The Border

The media was attempting to give it a name. The Plague was tried but didn't stick. Virus X was another effort that went nowhere.


When the first patient was discovered in Los Angeles on Friday, CNN's ticker ran the phrase "It has reached the West Coast". All of the news stations were showing maps updated by the moment with each new reported case.


As Friday crept along, the Midwest was blanketed. The Northeast and Eastern Canada not far behind. With the exception of a collection of dots around Atlanta and Dallas, the Southeast was fairly clear.


Mexico was clear.


Upon the report of the case in Los Angeles, people in San Diego packed up their cars and headed south toward the perceived safety below the border. Most were native-born Americans running from fear, but many were transplant Mexicans or Mexicans who worked in San Diego and just got caught on the wrong side of the border.


There were now videos available throughout the internet showing the ghastly effects. Many began with people at the onset of symptoms and following their terrified, screaming deterioration as they transform from a human being into a mass of goo. Most narration of these videos was in English, but translation was unnecessary. The horrors were graphic and visual. Screams of pain and terror are a universal language.


The Mexican Authorities had seen the videos. The Mexican soldiers sent to the border in the path of this fleet of cars and trucks seeking safety and refuge in the neighboring country had also seen the videos.


The Mexican Government closed all borders. The Americans found a massive jam of cars and trucks backed up for miles into the heart of San Diego and beyond. They were afraid. They got out and walked. The sun was out, and the temperature was comfortable, but the walk was long. They carried little, leaving the affluence that they had considered a basic right of their culture and nation behind.


The mass of humanity walked steadily toward the border crossing. They were unnerved at the site of the armed soldiers, but they continued. There were women and children. The soldiers wouldn't fire. They would understand that the Americans had to get their families to safety. They couldn't risk letting it happen to their children, their babies.


Yes. There was a video of a baby. Whatever heartless monster had decided to upload such a thing for all to see should burn in hell. But all on both sides had seen it. All had it burned forever into their memories. It drove the Americans southward and tightened the trigger fingers of the Mexican soldiers.


The camera crews arrived, huffing and puffing from manually carrying their cameras the miles needed to get to the border. Some were set up in time while others missed the moment.


The officer in charge of the Mexican border troops was a 29-year-old Capitan Segundo who had joined the army at the behest of his father who considered him a lazy, video-game-addicted bum and thought the army could make a man out of him. The whine that was entering his voice as he spoke to one senior officer after another belied that hope. He kept asking for orders and receiving only "Your orders are to not let them cross the border."


When he asked "How?" the universal answer was "At your discretion."


No one would give the order. Except him. The wall of humanity was getting closer. They came in an orderly fashion and nearly silently except for the sound of crying children.


Children! Mother of God!


Never a good student, he tried to create the correct English words in his head and sounded them out to himself before raising the bullhorn to his lips.


"The border is close. No people allow come to Mexico. Return your houses."


The American mob stopped. It was as if even the children understood that this was a time for silence. He repeated his message. No one moved. He heard a woman's voice from back in the crowd. "Please." Nothing more.


His sargento primero called the troops ready to fire. In disciplined fashion, they raised their rifles and took aim. The captain unholstered his pistol. He was not going to ask his men to do this thing if he did not do it himself. With that decision, he became the man his father wanted him to be.


He raised the bullhorn to his lips one last time. "Return your houses. We shoot if you move more close."


Another moment passed and then one woman stepped forward, leading two children by the hands. A second followed her example.


The young captain's eyes locked not on the woman but on the smaller of her two children. It was a little boy who seemed tired and cranky, pulling at his mother's arm, wanting to be carried.


They were not going to stop and he was given orders to stop them... at his discretion. He wiped his sleeve across his eyes to remove the sweat that was cascading down his face. His heart pounded within his chest.


"Fire!" The young captain fired his pistol as he yelled the order. A well-organized single volley erupted from his men. He did not see the initial effect. He had closed his eyes.


When he opened them, he saw only smoke. But the silence was gone, replaced by screaming and panic. The word "Asesinos!" came from the panicked mob. A wind began to sweep the smoke aside and he saw the front rows of people that were mostly still standing. His men had fired over their heads. These front rows were pushing backwards trying to get away from the guns. But then the young captain realized that the crowd behind them was still pushing forward.


They were still coming. There was no option.


"Fire!" This time he did not close his eyes and his men lowered their aim. The second volley shredded through the crowd, felling humanity two and three rows deep. Surely, they would turn away now!


But they did not. A third wave began clawing their way over the fallen in front and the 29-year old captain gave the order that forever placed him in history as a monster to all and a hero to none.


"Fire at will!"