Page 76 of The End of the World As We Know It: New Tales of Stephen King’s The Stand

The altar at home was in the sala . It was a small wooden table with candles lit for St. Michael, the Sacred Heart of Mary, the Divine Child Jesus, St. Martin de Porres, and even St. Lazarus.

The flat, silver milagros were all pinned against the wall.

The wall was completely covered by these tiny silver charms that sparkled in the candlelight.

There were some made in the shape of hands and feet, hearts, angels kneeling in prayer, the sun, the moon, more.

The idea of a milagros is that the small charm is a reminder for the saints to pray for us, to heal us, protect our bodies from pain or harm or sickness. There were many types. I took as many as I could when I left and put them into my little pouch, hoping they’d protect me on our journey.

When I left home, I left the candles burning, I don’t know why. The saints only answered some of my prayers. I was still alive, but Mami and Papi and everyone else died of the illness.

As Mami died, she told me not to leave the house, and I didn’t, not for a long time.

I waited days, until the howling of dogs and the complaints from cows quieted down.

I’d stand out on the hill and look down into the pueblo and each night there would be fewer lights, candles extinguishing as another person died.

Then, I had a dream about this place, milpa growing tall all around me. When I broke through to an open field, I found a house and a woman standing on a porch. She looked like my grandmother.

“ Tienes que ir al oeste ,” she said with a warm smile on her face.

I was already west of the island, I thought, but she said no, like she could read my mind.

“ Estados Unidos .”

When I woke up, I found dozens of big crows outside, standing silent, on the clotheslines, the front step, on top of banana trees and coconut palms.

I reached for Choco, tucked her under my arm, grabbed my backpack, and slammed the door shut. The crows have been following us ever since.

Mami said death comes for everyone, eventually.

First there was the hurricane, and that came for many, flooding houses and streets, sweeping cars off the roads and down into ditches.

We lost electricity for days and had no running water.

When people started sneezing and coughing, many of us thought, well, it’s just another symptom of the hurricane, standing water, and germs brewing in the corners of our flooded homes, but it was something else.

Before I open the door to the schoolhouse, I start banging on it and screaming. I’m screaming so loud, hoping to scare those crows away. I run to the window and look and don’t see any. They must have flown off.

Choco is pacing, rustling her feathers.

“I’m sorry,” I say kneeling. “I know you’re scared, but we have to try now.”

I stand, slip on my backpack and a sling I made out of an old T-shirt, and tuck Choco inside.

I open the door to the classroom, and it leads directly outside.

The sun is beaming down on me. It’s so hot.

I start running, running down the road and toward the beach.

There should be boats at the beach. There have to be.

Choco is clucking and I am looking up at the sky.

I see a crow swoop above us but I keep running until we are out of this neighborhood and find the beach, and there I see sand, beach blankets all strewn about, old hats, sunburned bodies, and a bright orange canoe.

Out further into the distance is a large white boat in the ocean.

“We can reach it, Choco. I know we can reach it. It’s a miracle,” I say, thinking of the tiny miracles in my backpack. The ship out there is like an answered prayer.

I hear cawing behind me, but I ignore it.

We reach the canoe.

Just as we do, I hear another caw and then a ripping sound, like the tearing of paper.

I’m yanked back and catch myself from falling.

I turn. A crow tore at my pink backpack, and the prayer card, coloring books, crayons and my milagros , my tiny shiny pieces of hopes and prayers, spill out into the sand.

I remove my backpack and set it down and just as I do a crow dives down toward us.

I set Choco into the seat beside me. I push the canoe into the water and slip into the seat and start paddling.

Another crow swoops down and clamps its beak into Choco’s neck.

Choco squawks, her body twists and jerks.

She pins me with those tiny eyes and I scream.

I shout at the crow to get away, but it doesn’t.

I reach for Choco’s neck, hoping to stop the blood, but it’s all wet and slippery.

Blood sprays and then the crow lifts Choco off the canoe.

It flaps its black wings over the blue sky and then releases Choco’s body. She falls into the water with a splash.

I hear them, their caw, caw, caw s.

I turn and see them on the beach, hundreds of black dots against that beige blanket.

I paddle faster and faster to the boat. My poor Choco.

The canoe bumps against the boat when I finally reach it, but I don’t see anywhere to climb. The waves are pushing me away and my arms are getting so cramped and tired from paddling.

I push, and push, alongside the boat until I find a ladder.

I toss the paddles into the canoe and then reach the first rung.

My fingers slip, but I try again, clutching on tight.

The canoe is moving away from me, and if I slip I will fall into the water.

I imagine hundreds of tiburones swimming in circles beneath me, waiting to pull me apart, arms and legs, my head and torso.

Then I remember, there are no tiburones .

There is nothing. There’s only dead people and dead animals and if I don’t get on this boat and get to Florida and cross over to Nebraska, that funny name and funny shape on the map, and cross over oeste , west, to Nebraska to meet the old woman on the farm, then I will be dead, too.

I push my body up. Everything is shaking. Everything hurts, but still, I slide onto the boat and I look down at my hands. They are all red, but not pretty like Mrs. Reyes’s hands.

The birds continue to caw, screeching from the beach. I stand and face them and scream.

I scream for Mrs. Reyes and I scream for Mami and Papi and I even scream for stupid Jonathan. I especially scream for Choco.

I run to the cabin, hoping to find a key, anything to turn this boat on.

Then I see him, a man seated at the wheel, his mouth is wide open and fat yellow worms are crawling in and out.

His eyes are bulging out of their sockets, and liquid is leaking out and running down his temples.

His skin is burnt under the sun, red and black and blistered.

All down his white shirt and white pants is dried, caked vomit.

I think of the pirates Papi told me about, dead and lost at sea.

A crow flutters down and lands on the dead man’s head.

I take a step back.

Another bird lands on his shoulder, and then another on his other shoulder.

I turn my head, and see the island, and I wonder, Is it better to die there or to die here?

Another bird lands, beating its large wings, and another.

Now one flaps toward my face, pecking at my cheeks. Stabbing into my fat.

I feel sharp and cold and stinging all the same.

I raise my arms, shriek and cry, but there’s more sharp pain. I feel fine stabs in my flesh, talons sinking into me, pecking at my elbows.

There’s more digging into my body, my neck, my forehead, clamping down at my fingers, my lips, my eyes. The world is blurred, and I can’t see. I hear cawing and ocean waves. The beating of wings.

I’m stepping back and stepping back and there’s water, and I’m in the water and I’m reaching all around, hoping I’ll find Choco.