Breath 26
Outside, the desert wind howled like a warning, but no one was listening.
The man with the beer—sweaty, stumbling—fumbled with the rusty generator,
smacking it with the side of his palm.
It coughed once, sputtered, then died again.
He cursed under his breath and took another swig.
The chemical container clanked on the ground beside him.
“Get it running!” one of the riflemen barked, coming up behind him.
“I’m trying!” the drunk muttered, jiggling the starter cord again.
The machine wheezed, spit oil, then finally roared to life with a violent shake.
Black smoke belched from its exhaust.
Inside the trailer, the air shifted.
Tom pressed himself against the wall,
skin slick with sweat, his heart pounding like it was trying to break free of his chest.
Around him, people sobbed, muttered prayers in a dozen languages.
A young boy was curled in his mother’s lap,
his face tucked into her neck.
An older man clawed at the door, his bloody knuckles scraping metal.
Tom wanted to say something.
To warn them. To tell them what he suspected.
But the words caught in his throat—
and what good would they do now?
Everyone was already on the edge, trembling in fear,
backs pressed against one another in the suffocating dark.
There was barely space to move, let alone to think.
What could he say that wouldn’t make it worse?
What could anyone do,
when you're trapped in a trailer that barely lets you breathe,
surrounded by the sound of quiet prayers and muffled sobs?
Tom’s heart pounded. He was torn.
Should he speak? Should he warn them?
Or did it even matter anymore—when they were all about to die?
The light turned on.
Few seconds later it went off.
Fear written in everyone’s eyes.
Desperation in every breath
Then came the hiss.
It started low, almost like a snake, then grew into a wet, mechanical groan.
Tom looked down. A vent in the floor was beginning to smoke.
Not fire.
Steam.
No—gas.
His stomach turned.
Someone screamed—raw, high-pitched, like a dying animal.
The panic spread like a virus.
“No! No, no, please—” someone cried in Spanish, banging on the walls.
“Ayúdanos, ayúdanos, abre la puerta.“ (Help us! HELP US! Open the door)
The air thickened.
People surged toward the door,
piling over one another, arms flailing.
A woman fainted. Someone’s elbow struck Tom in the mouth.
He tasted blood.
His lungs begged for air, but he clenched his jaw and squeezed his nose shut.
The smoke was rising faster now, creeping through the seams in the walls,
snaking up people’s legs, chest, faces.
Children screamed. A man vomited and collapsed.
The mother holding her boy was rocking now,
eyes wide, whispering, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” but her voice cracked, and her body trembled.
Tom coughed involuntarily—just once—but it was enough to burn.
His eyes watered. His vision blurred.
A body slumped against him, heavy and limp.
He shoved it off, fighting to stay on his feet, fighting to stay conscious.
He thought of Nick.
Is this his destiny?—the fate of everyone?
Naked, choking, crushed in a steel coffin beneath the desert sky?
Tom’s fingers dug into the floor,
finding metal, something solid to grip.
He held on, not sure why—just needing something real.
The air was turning thick and white, hot like poison steam.
Screams turned to coughing. Then to silence.
Only the hiss remained.
Tom closed his eyes.
Held his breath.
And waited for death to take him.
