Most years the island of Cuba enjoyed June temperatures that hovered somewhere in the mid-eighties. Warm and sunny, offset by the persistent blowing of an ocean breeze, it allowed for an active lifestyle without ever becoming oppressive.
This was not most years.
A shift in the weather flow of the North Atlantic Current had pushed the usual summer winds further out to sea, the sun beating straight down, heat reflecting off the concrete pad that was Havana. Foot traffic thinned to the point of non-existence, people seeking refuge from the heat, opting to wait until cover of darkness before performing their chores.
Nio wasn’t fortunate enough to have that choice. Instead, he was trapped inside a shipping container on a wait that was stretching well into its second day.
Despite the fact that he had moved little in all that time, his energy reserves were fast becoming sapped. The meager food rations offered did little to replenish him, the water no match for the perspiration pouring from his skin.
More than once a fellow passenger fell unconscious from heat stroke and was carried away, never to be seen again.
Wedged tight against one another, the travelers sat in the darkness, the smell of sweat and urine permeating the air. After awhile the combined stench became too much and people began to vomit, the sound of their retching reverberating throughout, the scent of it soon following.
Positioned in the rear corner, Nio kept his back pressed into the perpendicular walls, his knees raised in front of him, guarding as much personal space as possible. He could tell from the cooling metal against his shoulder blades that night had fallen, though beyond that it was impossible to know the time of day.
Seated in the darkness, he did his best to ignore the assault on his senses as he sat deep in thought, preserving the remnants of his energy, trying to decipher what might have happened to his father.
There was no doubt that Jorge Garcia would be considered middle-aged, but he was still quite a ways from being deemed elderly. His dark hair was only beginning to show signs of graying and he still possessed much of the muscle mass he had as a younger man.
While the conditions Nio was now being subjected to were horrible, it was difficult to imagine them being his father’s undoing.
Lost in his thoughts, Nio barely noticed the first sounds of metal scraping against metal. Not until the opposite end of the container opened wide, the entire side extending outward, did he draw himself into the moment, his pupils constricting as flood lights poured into the space.
A murmur of fearful comments passed through the crowd as two fluorescent spotlights blazed forward, illuminating everything in harsh light, bodies bright with perspiration shining beneath them.
A moment later, the bulk of the light was blotted out by a trio of silhouettes, their uniforms and weapons framed against the bright glare. Nio watched as they stood three across, guns trained at the ready, their bodies blocking the opening and throwing long shadows over those inside.
Seeming to relish their position, they stood in silence, watching the faces of the people wedged inside, before beginning to speak. In short, sharp commands they told everyone to move fast, stay quiet, and follow them outside.
Without further instructions of any kind they shifted their weapons, holding them by the barrel with one hand while using the other to begin grabbing passengers and jerking them forward into the night. Many of the people within arm’s reach were older, their strength fading from the day spent in the makeshift sauna. As the brusque handling hurtled them forward they were unable to control themselves, sprawling across the ground, the passengers behind them stepping right over their fallen bodies as they moved forward.
From his perch in the far back Nio was one of the last to exit, affording him a few seconds to stand and work some of the feeling back into his body before beginning his journey into the night. Upon departing the container he attempted to offer a hand to those that had fallen on the front end of the procession, realizing upon first sight that they were already gone, their frail bodies trampled by the masses. Bloody footprints extended away from their battered corpses, their unseeing eyes staring into the distance.
Free from the container for the first time in almost two days, the night air passed over his skin in a cool rush. It met the perspiration on his skin and dropped his body temperature within seconds, a shiver running down his back as he marched forward.
The path before him was outlined clearly, flanked by loose rows of armed guards on either side. Bearded and reeking of body odor, they stood with weapons in hand, waiting for somebody to dare cast a glance in their direction.
With his gaze aimed downward Nio shuffled forward, his shoulders hunched, bracing for an attack that never came.
Five minutes after leaving the holding container Nio negotiated his way along a narrow wooden gangplank, walking across the open deck of a barge and into an exact replica of the storage space he had just left. Made of corrugated metal and painted mud brown, it had no identifying marks, matching every other container stretched the length of the ship in both directions.
The last thought that passed through his mind as the door was closed behind him was to wonder how many others carried the same cargo as the one he was now in.
Chapter Thirteen