Chaco

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

Chaco Erhard Rodriquez hid with his maternal grandmother in a dense copse of white sapote trees. The old woman crouched on her heels, grabbed the boy’s arm, pulled him to her, and whispered, “Get down, mijo!” Once Chaco dropped and curled into a ball, she concealed him with brush and dirt. Only a bit of his face poked through a halo of leaves. The old woman scooted close to her grandson, and best she could, she pulled additional shrubbery around them both.

When the soldiers approached so close they stood only three meters from their hiding place, the old woman put her forefinger to her lips, “Shhhhh.” Grandmother and grandson watched as men torched the old woman’s birthplace, the Pipil Indian village of Tunal, El Salvador.

Flames engulfed the village, and the sky filled with sepia clouds that turned the sun’s color from brilliant yellow to dull bronze. The soldiers passed bottles of Tíck Táck, laughed, talked, and occasionally shot or hacked to death the few villagers who had somehow managed to escape the initial m******e but dared run from their hiding places. The killing and burning continued until little remained of the village but the blackened skeleton of the church, and the charred bones of innocent people.

The smell of blood, mingling with the stench of scorched human flesh and burned buildings, so overwhelmed the little boy he held his hand over his mouth and retched into it. The boy did his best to be silent, but he could not help himself. One soldier squatting on his heels over a corpse, machete in hand, froze and turned to them. He stood, motioned to the other soldiers, and took a step toward the sapotes. He halted and tilted his head to listen. Chaco, vomit dripping from his chin and hand, buried his head into his grandmother’s breast. The soldier took another step closer, and the boy dug his fingers into the folds of the old woman’s shawl. Tears ran down his cheeks. “Dios, mio, Dios, mio, (Dear God, Dear God),” the boy prayed in silence. But when a lone Curassow lifted from the branches of the sapote with a cry and a rustle of feathers, the man turned back to his work of hacking the limbs off the body of a small girl, barely older than Chaco.

Eventually, the soldiers departed. The little boy and his grandmother remained in their hiding place until certain the murderers would not return. Their muscles ached, their throats closed with thirst, and ants bit into their skin. The moon rose high and higher still. Unable to hold it any longer, the boy urinated in his pants.

Chaco’s grandmother, a half Pipil Indian, later told him she would never forgive herself for thinking it a grand idea to take him at such a tender age to meet his Indian relatives, especially during a known time of violence. “I am so sorry. So sorry. I promise to keep you safe forever, mijo.”

Twenty-Eight Years Later, Southern California

Chaco handled the hedge clippers as though he’d been using them for decades. The shrubbery delineated the property between his employers, the Walkers, and their neighbors, the Pennymons. Leaves and blossoms rained down on the lush Walker lawn on one side, and the stiff AstroTurf on the other. The pale flowers settling into the grass like tiny moths reminded Chaco of ash flakes from that long-ago fire in Tunal, forever burning in his waking thoughts as well as his nightmares.

He clenched shut his eyes until the memory faded, then with renewed vigor Chaco returned to his task. Once finished, he inspected his handiwork, picked up a rake, and stepped over the line to extricate the debris littering the Pennymons’ yard.

Rocky Pennymon charged out of his house in his tighty-whites, his bare stomach jiggling, and his eyes frantic with outrage. “What the hell you doin’ here? This is my property.”

Chaco hefted the rake for the man to inspect. “I’m removing waste from grooming the hedge, Mr. Pennymon. I’ll be done in a moment.”

“You’re done now. I’d prefer not to have you people on my land. Nothing personal, but too many Americans out of work these days to have your kind takin’ jobs.”

Chaco set his jaw and gritted his teeth. “Excuse me?” He dropped his rake and stepped forward, fighting a powerful urge to pound the goddamn ignorant white bastard into pupusa meat even if it meant losing his job, or getting himself arrested, deported and executed. It would be worth dying to kick this puto’s fat ass. Rocky’s eyes widened. Chaco advanced another step, took a breath and willed his tension to ease. “I apologize for any inconvenience, Mr. Pennymon. With your permission, I’ll get these leaves off your property, and I’ll be gone.”

Margo Pennymon, teetering on six-inch red stilettos, emerged from the double doors of her glass and steel monstrosity of a house. The fabric of her snug leopard print leggings crammed into her vulva revealed a distinct camel toe, and she’d applied her mascara with such a heavy hand it looked as though she had pasted tarantulas to her eyes.

Born and raised poor in a ratty little town near San Antonio, she spoke with a Texas twang so shrill it hurt Chaco’s ears. “Git in the house, Rocky, put some clothes on fer gawdsake, and leave Chaco alone. Whaddaya think he’s gonna do? Hold us up with that rake and steal yer new big screen TV?” She motioned toward the door with one hand as though batting a gnat. “Now, I mean it. Y’all get inside and eat yer tuna casserole before it cools off.”

“Okay, enough. Shut up already. I’m coming.” As Rocky retreated, Chaco marveled at the tangle of dark hair covering the hulk’s back. That aberrant dundo’s mother f****d a bear, I’m sure of it. No full-blooded human could be that hairy. Qué feo. Ugly.

That evening, Chaco opened a bottle of chilled Spätburgunder imported from the Reingau. Because of its hefty price, he rarely purchased this particular wine, but he kept a few bottles on hand for special occasions and emergencies. His late afternoon encounter with the truculent demon-beast, Rocky, qualified as an emergency.

He poured the pale liquid into a glass and headed to his small redwood deck. He removed the dust cover of his Takahashi telescope and aligned the finder, orienting it to the northern sky where light pollution would be least intrusive. He star-hopped, loosening, unlocking and locking the axis, turning magnification up and down, searching the skies.

Chaco would have stayed out longer, but when hunger gnawed at his stomach, he replaced the dust cap and went inside. He’d intended to make an early dinner, but first he flipped open his laptop and checked the helioscience sites once again. He signed onto a forum. The threads went on forever, the comments excited, and what he read delivered a kick to his gut.

“The Sun’s going crazy,” one scientist said. “Monster Class X flares look like they’re headed right for us.”

By the time Chaco completed his online search the clock on his desk read midnight, but Chaco had to talk to Dr. Javier Ruiz. Chaco’s old mentor and former colleague had earned the reputation as one of the most venerated scientists at the National Center for Atmospheric Research in Boulder, Colorado.

The last time the two men spent time together had been years before at a convention they attended after visiting NASA’s Solar Dynamics Observatory. Over tapas and wine, they enjoyed a lively discussion on the Quebec Blackout in March 1989 that occurred when a solar storm a third the size of the 1859 Carrington Event discharged a Coronal Mass Ejection (CME). The CME slammed into Earth, generating a powerful geomagnetic storm that damaged Montreal’s electrical grid.

“If that happened today with as many satellites launched since then,” Javier said, “we’d be screwed.”

They discussed the solar storms that hit Earth after Quebec, and speculated over the many near misses. Javier refilled his tumbler from an earthenware pitcher of Gama Reserva Tempranillo. “We better drink up, hermano, because a monster X-class direct hit is not a matter of if, but when.”