Plato was at the concrete overpass known as Switchback Bridge. The bodies had been called in as dawn broke over the endless desert, ropes knotted beneath their armpits, tied to the guard rail and the dead tossed over the side. They both dangled there, the rope creaking as they swung back and forth in the light breeze, twenty feet above the busy rush of traffic at the intersection. A small crowd of people had gathered to watch as a fire truck was manoeuvred around so that the ladder could get up to them. Former school busses from across the border, now ferrying workers to and from the sweatshops, jammed up against one another and, behind them, a queue of irate drivers leant on their horns. Just another day in Ciudad Juárez. Another morning, another murder. No-one was surprised, or shocked. It was an inconvenience. This was just how it was and that, Plato thought, was the worst of it.He could see that the bodies had both been decapitated. Hands had been tied behind their backs and their feet flapped in the wind.
What do You think about Saint Death - John Milton #3?
