True Stories of a Fictional Life

The Church

"How long have you lot been here?"

This is the first new voice I've heard in over eighteen hours. Gerry and I have made this church home since noontime Tuesday. We know it so well we've named the rats and play pretend that they're our children. We take turns rinsing out our shirts in the toilet downstairs, pretending not to notice the dead things in the water.

"Seventy two hellish hours," says Gerry. When he's cranky, his Scottish accent comes through. I can barely understand him.

"Oi, Gerry, cheer up, will you? This nice man might have some candy," I say.

"Shove off, Donnelly."

"Christ," says the man, crouching next to us. "It's all right now. The cartels are done slaughtering the sheep."

We gather our gear. I've been in the country less than a week, and we've already got enough footage to run on BBC for two news cycles. I'll be off for a week at least, with every shot I got. Easiest assignment I've ever had.

Except for the hiding in a church to avoiding getting killed by a violent cartel part. That part, well, that part sucked.

"Name's Eamon Carles," says the man, sticking his hand out as we walk through the church. He's like us, checking the corners, holding onto his vest for dear life. It may be safer now to clear out, but that doesn't mean you can waltz through like you're in Convent Garden. "Press cleared out fast, didn't they? Place was full when I came in."

"I'm Claire Donnelly, and this is Gerry Stokes. BBC. And yeah, they did. We missed the chance to go with the last crew." I say. I don't tell him why. That part, the part where we were stuck in with the cartel while they spent two nights gambling right on top of us, I keep to myself.

Gerry nods at me. We both know the pictures we got those two nights could get us killed. Better to chat about it when we're on friendly ground.

"Is that why the two of you were on the roof?"

"We got shots of the firefight," says Gerry. "I've gotta say, I've been doing this a long time, and I think this is the best footage I've ever gotten. And I'm including the London bombings."

"You did good work, Gerry. We'll be able to go home early."

"What? And forsake a holiday? Nah. Let's go to Cancun. Drink beers. Tell war stories. Then we go home. I'm tired of winter."

"Fine. But this time, no skinny dipping." I howl as he punches me for that memory - a bare-bottomed red-haired ginger taking a dip in the ocean, not aware they were filming the bloody thing because of a festival on the beach. Even in this heat, the memory shakes up beach winds, and I start to relax.

We reach the door to the church, and Eamon stops. He turns around and looks at us.

"Well, this shit looks different up close and in the day time," says Eamon. "I can tell you two are veterans, but this...this is different."

"We're pros," says Gerry. "Claire and I've been through everything together. We were in Iraq, Afghanistan, Palestine. We can handle it."

"If you say so," says Eamon, as he opens the door. "But it shook me to the core when I first saw it."

"Oh." That's all I say. All other words stick to the roof of my mouth, searing and hot. Gerry starts coughing. I feel the urge to vomit, but I won't. I can't.

In front of us, the neighborhood of Azteca, at the heart of Ciudad Juarez, burns. Children's book bags, toys, clothing, and shoes are scattered around the street. The smell of smoldering bodies is heavy in the air. Blood paints the walls a mud red color. The street is nearly covered with bullet casings.

And through it all, through the Federal Police and volunteers who are taking care of the bodies of the victims, I see the children. Small pockets of children, eyes still open, hands out, mouths open, frozen in screams.

The government workers were focused on covering the children. They were worried about the foreign press taking pictures of children who could not defend themselves. They wanted to respect the families who lost loved ones.

As we walked by, locals formed a line between us and and the fallen. They hooked arms, staring at us. Some rained waterfalls from their faces as they did so, some were silent statues.

Not one of us raised a camera.