Lost: Casa Perdida [Completed]

Mr. Black

1 Day Later

Narrator

Mateo Sosa and Matias Garcia were driving down a hilly road once again. The hills were pristine white, capped in snow. One never needed an air conditioner in that climate; cold air came undulating into a vehicle from the mountains. They had passed by the last motel on that stretch of road. It was all woods until they would leave the mountains.

They were to deliver a message, an essential piece of information; it was this urgency that kept both the finger-pointing officers from squabbling between themselves. Matias was on the wheel while Mateo had a map laid on his lap. Sosa didn't trust technology; he preferred to keep things classical. As the vehicle went by countless switchbacks and passed by abandoned shacks, Mateo traced the road they were traveling on - a crimson red line on the map - with his gloved fingers.

The road was misty, yet not foggy enough to overcome the sharp headlights of the Police cruiser. Garcia was quiet, not wanting to talk so that he could concentrate on the road. Concentration was of utmost importance in that leg of the journey because one distraction could cause them to slide off the hilly route and into the abyss. Only coughs interrupted the silence inside the car.

Mateo Sosa adjusted his seat and reclined. He thought about the reason why he was going to an isolated hamlet on the other side of the mountains. It all began with the accident that they had discovered on the previous day when they were driving to a post. The bodies had been smashed, a complete bloodbath had occurred when that vehicle had collided with a rock. From inside the debris, they discovered a driving license that told Garcia and Sosa the name of the owner of the war. The car belonged to a certain Bustamente. His address was provided on the card. So, after getting the medics to carry the bodies to the station, Mateo and Matias drove to tell Bustamente's family about what happened to him and his fellow passengers. Chances were, Garcia thought, that Bustamente might have not driven the vehicle when the accident occurred. Nevertheless, it was imperative that they make the long drive to Bustamente's hamlet: Blencojo.

They would reach Blencojo only by the next day. Blencojo was just across the mountains but because the mountain range was ragged and impassable by car, the automobile had to ply the roads that went around. If they were hiking, it would have taken less time. They began the ride three hours ago when it was 4.00 a.m.

Claire Dakota

It was afternoon. My eyes were still sore from the treatment that I had received at the clinic, the previous day. By the time I had reached my hotel room, I hit the sack.

When I had woken up the sun was high in the sky and the time was 1:00 p.m. I must have been very exhausted to have risen late. Yawning, I rose from my chair and walked up to the large, antique radio set above my television set. I spun the knob a few times until I heard a familiar song. It was a country track, a classic from the 2000s. Most people in the States had forgotten that song, but it turned out that in Bolivia that song was still popular.

I pulled aside the blinds and stared at the crowded street through the window. There were hawkers and peddlers on the unpaved road, changing positions regularly. There were four stalls on the road, selling Salteñas.

Then my eyes fell on one man, a youth of twenty years old. He brought with him a flag with squares of different colors. With him were a girl and ten other boys who were joining. The fat lady who was frying meat stopped what she was doing and stared at what was a protest.

The protest went on, and the business on the street ceased. Stones were thrown here and there and fights sprung up. All that I could see from the dust that rose from the street were signs bearing the words 'Paz' and 'Justicia.'