Bimbo, Bimbo, Pan Bimbo

The smell of cordite and fear-sweat still clung to Marcos's clothes as he downshifted through the mountain curve, knuckles bone-white against the cracked steering wheel. Six hours since Plaza de la Revolución had turned into a killing field. Six hours since they'd watched El Maestro's body swing from the government's execution platform while news cameras rolled.

The radio coughed static through the dashboard's spider-webbed plastic, spitting fragments of accordion and government propaganda. Ever since El Maestro's death, pirate stations had been popping up across the mountains—broadcasting forbidden Spanish content before government jammers could silence them. Marcos smacked the radio with his palm, coaxing a few clear notes before it dissolved back into electronic snow.

"...security forces report complete pacification of the financial district following yesterday's coordinated terrorist assault—" CRACK "—manhunt continues for remaining cell members—" static "—unauthorized broadcast stations will face immediate military response—"

"Turn it off," Simón muttered in English, pressing a bloodstained Pollo Campero napkin to the gash above his left eyebrow. The wound had reopened twice during their escape, leaving rust-colored streaks down his cheek. His switchblade caught afternoon light as he cleaned El Maestro's blood from under his fingernails—dried now, but still carrying the metallic tang of martyrdom.

"Come on, hermano," Marcos replied, also in English but with that sing-song accent that marked him as trouble to any patrol. "Information is survival, ¿no?"

They spoke English because they had to. Because Spanish in public spaces meant re-education camps or worse. Because three years following El Maestro through the underground had taught them that language itself could be weaponized.

Simón hadn't spoken much since they'd scraped themselves off the plaza's blood-slicked concrete, abandoning their positions when the shooting started, leaving El Maestro to face the firing squad alone while they ran through tear gas that burned their lungs raw. The weight of that failure sat between them like a passenger they couldn't drop off.

Three years they'd followed El Maestro through midnight meetings in church basements, raids on loan shark operations, overturning tables of predatory lenders who bled poor families dry. El Maestro had a gift for making people believe David could still beat Goliath. Yesterday morning, that faith seemed unshakeable. Yesterday afternoon, it died under government bullets.

The rideshare app chimed on Marcos's cracked phone, the notification cutting through his brooding like a knife through gauze: Pickup request - Bus terminal, Sector 7. Destination: North - will provide directions.

"No," Simón said without looking up from his blade work.

"One fare. Then we disappear."

"I said no."

But Marcos felt the weight of El Maestro's last words pressing against his ribs like broken glass. Help strangers, because we never know when we might be the stranger needing help. He'd said it during their final meal together, not knowing that within hours he'd be hanging from government rope.

Marcos tapped Accept.

"Pinche idiota," Simón whispered in rapid Spanish—quick and low, the way you spoke your real language when the cameras weren't watching and the microphones weren't listening.

They found their passenger at a concrete bus shelter tagged with revolutionary slogans and gang marks. A tall guy in his thirties, wearing a guayabera that had seen better decades and work boots caked with mountain mud. He carried nothing but a canvas messenger bag and moved with the unhurried confidence of someone who'd walked these roads before the language laws, before the roadblocks, before El Maestro had made revolution fashionable among the young and restless.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said in perfect English, sliding into the backseat. The car immediately filled with scents that didn't belong—fresh bread when the nearest bakery was fifty kilometers away, coffee when they were surrounded by unprocessed cherries, and something else that reminded him of rain on hot stone.

"Afternoon," Marcos replied, catching the stranger's eyes in the rearview mirror. Dark skin weathered by outdoor work, a face that belonged to the mountains—strong jawline, patient eyes that seemed to hold more stories than any single lifetime should contain. His work gloves were stained with honest dirt. The kind of unremarkable appearance that disappeared in crowds. "Where we heading?"

"North. Toward the mountains. I'll tell you when to stop."

Simón glanced back, three years of operational paranoia kicking in automatically. "Long way to nowhere, friend. You sure you got fare for that kind of distance?"

The stranger smiled—not the nervous grin of someone caught without money, but something warmer and more mysterious. He pulled a worn twenty-dollar bill from his shirt pocket. American currency, the only kind that mattered anymore. "This cover your time?"

Marcos whistled low. Twenty dollars was two weeks of rideshare earnings. "Sí—yes, sir. That'll work just fine."

"Excellent." The stranger settled back against the cracked vinyl, completely at ease. "Beautiful country up here. I imagine you both know these roads well."

Something in his tone made Marcos glance at the mirror again. "You from around here?"

"I've spent time in the area."

They began winding through foothills where banana groves gave way to cloud forest, the air growing cooler and thinner with each switchback. The scent of ripe coffee cherries mixed with wood smoke from hidden farmhouses.

Static crackled from the radio until a pirate station broke through the jamming, clear as church bells:

"Bimbo, Bimbo, pan Bimbo—"

The stranger's voice joined the melody without hesitation, smooth and sure: "—el pan que todos queremos."

Marcos felt his hands tighten involuntarily on the steering wheel. The underground stations had been playing these old jingles since yesterday—acts of cultural resistance that wouldn't last long before the government tracked them down. How did this guy know the words so perfectly?

"You know that one?" Marcos asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

"My grandmother used to sing it while making bread," the stranger replied easily. "Amazing how those old jingles stick with you."

The explanation was reasonable enough. But something about his delivery felt rehearsed.

The radio cut back to static, then English-language news: "...financial sector reports unprecedented losses following yesterday's terrorist attack on the banking district. Government sources confirm the coordinated assault targeted multiple predatory lending operations, resulting in the destruction of thousands of loan contracts and the temporary collapse of the microfinance sector..."

"Terrorist attack," Simón repeated, his voice flat as concrete. "That's what they're calling it."

"What else would you call shutting down businesses that prey on poor families?" the stranger asked mildly.

The question hung in the air like incense. Marcos caught Simón's eye in the mirror—they hadn't mentioned specifics about yesterday's operation. About El Maestro leading them through the financial district like an avenging angel, overturning tables, burning contracts, shutting down the loan sharks who charged sixty percent interest to families who needed money for medicine and school fees.

"You heard about the specifics?" Marcos asked carefully.

"Hard not to. Young revolutionary leader, built quite a following. They say he really believed the system could be changed." The stranger's voice carried no particular emotion. "Name was Miguel Santos, right? Though I believe his associates called him El Maestro."

Marcos nearly drove off the road. Miguel Santos wasn't El Maestro's real name—that was operational security information, known only to inner circle members. The news reports had never mentioned it. So how did—?

"Could have read it online," the stranger continued, sensing Marcos's confusion. "Social media, underground blogs. Information has a way of spreading."

Again, a reasonable explanation. But Miguel Santos was the name on El Maestro's fake documents, used for apartment leases and bank accounts. Not something that would show up in news reports.

"The system can't be changed," Simón said in English, then switched to rapid Spanish without thinking: "El sistema nos come vivos, hermano. Los poderosos siempre ganan."

The system eats us alive, brother. The powerful always win.

The stranger chuckled, responding in the same quick Spanish without missing a beat: "¿Pero qué pasa cuando los muertos no se quedan muertos, Simón?"

But what happens when the dead don't stay dead, Simón?

Both men went rigid. The stranger had used Simón's real name. Not the alias they'd given when he got in the car—they'd introduced themselves as Miguel and Carlos. Simón's actual name wasn't anywhere in their rideshare profiles, wasn't on any documents in the car.

"How did you—" Simón started.

"The app shows passenger and driver details," the stranger said smoothly, pulling out his phone. "Sometimes it displays more information than the basic profiles. Different security settings."

Marcos glanced at his own phone. Their driver profiles clearly showed Miguel and Carlos. But passenger apps could work differently, couldn't they? Different data sets, different privacy settings. It was technically possible, even if it seemed unlikely.

Still. Simón. Not Carlos.

Static crackled from the radio: "...witnesses at the government morgue report—" THUNK Marcos hit the dashboard harder than necessary. "—unexplained disappearance of the terrorist leader's body during the night. Security footage shows six hours of electronic interference..."

"Weird," Marcos said in English, but his voice sounded strained even to himself.

"Not really," the stranger replied, switching back to English as well. "Happens more than people think. Families sometimes retrieve bodies before official processing. Paperwork gets confused. Bureaucratic mix-ups."

Another pirate frequency broke through the jamming: "Inca Kola, la bebida del—"

"—sabor nacional," the stranger finished, humming the tune perfectly. "Dorada como el sol, dulce como el amor."

He knew this one too. Another impossible jingle from the underground stations that had been broadcasting forbidden content for less than twenty-four hours. Unless he'd been listening to pirate radio all day, memorizing songs that most people hadn't heard in years.

"You're quite the music lover," Simón observed, studying their passenger with the intensity of a man trying to solve a puzzle that might get him killed.

"I enjoy the old songs. They remind me of better times."

"What better times?" Marcos asked. "Things have been hard here for years."

"I suppose it depends on your perspective," the stranger said thoughtfully. "Some people see endings where others see beginnings."

Static burst from the radio again: "...el que muere por su pueblo—" The signal cut out, replaced by electronic squealing as government jammers found their frequency.

"nunca muere solo," the stranger finished quietly, as if the interrupted broadcast had been a conversation he was already having. He who dies for his people never dies alone.

More interference, then another fragment: "...when the master's song shall—" [STATIC]

Marcos felt something cold slide down his spine, despite the afternoon heat. Those words—his abuela used to say them while making bread, her hands working dough with the patience of someone who understood that some things couldn't be rushed. Her voice had carried old knowledge like honey carries healing.

"That's just folklore," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Old sayings that don't mean anything anymore."

"Do they not?" The stranger's voice carried gentle curiosity. "Or maybe they mean more than we remember."

The radio crackled back to life: "...government sources confirm the revolutionary's known associates have fled north toward the mountain provinces. Military checkpoints have been established at all major road junctions..."

"They're looking for us," Simón observed, his hand moving instinctively toward the weapon concealed beneath his shirt.

"They're looking for ghosts," the stranger said calmly. "The living are much harder to find than people imagine."

How did he know they were being hunted? The news report had mentioned associates, but not specifically that any were in this area, not specifically that they'd fled north. Unless he was making logical assumptions based on the broadcast. Revolutionary leader dies, associates run to the mountains—it wasn't exactly advanced tactical analysis.

But still. Ghosts.

The road began climbing more steeply, switchbacking through coffee farms where workers moved between plants like dancers in slow motion. The scent of ripe cherries grew stronger, mixing with wood smoke from farmhouse kitchens.

More static from the radio, then another fragment of forbidden folklore: "...cuando cae el árbol grande—"

"—sus semillas vuelan lejos," the stranger sang softly, his voice blending perfectly with the pirate station's signal. When the great tree falls, its seeds fly far.

"How do you know these songs?" Marcos asked, abandoning English entirely and switching to the Spanish of his childhood, the language of kitchens and lullabies and stories told after dark.

"How do you not?" the stranger replied gently. "Your own grandmothers sang them while kneading bread. Your mothers hummed them hanging laundry on the line. The stories were always there, Marcos—you just forgot how to listen."

Marcos. Again. Not Miguel.

"The app shows a lot of information," the stranger continued, as if reading his thoughts. "Credit reports, background checks, employment history. Sometimes more than drivers realize they're sharing."

But that still didn't explain the folklore. The specific songs that his grandmother had sung, the exact phrases she'd used while teaching him to knead dough and tend the small garden behind their house. Those weren't in any database, weren't stored in any app's memory banks.

Ahead, they could see a roadblock—military vehicles and flashing lights blocking the highway. Soldiers in combat gear stood behind concrete barriers, their weapons casual but ready, their eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses.

"Mierda," Simón cursed under his breath. "Road's closed."

"Stop here," the stranger said suddenly, his voice carrying quiet authority.

Marcos pulled over at a scenic overlook where the valley spread below them like a wrinkled green blanket. The stranger opened his door, shouldering his canvas bag with the same unhurried confidence he'd shown since getting in the car.

"This is perfect," he said, stepping out into the mountain air.

"Perfect for getting shot by soldiers," Marcos replied, but he was already killing the engine, already feeling the weight of El Maestro's words about helping strangers.

"For remembering that some roads can't be blocked," the stranger said simply.

Through the open door, mountain air rushed in carrying pine scent and the distant sound of church bells from some hidden village. Marcos felt something he hadn't experienced since yesterday morning—not hope exactly, but something like its distant cousin.

"It's not safe out there," he said, climbing out of the car. "Patrols, wildlife, who knows what else is wandering around these mountains."

"I'll be fine."

"No, seriously, hermano." Marcos surprised himself with his own insistence. "At least let us get you somewhere with walls and a roof. Somewhere safe."

A woman's voice called from a small house tucked between coffee trees maybe fifty meters up a dirt path: "¡Marcos! ¡Simón! ¿Qué carajo están haciendo? Dinner's getting cold, and if you don't get up here right now, I'm feeding everything to the pigs!"

"My wife," Marcos explained, wincing at María's tone. She'd been cooking all day, expecting them hours ago, not knowing they'd been running for their lives since dawn. "She's... she has strong opinions about punctuality."

"María makes excellent sancocho," the stranger said thoughtfully. "Best in the province, I'd imagine. Especially her sofrito—she uses that perfect balance of cilantro and culantro that most cooks never master."

Marcos felt the world tilt slightly. María did make incredible sancocho. And her sofrito was legendary among their friends, a closely guarded recipe she'd learned from her grandmother. But how could this stranger possibly know that? They lived forty minutes from the nearest town, didn't advertise, didn't run a restaurant.

"Lucky guess," the stranger continued easily. "Mountain women always know their way around sofrito. Comes with the territory."

Again, plausible. But the specific mention of cilantro and culantro, the exact words María used when talking about her cooking—it felt like more than coincidence.

"I really should keep moving," the stranger said, but without much conviction.

"Look, just come eat," Simón interrupted, surprising everyone including himself. "Roads'll be clear by morning, and those soldiers aren't going anywhere tonight. Besides, María's been cooking for an army, and she'll skin us alive if we don't bring a guest."

The stranger seemed to consider this, looking between them and the house where warm light spilled from windows like liquid gold.

"All right," he said finally. "But just for a little while."

They started up the path together, gravel crunching under their boots. The scent of cilantro and simmering meat drifted down from the house, making Marcos's stomach remember that he hadn't eaten since yesterday.

The stranger paused to remove his work gloves, tucking them into his back pocket with the casual efficiency of someone ending a long day's labor.

"Hey," Simón said in Spanish, glancing at their guest as they walked. "Hermano, what happened to your—"

"¡MARCOS ANTONIO RIVERA!" The voice exploded from the house like artillery fire. "If you don't get your culo up here right now, I'm feeding your dinner to the pigs and your bed to the chickens!"

The stranger grinned, that mysterious twinkle lighting his eyes as he clapped Simón on the back and began singing in perfect Spanish:

"Café Bustelo, no esperes más, La esposa brava, te va a matar, ¡Bustelo! ¡Bustelo! ¡Corre ya!"

Then, switching to English and gesturing for them to join him:

"Coffee Bustelo, don't wait no more, Angry wife gonna start a war, Bustelo! Bustelo! Run for the door!"

Marcos found himself laughing despite everything—despite El Maestro's death, despite the soldiers at the roadblock, despite the impossible questions surrounding their passenger. Even Simón cracked a smile as they approached the porch where a small girl peeked around the doorframe, her dark eyes curious and bright with the kind of innocence that made revolutions seem both necessary and hopeless.

The stranger raised his hands to clap along with the ridiculous jingle, and for just a moment—barely a heartbeat—the child's eyes widened at something she saw in his palms. Something that made her small mouth form a perfect O of surprise and recognition. He noticed her stare, winked conspiratorially, and pressed a finger to his lips with a gentle smile that seemed to contain all the secrets of the world—not yet, little one—as they continued singing their way toward the warm light spilling from María's kitchen.

And on the third day, the master's song shall sound again.