The Illegal

Manny walked home.  He knew better than to wait on the bus.  It had been years since there'd been anything like consistent bus service.  The Collapse, the civil strife, the shortages, all of it combined to make any transportation unavailable for all but the wealthiest.

And Manny wasn't the wealthiest.  

Pre-Collapse, he had been a factory foreman.  And maintained a modestly prosperous home for his wife and kids.  Now, like so many others, he lived in cobbled together shacks on the outskirts of town, past the bombed out areas.  Bombed out by gangs fighting over drug territories.  

If only he and his family could escape North.  North where the weather was cooler, where crops still grew - food crops.  Where men could live and work and laugh and play, and women didn't need to fear roving gangs or random bandits.  Where children could go to school to learn, instead of having to work or scavenge to keep the family from starvation.

But they only took about 1% of all who applied to go.  Theoretically, to save jobs for their own people.  But Manny knew, as did everyone, that this wasn't the reason why.  Folks like Manny could go, but only illegally, that way the corporations up there did not have to pay a full and legal wage, but could get them at "slave wages".

Manny grimaced.  Thinking about how far his nation had fell that the slave wages north were higher than anything he could obtain here.

He made it home.  He was almost robbed on the way, but he saw the looks of the street kids in time, and ducked through a random alley between shacks, button hooked back around, and lost them.  And made it home.  Sweating, and not just from fear.  Global warming was not just a warning any more, not in 2068.  

The oceans had rose, the coastal cities were swamped out, the farms dried up, the economy crashed.  All at once?  Well, it had creeped up on them, and it had seemed there were some fixes, some measures that could stave things off.  Till finally, one measure or the other didn't work, one crop failure or the other was too much, one flood or the other overwhelmed.

Then, like a bursting dam, then yeah, it was "All at once".  The Collapse.  

With the only hope being North.  Cooler weather.  More jobs.  More food.  More opportunity.  More of everything except starvation, gangs, rape, murder and senselessly random death.

His wife looked up at him as he latched the makeshift door behind him.  He saw the latch was "fixed", which meant that someone had burst through the door since this morning.  He saw the fresh black eye on his wife's face.  Raped again, he knew without asking.  And without her telling.  She had made him promise last time to ask no more of such things.

Sometimes he managed to convince himself that it was so she could save face, keep her pride, still be his undefiled bride.  Other times he suspected that when the larder was particularly empty, that she made such arrangements as she discretely could, and then there'd be some more food.  For awhile.

He looked at her.  She held his gaze.  His kids were behind her, waiting expectantly.  He took out some bread and they ran towards him.  His wife lowered her head, tired out, not just physically, but of their life of unending misery.

He had to get North.  There he could get work, he knew he could.  He could send money back to this hell, and give his kids a fighting chance.  Give his wife a break from having to minister to strangers.  Or be forced by filthy bandits while he was out looking for such scant work as could be found from time to time.

And, who knew?  They said that if you made it there, and were very lucky, sometimes "amnesty" was gave.  And if he was once there legally, he could save up and send for them.  Free his wife from this shameful, soul-destroying existence.  Give his kids a chance to know real freedom, from fear and starvation.  

To let them have a chance to be real people, with real work, real opportunity.

As if sensing his thoughts, his wife looked up at him.  He nodded.  "Tomorrow."  Hope flared in her eyes, but then fear.  "Yes", he said, "you will have to be more careful than ever.  I'll have my brother come by more often.  If this works..."

She said nothing.  He said nothing.  Then he repeated, "If this works...", and saying no more, he crossed the small space and she rose to hug him.  They clasped for a minute.  Breaking off he said, "The man can arrange things now as well as later.  I'll leave now.  I'll see my brother on the way."

He kissed his boys good bye, though they were getting to the age where such annoyed them.  He looked at his wife again, but simply nodded.  He left.  Left to speak to his brother, and from there, to meet with the Coyote.  Such were what those who smuggled people over the border were called.

Not a well regarded group.  Oddly, by either side.  North, they were regarded as scum who kept their perfect utopia from staying perfect.  South, they were known for their lying and thieving and yes, even killing.  Once the money was collected, it was anyone's guess whether a given one would take you there - or just leave you to die in some desolate area.

Manny had a lead on who was supposed to be reliable.  He had previously paid a lot of money to find that name.  And since had saved up the more.  25,000 water-credits, in this post-Collapse economy where that meant a six month's wages.  But Manny was not stupid, for all that those north thought his kind were.  

He had seen some of the events of the Collapse coming, had managed to keep some connections, some savings, some of this and that.  Add to that his sharp mind, strong body and good work ethic, and much belt tightening, he'd managed.  Just.

The Coyote nodded as Manny walked in that evening.  Nodded not in greeting, but as in "of course".  Such types knew who was likely to desire to try.  Who had the guts for the dangerous trek north.  He came over.  Manny smoothly passed the wad of credits over.  The Coyote didn't count it, he could tell by the weight, and he knew of Manny by reputation, and of course, he'd count it later.

"It'll be a few hours.", and with that the Coyote motioned to where others were sitting and left.  Manny sat without a word.  Soon enough they were loaded into a moving van, each holding a gallon of water, and each praying that things would go okay.

They traveled for eight hours, then pulled in to a truck stop.  They got gas.  The Coyote opened up the back, made sure everyone was okay, then told them to be especially quiet now.  Then he shut the door again, and they drove more.

Trucks, commercial or otherwise, were randomly inspected, as were cars.  But the Coyotes papers were in order, or the appropriate bribe had already been gave, or maybe just by luck they were not inspected.  Manny would never know.

They accelerated again, and Manny and others guessed that they were past the border.  Not that this meant safety.  Would he ever be safe again?  Manny tried to think positive.  In another ten minutes, two minutes of it on a bumpy road, they stopped.

"Out, out!", the Coyote said loudly, as everyone exited as rapidly as they could.  They looked at the vast hot nothingness.  Dry and gritty dirt, scrub brush.  But perhaps not quite as hot as further south?  No, it was as hot.  They had a ways to go yet to where cooler weather could be enjoyed.

"If you already drank your water, fill the jug back up from this tank!", the Coyote said, indicating several fifty five gallon drums, open, filled about three quarters full of water that didn't look too dirty - or too clean.  

Wisely, Manny topped his gallon jug off, drank it down as much as he could at once, then filled the now half empty jug again.  He knew the best place to store water was inside you.  The Coyote gave him a dark look, but as others hadn't caught on to that trick, he let it pass.

"You've a twelve mile walk.  It'll take you three to five hours, depending on how fast a pace you want to set yourselves.  There'll be a complex of empty buildings where this desert ends.  Abandoned, but a guy I know will meet you there.  He'll have your assignments and tell you how you're getting to where you're going.  You're not all going to the same places.  Now get."

And with that he drove the moving van back the way he'd come.  Others were looking about in wonder, but Manny had started walking north as soon as the Coyote had finished talking.  He intended it to take three hours, and at a mile every 15 minutes, he figured that was doable.  

But in spite of how far north they'd come, it was still a desert, and it took a bit out of him.  He made it in four hours, and wasn't alone.  Most others had.  Some had not.  "Yet", he told himself.  There had been rumors that Good Samaritans left caches of water along the way, but all they had found were empty gallon jugs and overturned barrels.

They suspected that this nation's patriot groups had done that, they were notoriously even worse than the border guards.  They would beat you if they caught you, even kill you.  And at the least, they'd certainly not let you stay.

Manny felt blessed to have avoided that.  The guy came out to meet them, helped several before Manny, then got to Manny.  "I have something good for you.  Lead worker of a crew of twelve, helping at a processing plant for uranium.  It's near a mine of the stuff.  We've got an ID you can use, so you'll be 'legal', but you get more, you pay more, so it'll be twice the usual monthly rate."

Ten thousand water credits per month instead of the agreed upon five thousand?  As if reading his thoughts, the man said, "Look, you're north now.  You'll be bringing in 70,000 creds per month on a job like this, more than enough to pay us to keep things quiet for you.  And to send some to the wife and kiddies.  Heck, to bring them up, eventually, after you've paid your debt to us.  Only a year.  After that, who knows?  Heck, they're even talking amnesty again!"

Manny agreed, mostly for having no choice, but partly because the man was right that it was a fair enough deal, at the wages he was now being promised.  That must be a dangerous job, he thought.  If they're willing to pay him 75, then it must be worth 150 to one of their own.  Still, it was enough for what he needed.

What his family needed.

"Say something, let me hear you.", said the man.  "What do you want me to say, sir?", asked Manny.  "That's enough, just wanted to hear if you could pass.  You'll be fine.  Work on your accent a bit, it's good...but still not perfect.  Just listen to how they talk, and keep as quiet as you can till you've got it down pat."

With that, Manny was pointed toward a car, with a man waiting by it.  He waved Manny into the seat, shotgun.  Soon enough, two more came over, they were going to the same plant.  It was another eight hour drive, but the man was nice, and passed out sandwiches and fruit juice, and even stopped for a bathroom break in a lonely area. 

Three days later, Manny was settled in.  A week later, he was feeling comfortable with his new role, his new job, his new ID, his new life.  After a month, he was feeling very grateful, but still found this nation so very different from his.  

Everyone very much took this fantastic life for granted.  They expected no trouble or danger, and were justified in not expecting trouble or danger.  Most were, if not fat, then at least quite soft.  But Manny noticed that others from his country who had been here longer than him, were also softer.

The "natives" were nice enough.  For the most part.  But some seemed to suspect his situation, and were condescending to him.  That wasn't as bad as some who did not suspect him, and then would say hurtful things in front of him.  

His ID, his name, his complexion - they were not so at odds as to put anyone on guard.  His ID was that of a native, he could inflect his English as if he was a native, so many assumed he was.  Or that possibly, at most, he had legally arrived.  An important distinction to some who assured him that they were nothing but sympathetic to the plight of those south of the border.

Even as they insisted that none should come here illegally.

"My ancestors came here legally, why can't they?", was a common question.  "Because I and my family would have died of starvation or gang violence had we waited 'our turn'.", thought Manny, though he wisely did not say this out loud.

"What part of 'illegal' don't these people understand?", was another popular question.  "What part of 'my kid is starving' don't you understand?", was the reply Manny wanted to give.  

"I don't mind helping some, but if we let everyone in, then we'd have no jobs for our own people!", some piously said.  "But I don't see 'your people' lined up to mine uranium or process the ore in plants with little or no safety protocols.", Manny silently replied.

A good people, most of them, but a real blind spot on the immigration issue.  When folks are fleeing a fire, they aren't concerned about trespassing.  They just need to flee the fire.  And certainly the Collapse brought about by global warming had been a fire.  

It had turned the whole Midwest of the United States into a desert, hadn't it?  A desert that stretched even up into the lower part of Canada?  Heck, Manny hadn't seen any real trees in his newly adopted nation till he got to Uranium City on the shores of the Arctic Sea.  

Only this far north in Canada could trees and crops and fruit and vegetables grow.  Only here could the eighty million natural born Canadians - and ten million refugees from the United States they'd grudgingly accepted - carve out a new life.

Three hundred million out of five hundred million Americans had died in the Collapse.  And the riots and revolts and such that had happened in the immediate aftermath.  And the starvation and disease that had ravaged the 'lucky' survivors.  Those who could had fled to Canada while their border was still relatively open.

Others had since managed to get in by the ever decreasing quotas that Canada strictly imposed.  Others had gave up, resigned themselves to their hellish existence, and they and their families died, unnoticed.  Some could accommodate themselves to the anarchic life of chaos that now reigned from a "coast to coast" that was now substantially inland to what Manny's granddads would have known.

A "coast to coast" that started on the shores of W. Virginia and extended to the beaches of Nevada.  They mastered banditry, drug running, scavenging.  They eked out lives as best they could.  Did they "change the system"?  Reform their own nation?  

Not when each day was a struggle just to stay alive, just to keep their wife from being raped, just to keep their kids fed.  Little time for political reform then.  Little time, little energy, little thought gave to it.  Raw survival left no time for such philosophic matters.

Some, like Manny, had the courage to seek to better themselves and their family.  No matter the risks and the cost.  Was he wrong to "break the law"?  Manny shrugged to himself bitterly.  Certainly he'd passed up opportunities to "break the law" and join the death squads, narco-terrorists or police squads that roamed his shattered land.  And he was no thief.

But yes, he "broke the law" in coming to the only place he could reach that would allow him to feed himself and his family.  He committed a regulatory infraction in walking across an invisible boundary that separated he and his family from the life that they could only have if he was here.

Those here who thought nothing of rolling through a stop sign or taking a questionable tax deduction or cutting this or that corner - all things that "broke the law" - how dare they speak to him of that?  

He broke one law, that harmed none, and to save his family from literal death.  What did they break the law for?  To get home sixty seconds quicker?  To have one hundred less water creds to pay in taxes?  He shook his head.

Then he got back to work.  Giving a silent prayer that the amnesty the Labor Party was talking about would become a done deal next year, if they could secure a majority in Parliament.  If he could get fully legal status, then he could have his family with him.

He was lonely, but really, he just wanted them here and safe.  

As what red blooded American would not desire that for his family?  These Canadians were soft.  Any real man would choose his family over the law.

Every time.