonder about the baby, about why it was being moved like this. He kept walking. He watched Rose’s steps.

The line slowed, and Paul saw another cold light ahead. It was guiding them out, flashing into the tunnel then out, mimicking the direction they’d already been going. Then Paul and Rose were outside again, in the same starless night. The group automatically huddled.

Paul heard the same woman who’d quieted the baby. He heard her say I’m sorry, she’s sick.

Paul instinctively raised his hand against the light beamed into his face. He saw Rose look down to guard her eyes; saw her face again. She looked like stone.

The light angled down to a set of car keys with an electric clicker in an open hand. Paul took them, then the light moved away.

A voice in English, from farther away: Walk straight ahead and you’ll go up out of the gulch. There’s a road. A policeman is there. Your cars are there. Remember to not turn your phones on for many, many hours.

Rose walked first, leaving the group. Paul followed. They climbed a short incline and saw ahead a cop car with its lights on, parked on the shoulder of a road. Rose walked fast, stopped, asked Paul for the keys, grabbed them and kept going. Paul had to stride to follow. He looked for the cop in the cruiser, but couldn’t see him.

Rose unlocked their car, the first in a row of four parked behind the cop. It was white, four-door, mid 90’s. Paul turned off his flashlight as Rose got in the driver’s side and shut the door. She was turning the ignition as he shut his, backpack at his feet.

Paul looked at her, under the soft overhead light, red from the dash on her cheeks: she was crying, still, listening to the engine running, face wet with red.

She turned to him.

Thank you.

Ken Baumann is the author of two novels and a work of nonfiction, and runs the publishing company Sator Press.