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The Long Walk

with Paranoia: The Corrido of Andrea Quinta

Dr. María J. (Jesú) Estrada

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to dialogue, people, places, and events are purely coincidental and the work of the author’s hyperactive imagination. Any similarities to events or individuals, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Dr. María (Jesú) Estrada

All rights reserved. No part of this book or any of its content may be reproduced or distributed in any form or medium, without prior written permission of the author. Short quotes and academic usage are the exception. The author must be credited in such instances.

Table of Contents

Title Page



The Long Walk

Paranoia: The Corrido of Andrea Quinta

About the Author


¡Muchas Gracias, Todos!

Un gran abrazo y beso to my amazing husband Aaron, my supportive children Antonio and Simona. I need to thank my little sister Diana who reads all my work, and Laura Garcia an Adam Gottlieb for their encouragement and continued kind words. A special gratitude to my good friend Eric Allen Yankee for shepherding this first publication and helping me through the process. Thank you all who have been reading my drafts. You know who you are, and there are not enough words to express my appreciation of all of you. Finally, a special thank you to my ‘Ama and ‘Apa whose sacrifices made this amazing writing life possible.

The Long Walk

On the fifth day of the end of the world, Ismael reinforced the back door one more time, not that it mattered because they would not figure out how to undo the latch, let alone use the door handle. But, it gave him something to do, quietly duct tapping another layer of cardboard behind the nailed coffee table. He knew the cardboard wouldn’t hold so much as a fart outside, but it was all he had.

Besides, the muertos were confused and quite pendejos. Though, every now and then, he would spy a random muerto outside his trailer window, and he swore he saw a twinkle of intelligence in the glossy eyes, but it was just a reflection. Besides, he knew by now that they were blind. Even though he was pissing his pants, when things got ugly, he had left the trailer once, when they weren’t so many around to get his tools out of his car. They only noticed him when he, stupidly, slammed the car door shut and then exclaimed, “¡Puta madre!”

The heat in the desert outside Somerton, Arizona was unbearable. Running the air conditioner was out of the question because it drew them to his trailer. His heart skipped. He heard someone turning the latch, then giving up. It was followed by a rhythmic scratching.

“¿Quien anda allí?” he whispered. He looked through the small window, as he spied Betty the Whore. She turned to see him. Nothing about her face revealed that she was one of them. Just as he had seen the week before, her long blond hair was neatly braided, and she still had on that gorgeous red lipstick that he loved her to wear when she did unladylike things for him down below. But one of them must have bitten her below her skirt because she was as jodida as all the other ones walking and dragging their sad asses through the dirt.

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