Page 17 of Everything Under the Sun

Traveling over jutting rocks, and up slick leaf-covered inclines, was murder on our feet. Sosie protested when we came to another steep hill, so I gave in and we sat down and took off our boots. I sucked in air through bared teeth as I peeled the leather away from my blisters.

“I think I’m better off with my sandals,” Sosie said, doing the same.

Setting the backpack on the ground in front of me, I dug Sosie’s sandals from the bottom, careful not to knock the fragile water containers over, and then set the sandals on the ground in front of my sister.

“Where are yours?”

“Left them in the town,” I answered. “And before you say it—yes, I know it was stupid.”

Sosie did not comment, but pushed the sandals back toward me and urged me to take them instead.

“I’m not taking your shoes,” I refused, as I peeled off the other boot and laid it aside. “Besides, they’re too big for me.”

“Only by a little,” Sosie argued, maybe even a little offended I’d suggested her feet were bigger than mine. “Here—you should wear them; you’re the guide, you need them more than I do.”

I looked down at my blistered and bloodied feet; they were far worse than Sosie’s were, but Sosie already had a handicap, and adding anything else was not an option. It was hard enough being her eyes to help her cover the rough landscape.

“My feet aren’t that bad,” I lied. “You wear your sandals; later on, if mine get any worse we’ll trade out for a while.”

With reluctance, Sosie agreed.

Many more minutes of walking led us to a small clearing in the woods where I came to a dead stop and grabbed Sosie’s elbow roughly. I forced her with me to the ground on our hands and knees, felt water seeping through the backpack as the sudden movement made the lid-less containers unstable.

“What is it?” Sosie hissed, trembling.

I couldn’t answer; the words were caught in the back of my throat.

The first body lay on the ground, legs splayed, covered by a pair of dirty blue jeans; the feet were bare, and I could tell right away that they were a man’s feet. The second body wore a yellow blouse and a long skirt stained by dirt and blood.

“Oh no.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Sosie tensed next to me. “Thais, what is it? Tell me!”

“I think…oh dear Lord…two bodies…”

Sosie gasped.

“Are they dead?”

“Whoever it is, yes, they’re dead.”

Her fingertips dug into my arm.

“Stay here.” I pushed myself into a shaky stand.

“I’m going with you,” Sosie protested.

We walked closer to the bodies, and I knew deep down who they were before I even saw their faces.

“It’s them,” I said with a gasp and my hand flew over my mouth. “It’s Fernando and Ms. Mercado—oh it’s awful, Sosie.”

Eighteen-year-old Fernando Mercado lay facing the sky with a gunshot wound to the chest. His eyes were open, lifeless and sad. Blood painted his neck and chin and one side of his face that had just grown a thin, dark beard. He still wore the watch his father gave him before he passed away. Whoever shot him knew the watch was of no use, or they would’ve taken it, just as they had taken his shoes, and whatever was in his turned-out pockets.

Emilia Mercado lay face down with a gunshot wound in her back, her left arm twisted beneath her body, her right leg angled in a horrific position, broken at the fibula.

I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t; the tears stung the back of my eyes. I was too afraid to cry. What if whoever killed them is still nearby? What if we’re being watched? A chill ran down the back of my neck. I grasped Sosie’s hand tighter; my eyes darted all around.

“The gunshots from yesterday…” I said with a tremor in my voice.

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