Blind-Sided, PT 1.

BLIND-SIDED

1

The humid night air clung to Julio's skin as he and Marco stepped off the bus near campus, laughter trailing behind them like the smell of esquites from the street vendor across the road. The political rally had been noisy and full of energy - and for Marco, a kind of high. For Julio, it was just another evening spent ducking and trying not to get arrested for standing too close to a megaphone.

"Tell me again why you dragged me to a protest and not a party?" Julio asked, nudging Marco with his shoulder.

“Because, güey, revolutions don't happen on dance floors,” Marco grinned, eyes shining behind his thick glasses. His oversized backpack shook on his back as he adjusted it.

Julio snorted. “You haven't been to the right parties.”

They crossed the street and entered the university parking lot, where Marco's old gray Volkswagen Beetle waited like a tired dog. Julio had named it “La Pulga” for the way it always sputtered and scratched its way into motion. Marco claimed it was “full of character.”

As they approached, Marco slowed down, glancing over his shoulder.

“You feel that?”

Julio looked around. Empty lot. Flickering lamplight. “Feel what?”

Marco shrugged. “Nothing. Just a vibe.”

Julio rolled his eyes. “It's Chiapas, man. Everything feels weird after 10 PM.”

Marco popped the door open and slid inside. Julio circled around and climbed into the passenger seat. The inside of the car smelled like old upholstery and burnt plastic. Marco turned the key. The engine coughed, then caught.

Then came the static.

The radio flared to life, unprompted. Not music - just soft, crackling noise, like a distant thunderstorm tuning in. Marco frowned and tapped the volume knob. Nothing changed.

Julio leaned forward. “Is this station for real, güey?”

The static sharpened into a garbled voice - half a syllable, then another. It faded just as quickly.

Marco didn't speak.

Julio, trying to lighten the mood, laughed. “Probably just the devil making a Tik-Tok video.”

That got a grin from Marco. “You know what I found last night?” he said, pulling his phone from the dash. He opened a YouTube app and tapped a saved video. “This. It's been going viral in some Reddit circles.”

Julio leaned over to look. The video's thumbnail showed a grainy black-and-white image of a woman standing beside a highway at night. The title read: La Mujer del Vado — Last Transmission (Original Upload).

The video began: shaky cam footage from a dashboard. The car drove slowly along a foggy road. There was no sound but engine hum and faint static.

Then the camera panned - briefly. A figure on the side of the road. Long black hair. A white dress or coat. Bare feet.

Julio felt a small shiver crawl up his back. “Okay, creepy. So?”

“Just wait.”

The camera turned back to the road. The driver spoke in Spanish: “¿La viste? ¿La viste?”
Then the screen glitched. For a second, just a frame or two, the woman appeared directly in front of the car.

Cut to black.

Julio blinked. “That's it?”

“No,” Marco said. “Look again.”

He rewound a few seconds. Froze the video right before the glitch. There, in the side mirror - so faint Julio hadn't noticed before - was the reflection of a second person. In the back seat.

“That wasn't there a minute ago,” Julio muttered.

Marco raised an eyebrow. “I know.”

Julio sat back, rubbed his arms. “Where was this filmed?”

“Right outside Tuxtla. Around that curve before the hills.”

Julio squinted at him. “Wait. Isn't that where we saw that weird chick by the road?”

Marco just nodded.

For a long moment, the only sound was the car's idling engine and the faint hiss of the still-humming radio.

Julio tried to laugh again, but it came out dry. “Come on, güey. Don't tell me you believe in this stuff.”

“I didn't,” Marco said. “Until last week.”

“What happened last week?”

Marco didn't answer right away. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a small black notebook - worn, weathered, filled with tabs and highlighted scribbles. He opened to a page filled with hand-drawn maps and timestamps.

“I think I found the car.”

Julio frowned. “The one from the video?”

Marco nodded. “It's for sale.”

Julio stared at him. “And you want to buy it?”

Marco's smile was the kind Julio didn't like - quiet, certain, and maybe just a little too calm. “I already did.”

 

2

Marco had always believed that machines could carry memory - like ghosts stored in steel. He didn't say it out loud, not even to Julio, but the thought came back as he stepped into the shadow of the car.

It sat in a cracked lot behind a shuttered taquería on the outskirts of town, shielded from the road by leaning trees and a broken chain-link fence. Dust clung to the windshield. The black paint was matte, not glossy, as if it absorbed more light than it reflected. The same kind of car as the one from the video. Same body style. Same dent on the rear bumper. Same chrome detail on the fender - an eagle with its wings spread.

Too much to be coincidence.

A man emerged from the restaurant's dark interior, wiping his hands on a rag. He was maybe in his sixties, narrow-faced, wearing a sweat-stained baseball cap and a limp white shirt that might once have been clean.

“You're early,” the man said, voice rough. His accent was local, but his tone had the sharpness of someone used to being disappointed.

Marco tried to keep his voice steady. “You're the one who posted about the car?”

The man nodded. “You bring cash?”

Marco held up his backpack. “Fifty thousand. Like the ad said.”

The man blinked slowly. “You sure you want this one?”

“Yeah. I looked into it. It's rare. I want it.”

The man sighed. “Todo el mundo quiere algo raro.”

They walked toward the car. Up close, Marco could see that the tires were new - like, brand new - but the body had scuffs and old damage that hadn't been repaired. The license plate was missing.

“What year is it?” Marco asked, running his hand along the passenger door.

The man didn't answer at first. Then: “It's been here a long time. Changes hands. No one keeps it long.”

Marco squinted at him. “Why?”

Another shrug. “People get... restless.”

He opened the driver's side. Marco slid in. The seat adjusted itself slightly as he sat, without him touching a lever. He tried the key - already in the ignition. The engine started immediately, purring low and smooth.

The dashboard lights flickered. The radio blinked.

Static.

Marco frowned and reached for the dial. It was stuck. But before he could try again, a voice cut through the static.

He heard a single word: “Ready.”

He froze. “What was that?”

The old man didn't move. “Radio's busted,” he said. But he wasn't looking at Marco. He was looking down the road, like he expected something - or someone - to arrive.

Marco swallowed. “Can I take it around the block?”

The man gave a short nod. “Just once. If it likes you, it'll come back.”

Marco didn't ask what that meant.

He pulled the gearshift. The car moved like butter, like it was already anticipating his hands. The wheel didn't resist; the pedals responded before his foot was even fully down. He turned out of the lot and onto the quiet street.

As he drove, he became aware of a subtle hum under the engine, like a low chord being played continuously. Not mechanical. Musical.

He didn't pass anyone on the road. Not even stray dogs.

He looped once around the block, then returned to the lot. The man stood exactly where Marco had left him, arms crossed, face unreadable.

Marco parked and stepped out. The air smelled faintly of ozone - rain was coming, though the sky was clear.

“I'll take it,” he said.

The man gave a short nod and opened the trunk. “Spare key. Papers. Don't lose the manual.”

He handed Marco a brittle folder. Inside: a single black-and-white photocopy of a title document, no name, no VIN number. Just a hand-scrawled note at the bottom:
“Do not drive past the woman. Do not look in the rearview.”

Marco looked up. “Is this a joke?”

The man shut the trunk. “The car doesn't joke. It chooses.”

And with that, he walked away, disappearing back into the shadows of the taquería.

Marco stared after him. Then down at the car.
The engine was still running.

 

3

Julio knew something was off the moment Marco pulled into the university lot in the new car.

It wasn't the paint - black, unremarkable. It wasn't the noise - actually, the engine was quieter than anything Marco had ever driven. It was the silence around the car. As if the usual background buzz of campus - traffic, music, yelling from the dorms - stopped the moment it rolled in.

Julio stepped off the curb and folded his arms. “You actually bought it.”

Marco grinned as he leaned across the passenger seat to push the door open. “Get in, güey. I want to show you what she can do.”

Julio hesitated. The car's interior was immaculate, but not new. Just… untouched. No dust. No wear. The scent inside wasn't leather or vinyl - it was faintly metallic, almost like a blown fuse.

He slid into the seat, careful not to touch the dash. “You're treating this thing like a girlfriend.”

“She's better than a girlfriend. She listens.”

Julio raised an eyebrow. “You say that like it's normal.”

Marco started driving before Julio had even buckled in. The car rolled onto the street with a kind of fluid grace - no lurch, no stall. The streets blurred past like water.

“Where are we going?” Julio asked.

“Out past the foothills,” Marco said. “I want to try something.”

Julio glanced at him. “Try what?”

Marco didn't answer.

They drove for twenty minutes, out past the edge of the city, where the buildings thinned and the air grew cooler. The road twisted up into the trees, winding toward the old highway that led north, toward San Cristóbal.

The radio crackled again. Static, low but insistent. Julio reached out, but the dial wouldn't budge.

“What's wrong with this thing?”

Marco smirked. “It talks when it wants to.”

Julio looked at him. “You hear yourself right now?”

Marco didn't respond. His grip on the wheel had tightened.

A road sign passed - KM 76 — VADO DE LAS SOMBRAS.
Julio didn't remember ever seeing it before.

As they crested a hill, a sudden cold washed through the car. Julio shivered and rubbed his arms.

“Are you sure this thing doesn't have AC?” he joked. “Because it feels like a damn meat locker.”

Then he saw her.

At the bend in the road, a woman stood on the shoulder. Barefoot. Dressed in white. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders.

She didn't move.

Julio froze. “Marco. Do you see her?”

Marco didn't blink. “Don't look at her. Don't say anything.”

“What the hell, güey?”

Julio turned to look out the rear window.

She was gone.

The radio hissed louder. Then, barely audible, came a whisper. A breath between words.

Marco slammed on the brakes.

The car spun 180 degrees, tires screeching. Dust clouded the windshield. Julio's head smacked into the headrest.

They stopped facing the opposite direction.

Marco stared ahead, breathing hard.

“What the hell are you doing?” Julio yelled. “You almost got us killed!”

“She was in the road,” Marco said.

“There was no one in the road!”

Marco shook his head, more to himself than to Julio. “She's watching. I felt it.”

Julio stared at him. “You need sleep. And maybe a psychiatrist.”

But deep inside, something cold had lodged itself in Julio's chest.

He'd seen her too.

Even now, in the side mirror, he thought he caught the edge of movement - white fabric, flickering at the edge of sight.

Then the radio clicked off.

Total silence.

Marco pulled the gearshift, slowly, and turned the car back toward town.

They didn't speak for the rest of the drive.