ACT I

Creatures of habit

Carrion flowers

Growing from repeated crimes

The afterglow in full bloom

Slow and relentless, we're after you

- Chelsea Wolfe, 'Carrion Flowers'

I

Chihuahan Desert, Mexico, 1966.

Exhaustion was visible on all their faces like scorch marks on a parched field. None of them slept well, even with teas and herbals remedies. All of them had laid awake the previous night, waiting for Matron Evita to knock down the door, the heat and light blaring behind her like some hexing mirage. She would walk in with a rider's whip in hand, ready to smack any exposed limb she saw or empty cups not meant to be drank. Other maids and servants, delivering food, water, and medicine to those who needed it, had slowly disappeared as the week went on. Soon only she remained, and her loud, buffalo-like roar was enough to send every girl scurrying to their beds. She had all the poise, command, and authority of a despot, and it was her duty to make sure every girl was groomed for their future roles.

All matrons took the name of Evita - after Evita Perón - though only a few could ever be considered her equal, let alone possess Evita's temperament. Respect varied between them; matrons only did their jobs as burgeoning, oppressive governesses who educated their subjects through literature and litany. Despite these drawbacks, few girls wanted to turn back to their old lives. For many of them, this new system not only provided order and protection, but gave them a new, indifferent view of life. In that way, their emotions would never get in the way of decisions. They would act completely as independent organisms; the cells of a much larger, more powerful organism. None of them knew the identity or the real name of the man they served. They only operated and obeyed by the whim of the name they did know: Cipher.

That morning, Cipher had commanded the head matron to prepare the girls for their field test. The young women, saved from lives of poverty, severe dehydration and starvation, and plumped up with good nutrition and medicine, were then told to starve themselves again in preparation for future trials. Many were shocked at this idea. Why would a man who had saved their lives and gave them things to eat, would suddenly tell them to stop? Others, the wiser, inquisitive ones, understood that it was only one part, one level, of the game they had to play. They prepared. They tried to get some sleep, sipped from their allotted cups of water, but like the rest of them, they couldn't find sleep. It would have to find them.

There were two dozen girls carted into the truck that morning. Early dawn was a splash of bright oranges and yellows, with the sun torching the clouds as it began its ascent. Though it was not yet five o'clock in the morning, the heat had arrived and was heavy as a quilt on their bodies. It had to have been almost 100 F. They walked in a straight line, wearing nothing but their nightgowns, and, in front of Matron Evita, were told to strip down to their underwear. They obeyed. Matron Evita walked past each girl, a pace like a corpsman, inspecting each one: poking her stomach, touching her chin, feeling her hair, squeezing their thighs. The last part was done to see if the teas had failed; in order to avoid unnecessary costs, the girls were told to drink special teas daily to stop their menstruation cycles. If Matron Evita caught the faintest trace of blood, the girl would be ostracized, marched back to the commune, and kept there until she was shipped to another part of the desert – her fate unknown.

Matron Evita did not find any girl that broke the rules. When she was done her inspection, she marched to the centre of the column. She addressed each girl with a Master Sergeant's scrutiny.

"Mis hijas!" she started, clear and sharp as a coyote's howl, "It is a special day! Yesterday, you slept in feathered beds, ate figs and fresh fruit from jade trays, swam in cool baths, and played in the dark. Today, and the days following those days, you will not." She started to pace, one foot firmly planted in front of the other. "Yesterday, I was your mother. Today the desert is. Are you afraid? Do not be. The Old People walked from this basin all the way to the jungles in the south. From sunrise to sunset, they looked at the sky and said: 'Sun, when will you set? For we are thirsty, and there is no water.' Those who moved, moved. Those who stayed, stayed – and the desert became their mother. Now they are unafraid, and they no longer ask for water."

Matron Evita paused, casting a glance at the narrow dirt road that led to the open desert. She pointed. "That trail leads to largest desert on this continent. It is hard and cruel – and you will become cruel, too. You, too, will look at the sky and ask the sun if it will set. You will ask for the rains to come, and they will not. You will walk the trail to the end like the Old People. And when you come out, the desert will bless you with good grace, and see you as its children."

Matron Evita's speech was firm and fiery, but it did little to encourage any of the girls. Many stared at their feet; others watched the sun creep ever closer up the horizon. Toes fidgeted on the sand. Matron Evita's boots, old, worn leather boots fashioned in the military style, kicked up no sand, and critters fled wherever she walked. She wore the apparel of the Sandanistas, dark greens and yellow scarf both, pressed and freshly ironed. Her hair was always in a tight bun at the back of her head with not a single strand loose. Matron Evita stopped suddenly in her march, inhaled through her nose, and faced the girls again. She straightened and gave them all an even look.

"And if I find that any one of you is a tramposa, you will never be allowed to come back from this desert. The desert knows how to deal with those with no sense of honour. Is that clear?" A lone finger pointed at them from end to end.

The girls nodded in unison. Matron Evita, pleased, motioned for the girls to follow her. They were led to a large open-end truck, the sort used to transport troops. The seats had been ripped out, leaving skeletal metal remains and thin wires overhead for the girls to grab onto. Each one sat side by side, cramped like cotton stuffed in a toy. Matron Evita walked to the passenger side, pleased that she would sit in an air-conditioned cab, and got in. Soon, a wave of sand was kicked up from under the tires, blasting the unfortunates that sat on the end.

No one said a word for the rest of their short trip.

Paz had the luck to sit near the cab, where she could see the silhouettes of Matron Evita and the driver. She could see Matron Evita laugh at the driver's jokes; she couldn't hear her laughter over the engine, but she had learned early on to gauge someone's emotions based on their body language. Matron Evita may be a curmudgeon, but, as it seemed, she wasn't above jokes and enjoying the little things in life.

Griselda was near the middle. She stared at her bare feet like the other girls, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Earlier that night, Griselda had started whispering to the others that sleeping would be useless. 'There is no point wasting energy in the daytime', she had said. 'Go at night. That is when it is cooler.' All of them knew that they were going to be sent on these survival expeditions; they were told early on by other matrons that it was a part of their training and a test of their loyalty to Cipher. Some of the girls were excited at the prospect of becoming the favourite, and others dwelled on their predicaments in silence.

Their levels of survival expertise varied. Hunting, fire expertise, finding water, weapon crafting – it all varied based on each individual. Some even preferred to sleep through the day and let others do the hard work, and others feared crushing a bug under their foot. It was an ensemble of mismatched girls. A 'mismatched mariachi band', as Griselda would later call them.

They'd all had knapsacks with supplies in them for the expedition, but Matron Evita's abrupt announcement that morning was a clear proof that they would not be allowed to use them. As Matron Evita had said, they had all been pampered like favoured daughters, but now it was time for them to grow up. They would become proper women, now: fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen-year-olds to enter their second phase of maturity.

Now, with only their bras and underwear on their bodies, they would march through the desert. It was a no-holds-barred scenario: you were given full permission and rights to do whatever you wanted – and had to – in order to survive. You were not punished. Your rewards only mattered as much as your psyche. After you completed one trial, you were thrown into another, and you did it again. The first time will always be difficult, but after time, it becomes a fact of life. The 'being' in 'human being' is removed, making it easier to kill something without a name.

Today they would begin their exodus.

The truck stopped at a junction where a small sand dune had kicked up. The hiss of brakes and the crunch of tires on arid soil made every girl shift. Like a group of owls, all heads were swung in Matron Evita's direction when she opened the door and walked out. Hands on her hips, she took a deep breath, exhaled, and turned with her arms wide open. A smile, wide and gleaming with triumph had the reassurance of a skull painted on a sign before a minefield.

"Mis hijas! Welcome to your new home!" Matron Evita clapped her hands. "Now that you are all awake, you can see it as I can. Come, come, and let us see all its beauty."

The girls filed off the truck at the rhythmic clap of Matron Evita's hands. The ground was coarse and hard, with deep cracks like ravines from a year without water. They formed single file, tallest to shortest, arms clasped behind their backs. Their chins were raised and attention focused on the domineering form of their matron, who never once tore her watchful eyes from them. Had one shivered, or shifted, or cried or tried to run, she would let them run. She'd wave her hands in farewell like she was bidding goodbye to a sibling. She did not need a dog on a chain leash eager for the chase. She did not need a weapon. She would let the environment act as her executioner. If a girl thought she could run back into her hands after she behaved badly, Matron Evita would throw them back like used handkerchiefs, and she would wrinkle her nose if someone mentioned the girl's name.

"My little beauties, what we see here is a true wonder of the world. The Chihuahan desert may seem like an empty womb, but it has many children," Matron Evita announced. "You can find them if you are smart. There are no trails to follow. We are at its entrance, but there is grass in the lowlands. There is the Sierra Madre Occidental in the west, and the northwest the Sierra Madre Oriental. Whatever direction you pick, once you enter any human settlement – a house, a shack, even the border towns of El Paso and Monterrey, you will complete the trial. Come back in your wholesome pretty self, and you'll be rewarded further. You have nothing but the clothes you have on. Be grateful. You could be completely naked."

Matron Evita stopped. A light, dry breeze swept across her face, ruffling the scarf and a lone strand ever so slightly. It made her look young.

"Mis hijas, my beauties, know that I am not your enemy anymore. Take a good look at those that stand beside you. The girls you shared your food with, slept on the same mattress with, and laughed with, will no longer be with you. They may not die, but their spirits will never be yours to own again. You leave my arms now. I cannot protect you." She paused. "God is on your side. Blessed are his daughters who will inherit the earth," she finished. She made the sign of the cross.

She extended a hand out towards the desert. "Today, you shall go from conejas to vaqueras! Adios!"

Her voice thundered like a hunter's call, scattering them like white rabbits among shrub forests of yucca and mesquite. She could spot a few who were crying, hands wringing at their eyes to save their tears.

Matron Evita watched them and shook her head. They were already making mistakes. She'd be surprised if one even made it to the end of the week. Then she heard what sounded like a pebble bouncing off a tire, and moved her head to find the noise.

There was that little blonde, the American Spaniard, moving with a calm and steady gait, as if the desert was no more than a speck of dust to be wiped from her cheek; that young girl with a face that would never age. Matron Evita would have scoffed at such a statement; that thing was going to be burned three times over before the day was done. Her white skin would peel away like the skin of an onion. But Matron Evita did not say it out loud. The girl from the ocean may wash up on the shore, but the salt would wash up, too. The salt never parts from the ocean, no matter how far away from the waters we are.

Matron Evita pursed her lips. She would have to pay more attention to that one.

It wasn't long before the heat started to burn her shoulders. Based on the position of the sun in the sky, Paz reckoned that it was afternoon. Heat permeated from the ground in thick waves; it had to be nearly 110 F, maybe more.

Skin was already starting to peel, sweat was clouding her eyes and exhaustion was setting in her bones. It was only the afternoon. She had to conserve what water she had inside her body – and she had to find some to drink. Shutting off the want for water was tricky, but it could be done by pure focus; the need for water was far more demanding, and when lips started to chaff and tongues swelled and filled the mouth like cracked, spoiled toffee - that was a sign you were nearing your limit.

Paz had followed an inlet, an old dried up creek bed, to a group of trees she had spotted on the truck ride. None of the other girls had bothered to scout their surroundings as the truck moved. They must have assumed the knowledge would come to them on the go, no different than how muscle memory knows what proper key to touch on a piano or the proper bullet to slide into a rifle's chamber. But when need arrived in the form of blisters, cramping stomachs, and a manic state, muscle memory was next to useless. Desperation sets in, and any plant you find seems edible until it went through one end and came out the other. That was one experience Paz didn't want to repeat. She could not say the same for the other girls.

By tearing the girls out of their beds in the pre-dawn hours, limiting their food and water intake that night, and forcing them to undress to make their trek through the desert, Matron Evita was testing their resolve. How good would young women grown plump with fine foods, smelling of perfumes with lilac and rosewater, perform in situations totally foreign to them? How would they feel having their hair pulled as they were dragged out of bed and shoved outside in an empty courtyard and then marched through empty schoolyards with nothing but a black bag over their heads? How long would these orphaned daughters last in a part of the world that they had gone to great lengths to avoid? Even an orphan whose meals were scraps left behind by rats and who drank water from plastic bottles someone had thrown away would find that life to be luxurious compared to being pecked at by buzzards. And, as Paz could see, a few had found their first meal of the day.

A honey mesquite tree became her friend that afternoon. The ground was warm but comfortable, and there were plenty of limbs and leaves on the ground for her to weave a hat and some meager attempt at clothing. Her underarms were damp, but she wasn't losing as much water as she thought she would in the heat. The hollowed inlet had offered shade, and when Paz walked in a slow crouch she managed to avoid the sun completely. There were a few trees up on a hill ahead of her, but with the sun still high in the sky, it wasn't worth the risk. When the day cooled, she could walk up there and hope to find a hollowed log or a pit where, hopefully, there'd be some leftover condensation from the morning. If not, there were the cactus plants – but that was an absolute last resort, as their juices, though refreshing and near-heaven for thirst, could cause vomiting and diarrhea, and many more were inedible depending on the season.

For now, Paz wasn't worried. She'd hit a stroke of luck. She didn't have to worry about food for a few days; if hunger popped up, she could nibble on the mesquite's seeds. She had three weeks to spare. She had plenty of time. All that was needed was water, and she'd find it soon.

Matron Evita's speech on how the Chihuahuan Desert appeared to be an empty womb was not without truth. From the edges of Texas to Mexico's interior, the desert was the largest in North America, and contained some of the most biodiverse species of any desert. Many species of shrubs, yucca, desert flowers and cacti stretched from end to end, and near the horizon she could see the caps of one of the mountain ranges. The scarce trees that grew were wound like French curls, and steam rose from boiling rocks that sat beside them. It was a dry sauna out here. She could see buds appearing on the wildflowers. That could be a good sign, since flowers bloom only when the conditions are right – and flowers, like any vegetation, meant water. But venturing out into a sauna was not a wise idea. A human standing upright, with no protective clothing, sunscreen, or hats, would lose pints of water very quickly.

Paz elected for a short nap to pass the time. After gathering branches and leaves and binding them together into a simple lean-to, she crawled under and nestled her head on her arms. It was by no means the lumpy, yet workable mattress she slept on earlier that morning, but it would have to do. You did not complain in the wild. She closed her eyes and allowed sleep to come before her mind registered the pain that swam through her body: the burnt skin and eyelids, the sandblasted face, and split open toes from dodging scorpions and sharp rocks. Even an expressway has its dangers, and though Paz swore she would not take unnecessary risks, she took them when they were needed – and when she wanted to. She had to wait until nightfall. There may be coyotes, frostbite, psychedelic mushrooms, but it would be better than it was now. She had to be patient.

Her sleep, however, was temporary. Her ears picked up the sound of sand hitting her lean-to, too heavy and deliberate to be a rattlesnake or an insect. She sat up, grabbing a nearby rock she'd picked for protection. It was not a knife, certainly not her special knife, but it would work.

But a brown face, boredom writ large with thin lips, and a flat forehead with what looked like charcoal on her cheeks, peeped in the lean-to's entrance. Paz gave a resentful cry at the newcomer. "Of all people...!"

The newcomer did not so much as twitch a muscle. She just scooted into Paz's shelter. She waved what look like a green sac in front of Paz, and in it, she could hear water sloshing. Paz stared.

"I got food. You want some?" the newcomer asked. She didn't mind the rock in Paz's hand and moved to sit beside her.

Paz arched an eyebrow at this nonchalance, matching it with lively sarcasm. "By all means, come in. I was having a party."

The newcomer shrugged. From a bag she had tied around her waist she pulled out a long, silver studded rattlesnake. The brown rings and signature band on its head looked like smeared pastel colours; the animal had been dead for a while.

"A Great Plains rattlesnake. Where did you find that?" Paz asked, mildly surprised. "They live towards the north. I didn't think they'd move so far out here."

"There are plenty of mice," her friend answered. "They ran away from the crops, and they don't eat the food because of the poison the men spray. They run, and the snakes follow." She placed the animal on the ground. Hunger wasn't an issue at the moment. The sacred liquid swishing around in that leafy water sac was.

Paz ignored the temptation. She examined the snake instead. "One of Matron Evita's children," Paz said to the dead animal. "Pulled from the womb."

"And now we will eat the stillborn child," the friend replied. "Do you have kindling? Your shelter is too small. It will burn down before you catch a spark. You should have made it bigger."

Paz would have rolled her eyes at the matter-of-fact complainant, but she only thinned her lips. She did not want to burn in her own fire from her lack of diplomacy. If such a thing happened, her new friend would dance beside the flames with arms spread wide to the world, and sing for rain with a blackened corpse of an age-old enemy from the south as an offering. The desert, seeing the dance of the Old Ones, would respond with a dance of its own. What mattered is how Paz matched the steps.

They called her Diamondback, which served as both a nod to her heritage and to her personality. She was born Navajo, but lived in Mojave territory in Death Valley. Her parents, disliking the tribe – and the tribe mutually disliking them – moved back to New Mexico. They'd lived on a reserve, taught their child their rites and customs, made her speak her ancestral language and English, brought her Western books. But Diamondback decided one night to leave, and she never gave a reason as to why. It could have been boredom, it could have been rebellion, but unlike the others, her parents had loved and cherished her. She was their last living child, all the other sons and daughters succumbing to diseases that the Westerner had abolished in his tribe. It was unknown what her motives were. She just did what she liked. And that made her dangerous.

Diamondback liked to insult the other girls in Navajo, especially if they were from other tribes. If they cried or yelled back she'd stand with her hands behind her back, face stone-solid, taking their reactions like an offering. When Diamondback was punished for infractions: sleeping in, over-eating, or plain disobeying, she took the pain like a true Native woman: stoic, never wept, never grunted in pain. She absorbed them all like wayward spirits; she was a dream catcher.

Diamondback had skinned the rattlesnake with a sharp rock, placing the innards on a nearby rock outside to dry. The skill came to her with ease. They'd expanded the lean-to by grabbing more branches and tying them with bundles of mesquite branches. When they finished, Diamondback muttered thanks to the tree for its gracious offerings.

Paz whittled sticks and created a small fire, making sure the smoke was concealed enough so it would not act as a beacon. Starting fires was one of Paz's specialities; she could start one by flashing a mirror and could work miracles with a shard of glass. Diamondback left that skill to her while she skinned and sliced their meal. She offered the water sac for Paz to drink. They shared it between them as the snake cooked, taking the already cooked pieces with sharp twigs.

Paz nibbled on her morsel. Though she hadn't eaten in nearly two days, Paz did not have an appetite. Likewise, Diamondback was slowly chewing hers, watching the embers as they sparked and burned.

The relationship between them was not friendship. It could not even be called companionship or mutual agreement. It was a matter of: 'You are here and so am I. I won't touch you and you won't touch me.'

Paz didn't bother to ask why Diamondback bothered to come to her shelter. It was suspicious. Paz had made sure no one had followed her route. She hid her tracks, didn't waste too much energy, and didn't claw at every available surface for food or water. Her nonchalance was her guide, and now it had drawn an indifferent tourist. She eyed the rattlesnake's head. She suspected the teeth were still in its mouth, since Diamondback had thrown aside it aside once she started cutting.

Diamondback never spoke much to Paz. When they were first introduced, Diamondback, with her blue-black braids hanging down the front of her shirt, prattled in Navajo. Noticing that the pitch was dropped in some areas, Paz knew that she was being insulted in another language. Paz acted hurt by her remarks, and, with the suddenness of a grumble of thunder, shot back in Nahuatl. Then the stoic Navajo girl showed the slightest hint of an angry frown.

They finished their small meal and drank sparingly. Paz did not ask where Diamondback got the water; she probably would never tell. Paz would have to find out on her own, if she was able to slip out during the night. Eyeing her clothes and the bag hugging her waist, Paz knew Diamondback had hit pay dirt. How many she'd stomped over, that was a guess. She got her supplies quickly and efficiently, and Paz had only sat under a tree. There were no flares of jealousy.

But suspicion simmered. Soon it would spark like the snake on their twigs.

As a rule, Paz never fell into deep sleeps, even when exhaustion overwhelmed her. Deep sleep was alien to her. She either had naps or periodic sleeps where she could snap awake at the sound of toes cracking in boots or a drop of sweat on her nose. Her senses grew keener as she lay prostrate, preparing her body for spring-tail moments of escape and evasion. Sleep deprivation did not bother her, because fear was her caffeine, her opium. Her fingers traveled to her thighs, longing for her knife. It was still under her pillow back at the commune.

Diamondback slept on the other side of the shelter, her back to her, likewise thinking the same. They were not stupid. They were waiting for the other to make a mistake. If Paz had made a mistake allowing Diamondback into her shelter, then Diamondback also made a mistake by relying on Paz for said shelter. Reliance was a weakness in survival. You made tools, not friends. You improvised, not relied on.

Before they settled into their brief rest, Paz noted that the rattlesnake's head was close to her. Using touch alone and ensuring Diamondback had forgotten the head she'd tossed aside, she edged her fingers toward it, curling her fingers around the curved fangs in its now-cold mouth. It would start to rot, and soon. She may not have had her knife, but this would do.

Diamondback shifted. Her form was like a moving shadow: every action motionless and opaque, blending into the wider black world. Her blue-black hair still had its sheen, even in poor light.

Paz felt the setting sun on her eyelids. She opened them. The orange ball was swiftly disappearing, the sky splashed in violets and azure. The insect symphony was starting. The heat left her skin.

The shadow moved.

Paz knew it was coming, but she couldn't have prepared for the strength and agility so cleverly hidden by the Navajo girl. In the span of five seconds, in a space less than five feet across, Diamondback struck like a puma, landing on top of her and wrapping her legs around her trunk. Her hands, rough and calloused, clamped around her neck. She started to squeeze.

Strangulation is not an instantaneous affair. Unless the blood flow to the brain is cut off, unconsciousness does not come quickly. Manual strangulation can take anywhere from two to three minutes. By using both hands and legs, Diamondback was aiming for cracked ribs, punctured lungs, and a crushed voice box. It was double insurance: if one failed, the other would not.

The air was siphoned out of her lungs like a pinched hose, and a sharp wheeze was sharply cut off as soon as Diamondback tightened her thighs. Her ribs were buckling, and soon they would snap. The action forced Paz to sit up, as Diamondback was gaining more leverage to crush her chest. This obscene wrestling match was nearly over, and it had not yet been a minute.

The normally stoic girl was straining from the effort, and spittle landed on Paz's cheek through her bared teeth. The focus of her black eyes so matched the rattlesnake she was named for: unmoving, patient, reveling in the suffering of her victim's life. It was all etched on her face.

Diamondback wanted to see the wide pupils; imagine the dots and lights swimming in Paz's vision. One last squeeze from her thighs would complete the job, and she would hear the snap of bones and the wet sound of her lungs.

But it was Paz who struck first.

The scimitar fangs sailed into Diamondback's cheek. Paz dragged them down, taking skin with them. Diamondback screamed, hands flying from Paz's neck to her face. She fell to her side, scrambling at the dirt. A wailing sob tore from her throat. Paz stood up, clutching her chest, and watched the Navajo girl thrash and throw kindling about. Her nails were already gone.

Paz fled the shelter, leaving the screaming girl behind. The venom would set in quickly. If she was lucky, she'd last an hour. Maybe half. It didn't matter. It was one less obstacle for Paz.

She watched the sky. The sun was no more than a golden mirage on the horizon. Paz panicked.

The sun rises in the east and sets in the west - I have to go north. North, north...what's in the north? Ciudad Juárez! I need to go there. It's in the northeast. Just follow the sun, Paz, follow the sun...follow it while you can.

Paz sped off north – there was no way she could find shelter now, and there was no time to prepare. Ciudad Juárez was her final destination. Without knowing the time, distance, or exact way to get there, Paz only knew to head in north. As long as she could find any building, she could atone for her errors and welcome the congratulations that were sure to be given. Ciudad Juárez, the lost border town and world of Mexico, was going to be her stop.

She jogged north, the sauna of the day turning into a chilly one. Steam hissed and was replaced by bits of frost. Petals from cacti fell to the ground. Ciudad Juárez was going to be the border town of this violet, wine-red and persimmon desert world of glass.

She was as dry as papyrus, ready to crumble away. Ocotillo, creosote, yucca and tarbush dotted the landscape with their thirsty yellow, greens, and browns like some large, extinguished campfire. The heat had returned in temperatures of 105 – 110 F, and the water she had taken steps to preserve had been taken by the sauna. The sight of these stumped little plants made her whimper in defeat; it was a cruel trick that these plants, living here for centuries upon centuries, could live as they did and watch as a creature of civilization fumbled and sobbed. The creosote fell apart in her hands when she pulled at their leaves, the yucca biting into her blistered skin. She pulled at one branch and threw it to the ground in anger. Cruel tricks from cruel things.

Her first day of good luck ended when Diamondback attacked her. Paz, in her rush to escape the shelter before Diamondback could retaliate – people on the verge of death could still kill – did not grab the water pouch the Navajo girl had made, opting instead to find water on her own.

That had been days ago. She had lost track of how long she had been out here.

She had found some insects to eat, but all that did was make her thirstier. She mentally smacked herself for not knowing better; you didn't eat when you were thirsty. Your body would just use more water to digest the food you ate. It had been cooler at night, but cold enough to make the tips of her fingers numb and freeze the flapping skin from her feet and shoulders. She'd lost her hat and meager clothing somewhere in her fits, and now her underwear and torn bra remained.

She rested in pits she dug out for shade, as there had been no trees to sit under, and the heat had only climbed. When evening approached, her body was bathed in sweat, and she longed at the sight of the droplets as they fell. That was water, and she was losing it.

She had lost sight of true north, and didn't know if she was heading east or west. Mirages toyed with her vision and what looked like buildings in the distance were only shrubs and rocks. She whimpered. She wanted to cry, but she did not want to lose her tears. She wanted to pound her temples for being so stupid, but she couldn't find the energy for it. There was another honey mesquite, a dead one with no pods, and she collapsed spread-eagle under it. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips, but it got stuck in her mouth.

The desert knows how to punish cheats, Paz thought. It separates us.

Ciudad Juárez was her prime objective, but she wasn't sure where she was. She could be near El Paso or near the Sierra Madre, Occidental or Oriental. How was she to know? All that was white was yellow, and all that was yellow was blue. Unless 'north' decided to gallop up on a steed holding a sign, she wasn't going to find it. She made idiotic mistakes, so idiotic that she didn't even think of grabbing the Navajo girl's water sac. Who knew? She probably laced it with something only she was immune to. Maybe it was a better idea if she left it behind. Did it really matter? She really needed water. Even her thoughts cried for it.

She twitched her fingers. She did not have the strength to grimace at her warring thoughts that continued to dart around.

Just a little longer. I can wait until evening. Please hold on. Please hold on for me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I cheated. Will you forgive me?

It was probably useless to apologize. She didn't know rain dances or prayers for that sort of thing. If she tried it, she'd probably offend whoever was up there. Matron Evita hadn't been joking.

She was on the move again at evening, or the hours before evening. Though thirst was killing her, her body moved on its own volition. Her mind may have run in loops and circles, but her body acted on its own. She obeyed it. She walked. She kept walking.

She found a group of buzzards flying overhead. It was a good sign: buzzards fly towards water, and they are never far from food sources.

Another girl must have died, Paz thought. I hope they won't get impatient and start on me.

She reached an incline and climbed it, hands grasping at sand and hot roots. At the top of the valley, sand gave way to thick, straw-like grass, too exact and plentiful to be a mirage. Had she walked all the way to the grasslands in the high desert?

Grasslands mean birds. It isn't a mirage if I hear birds. They are too loud for my thirst to play tricks on me. The buzzards grew vocal as she approached. She followed their calls to a lump of white and red in a bed of crushed grass; upon close inspection, it was a hollowed and cleaned out human body. She could see torn strands of hair around the body. A large buzzard dipped its head into the dead girl's navel, coming up wet. It turned its scaly neck at her for a moment, waited, and continued eating. Another joined it shortly after.

Paz moved on. The birds were busy with the girl's corpse, and would not come after her unless she disturbed their meal or if they decided that she was the better one. Their scaly necks dipped in and out like one of those wooden drinking birds people put in front of their glasses. Behind their necks, in an outline hidden by the swaying grass, was an outline of a crumbling building. She had to blink a few times to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. When the bricks didn't go away, Paz leapt like a ballerina.

Is that a house? A church? Oh God, please don't let this be a mirage. Please don't let it all be in my mind! Please don't! –

Sand filled her mouth as a sudden blow from behind knocked her down. She choked. She rolled on her back and saw that another girl was standing over her, a large rock in her hand. A huge gash on her thigh bled through caked dirt, and, like acting like a flare gun, the buzzards turned their scaly necks towards the newcomer. Paz crawled backward on her elbows, feeling for a weapon of her own. She found none. She reacted.

There was enough strength in her to deliver a swift kick to the girl's knee. She could feel it give out under her foot, and the girl, like Diamondback before her, buckled and screamed. The rock fell in front of Paz. She wasted no time. She grabbed it and threw it down on her attacker's head. Her forehead split like ripe fruit and the buzzards, waiting on the sidelines like vocal cheerleaders, fell on her. She muttered thanks to them as she ran, heaving and coughing, to the little church through grass that cut her legs and snagged her hair. She ran until she shoved open the door.

Her knees fell hard to the floor in the doorway's entrance. Her breath came back to her weak from the warm stone. She groaned and closed her eyes. Finally. She had done it.

A pair of old boots emerged in her blurred vision. Paz did not need to open her eyes – did not want to – to know who they belonged to. Hands applauded like cracks of thunder in her spinning conscious.

"The ocean has returned to us. Well done, my girl. Now you are a real vaquera."

Matron Evita's face hovered over her own. The stern despot that had dictated to a line of girls so many days ago ran a soft hand along her back. A tear escaped from Paz. She was lifted and settled into Matron Evita's lap. A smile, deep and crinkled near her lips, made Matron Evita appear, perhaps only once, like a mother.

Notes:

- There will be frequent snippets of Paz's training exercises before she settles into her official role of Pacifica Ocean. I tried to make the desert scene interesting, but I hope I didn't bog it down with unnecessary info. The desert experience will be referenced in other chapters.

- Ciudad Juárez, before it was the infamous cartel town, was a border town that boomed in the 1950's and 1960's. But when the drugs started moving in, the town slowly become the murder capital of the world.

- The use of the word 'Old People' is a reference to the native peoples that were present in the area pre-colonization.

- I may switch between using Fahrenheit and Celsius. I'm more familiar with the latter than the former.

Translations:

Mis hijas - my daughters

Coneja - rabbit (feminine version)

Vaquera - cowgirl

tramposa - cheater (feminine version)