Deathsquad Diaries
Deathsquad Diaries
Tearing down the lonely highway to Poptún, he really felt the jungle now, it was silently screaming. So many had been disappeared on this highway, it was called the highway of death but he had no other choice. His hair was as black as volcanic obsidian and it was whipping violently against his jacket and his companion’s face. The clouds and mist were ominous, the moon looked bloody, the howler monkeys kept up with their mischief releasing poisonous spores from some of the trees lining the highway. He felt like they were going to be a footnote in one of those horror documentaries about genocide in some random banana republic shit hole country on PBS. He felt her clutching his flimsy jacket from behind as he gained speed. He was worried she would feel the flimsy little black book tucked in his left pocket, it belonged to her sister. The motorcycle was an old school one that was easy to hot wire. It was 2am and he could feel her body was revolting and tensing, she allowed herself to feel nausea and pain and terror just for a minute before she started feeling faint again.
