2023-06-24 03:15:00
Fabricio Fernandez, DAYS 23,832,218
GENERAL ROCK
When they descended on the side of Route 152 a few kilometers from the town of Lihuel Calel, the sensation under the already almost dark sky was somewhat strange.
The legends that were around that area ranged from bad lights in the middle of the field, appearances of goblins, the witch under the caldén and also stories about UFO sightings.
Stopping for a few minutes was necessary as they needed to walk a bit, urinate, stretch their backs and some of the group eagerly light a cigarette.
Total darkness in the middle of nowhere became imminent.
The mountain moved away from the pupils. Month of June. Cold. Only the whistle was a red dot in so much solitude. In a few seconds all the cigarette paper was burned and the spark from the lighter stopped working. Queer.
Absolute silence. Laughter suddenly appeared in the air that none of them could figure out where it came from.
Barely ten minutes would have passed and the decision to continue was made in unison.
The truck did not start. Queer.
After pushing a long stretch there was no response. The cold was cut with nerves and shouts between them because they did not understand the situation.
Fear swirled around the place and the mist created silhouettes in the air. There were four friends and a moonless night. Friends of those who in every conversation about barbecue, fishing or hunting take the world ahead. All with the sign of the most handsome. But at that moment the rudeness gave rise to lumps in the throats.
The laughter drifted away in an icy gust that also lashed, slamming the side of the truck.
No one thought to get off. Two looked to one side and the others to the opposite side, watching in case someone came to hurt them.
They had done the damage, hours before, by shooting at a herd of small rheas with no intention of hunting for food, just for recreation, just to sharpen their aim. Cartridges everywhere. One of the 16 and a carbine of the 22 to repetition did havoc. Feathers and red brushstrokes adorned the jarillas. Then, the local foxes would be in charge of cleaning the land.
But hey, there they were, letting the minutes go by, restless, with fogged up windows.
Getting off and starting to walk was not a good idea at all. The shoulder was transformed into a putrid swamp, with alpatacos spines floating. The asphalt in a carpet full of spiders and snakes.
Despair.
The cold stiffened their joints and froze their tongues. They wavered on their knees, pleading with gestures into the void.
They tried to drag themselves through the bush, but their chapped hands were leaving the skin in the frozen verdigris and they could no longer advance. The bloody footprints drew a trail with the smell of death and an owl did not contain its laughter.
Exhausted, they fell asleep and dozens of bright eyes spied among the alpatacos.
At dawn, to the feast of the foxes, hungry jotes joined.
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