Twilight (19 page)

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Authors: Brendan DuBois

BOOK: Twilight
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I wiped at my chin. “You say that's what they think. What do
you
think?” Gary turned and looked at me. “I think you should tell them something
different the next time they question you. And I think you should get something to eat.”
I was tired of talking. I just nodded and Gary came over and helped feed me some bread and cheese and water.
 
 
AFTER OUR LUNCH,
Gary said, “Man, I wish I had packed a deck of cards. Or a book. Or something to pass the time. No offense, Samuel, but this waiting is driving my head up a wall.”
“I've got a book,” I said.
“Really?” he said, his eyes shiny with anticipation, like a kid on Christmas morning. “What kind?”
“A collection of essays by George Orwell. Hold on.”
I rolled myself up into a sitting position and freed the book from an inside pocket of my coat. Gary held out both his hands and said, “Oh, this is great, this is great.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I'll rest my eyes and you can do some reading.”
“Are you sure? I don't want to hog your book. I mean … man, a book.”
“No, go right ahead,” I said. One of the last things I remember about Gary was how happy he looked, sitting up against the bulkhead, a blanket over his legs. I managed to find a comfortable spot, pulled my own smelly blanket up to my chin, closed my eyes and fell asleep to the sound of Gary flipping through the pages of the Orwell book.
 
 
I AWOKE TO
the sound of vehicle engines. Gary was kneeling on one of the seats, looking out through a small scratch on one of the painted-over windows. I sat up and drank some water from a nearby plastic bottle.
“What's up?” I asked.
“More militiamen coming in,” he said. “A couple of trucks and a car. Maybe a dozen or more men. Looks like they're bulking up their numbers for something.”
“Like what?”
Gary kept looking out the window. “Maybe an offensive, now that the armistice is over. Who knows?”
“But they're militia, guys with guns in just a handful of states … how can they keep on fighting against professional UN troops?”
Gary turned around and sat back down in the seat. “You forget who those people are out there. Their ancestors fought in the snows at Valley Forge, ate bread made from acorns during the Civil War, whipped the
Germans in the mud twice last century. They've fought in swamps and deserts, on and under the ocean, and in the air. If they think their home turf has been invaded, they'll fight forever. Forever, Samuel. Till the end of time.”
I was going to say something funny about the end of time coming quicker than one might think when the door at the front of the bus opened up. Two militiamen came in, both holding pistols in their hands. One of them had a plastic bag, which he tossed on the floor. He grinned, revealing yellow teeth. “Only one supper assigned to this prison bus,” he said. “Care to guess what that means?”
I didn't have to guess. My hands and feet and gut suddenly felt cold and clammy, and Gary couldn't even bear to look at the militiamen. We waited, all four of us frozen in some ghastly tableau, until the second militiaman waved his gun and said, “You. The teacher. Come along—it's time.”
Gary managed to nod, his lips pursed. He got up, handed my book back to me, and said, “Thanks for the book. I really enjoyed the past couple of hours. It's the best couple of hours I've had in a month.”
“You're welcome,” I said. “Look, is there—”
He held up his hand. “No, it's OK. Samuel, I've enjoyed meeting you. Honestly. Hope you get home one of these days.”
The second gunman said, “Jesus, will you stop yapping and get a move on?”
Gary brushed past me, went to the front of the bus, and paused at the top of the steps that led outside.
“Thanks again, Samuel. Thanks,” he said.
I just nodded, and he walked down the steps.
If I had been a bit more brave, I think I would have made a fuss, or at least got up and gone to the seat and the window. But I couldn't move. I just lay back on the mattress and wrapped myself up in the blanket. I flinched when I heard the report of a solitary gunshot.
A gunshot that seemed to echo for a very long time.
E
ventually hunger managed to get me off the mattress. I got up and pawed weakly through the plastic bag, finding a hard roll and a can of corned-beef hash. There were no utensils but I was lucky that the can of hash was a single-serve one which had a snap top. No can opener necessary. I snapped the cover off and scooped the hash out with my fingers, eating it cold. It was greasy and salty and stringy and the potato chunks were tiny—and it tasted delicious. I drank some of the water and then I softened a torn-off piece of the hard roll and used it to wipe the can's interior clean.
When I was done I wiped my fingers on my pants and sat up, wincing at the pain in my side. My ribs seemed better, but not by much. I looked around the dirty and smelly interior of the school bus, and shuddered. With Gary gone, it seemed so empty. The few hours we had spent together had seemed like a month. All the talking and discussion and questions and now … the poor guy was now in a pit, his body cooling down, everything about him—the jokes and the tales and his love for his woman who'd been killed by a NATO air strike—gone into emptiness.
I yawned. God, I was tired. I'd never thought I could get this tired and still function. The lights around me started to dim as the power was turned down in the militia camp. I got up, went to the window, looked out through the peephole and saw just a few dim lights. It seemed like the camp was
getting ready to bed down. But I was sure that somebody out there was keeping an eye on the door of the bus. These militia types seemed to be efficient at keeping their prisoners locked up. Prisoner. I thought about one of the last things Gary had said to me before he'd been led away.
Tell them what they want to hear
.
I rubbed my hands together. I had been successful during the last session in not mentioning the names of Karen and Charlie—but how long could I hold out during another interrogation like that? I had been brave once but I was sure that my body wouldn't let me be brave again, especially if my interrogators decided to graduate from boots and fists to something like knives and propane torches.
It was getting darker. But maybe I would have a respite, a night to sleep and gain some energy. Maybe I would have a night off. Maybe … But if these militia guys were smart—and they obviously
were
smart in a guerrilla-style way, having held off domestic police forces and the NATO military intervention for so long—they would follow the path so thoughtfully mapped out for them by interrogators from the old Soviet Union. Those guys had been expert at grabbing prisoners at odd times and shaking their nerve and composure, so a good night's sleep was probably out of the question. Especially if I could expect to be beaten up again.
Still, it would be sensible to try and catch some sleep. I went back and lay down on the mattress. I rolled over and pulled up a blanket. My hand brushed against the metal floor of the bus and again I felt the bite of sharp metal. I pushed back, irritated. Something snapped, and I felt cool air against my fingers. Great, just great, I thought. I'm trying to get some sleep, and I just poked a hole in the floor of the bus, letting in a draft—
Letting in a draft.
Try “opening up a hole,” moron, I told myself.
I got off the mattress, pulled it away, felt the floor again with my hands. Rusted and rotten metal, near the left rear tire. I touched the hole I had made, felt more pieces of rusted metal snap away in my hand.
“I'll be damned,” I whispered.
I got up, not feeling quite as achy and sore as I'd felt earlier. The string of Christmas-tree lights was held up by duct tape. I pulled it free with a satisfying sound of tape ripping, and brought a few of the lights down to the hole. It was about the size of my fist, and I could look down and see the ground beneath the bus. Unbelievable.
I taped the lights closer to the hole and went to work. The first few pieces of floor went easily enough, snapping and cracking away, and then it got tougher as the rusted stuff gave way to uncorroded metal. I paused,
breathing hard, my hands grazed and cold. I now had a hole the size of a dinner plate.
“Just a little wider,” I murmured. “Just a little wider.”
I began working on the sides of the hole, back and forth, back and forth, widening it up. Once there was a piercing screech as one piece of metal scraped against another and I froze, shaking, wondering if anybody outside could have heard it. I waited, listening intently but hearing only the sound of the wind coming through the hole. I brought the lights closer, still breathing hard. Close. It would be pretty close.
Noise. From outside. Some laughter, some drunken shouts.
I got up from where I was working and went to the window. I looked through the scraped-out peephole and saw that a muddy pickup truck had pulled up, near the trailer where I had been interrogated. There was a group of men gathered around the truck, and flashlights were being played around the people and the vehicle. I blinked, thinking that one of the shapes looked familiar. I tried to keep my breathing even, tried not to move my face from the window. There. The shape I recognized had a couple of lights shone in his face—a very familiar face.
One Peter Brown, formerly of the Metropolitan Police in Great Britain, and currently a special investigator with UNFORUS.
Captured? Like me?
Then I saw him laugh with another militiaman, and then Colonel Saunders, the colonel-in-chief of the militia, came out of the trailer, almost stumbling down the steps. Saunders seemed to be drunk but he also looked happy to see Peter, who went forward with a grin on his face and offered his hand. There were some hearty handshakes and back-pounding and then the two of them went up into the trailer, like best buddies—or best bastards or something.
Now the radio gear I'd seen Peter with made sense. He had set us up. And that Australian television crew had been right, lethally so. There were indeed traitors within the UN groups operating in-country. Hell, maybe Peter had even met with some of them, the night I'd seen him outside the motel.
More laughter and some loud voices came from the trailer. Then it got quiet again.
Jesus. Peter. I glanced back at the hole I had just made.
“Think,” I murmured. “Have to think this through.”
I looked around the floor, gathered up the rusted and broken chunks of metal, and tossed them into the hole. Then I rolled up two blankets and tied them together with a kind of rope that I'd fashioned from the torn-up plastic bags. Then I took the water bottle, filled it from the bucket in the
rear, and went back to the opening. I dropped the water bottle and blankets down the hole, and then lowered myself into it. The jagged rim reached my waistband before my feet touched the dirt. I leaned forward, grabbed the mattress, and tugged it toward me. Then I squeezed down—the metal edge of the hole scratching at my hands, neck and head—and tried not to gasp from the pain. Now I was underneath the bus. I reached up, grabbed hold of the mattress again, and pulled it over the hole. Darkness engulfed me but I thought it was worth it. Might as well make them wonder how I might have gotten out. It might only work for just a while, but just a while was all I needed.
And Peter? Damn that man, damn him to hell. If I ever got back to the UN lines I'd make sure that the son of a bitch ended up in the dock at The Hague, along with his bloody-minded fellow bastards.
But no time for that, not right now. It was time to get moving.
In the darkness I crouched down and by touch gathered up the water bottle and blankets. I crawled toward the rear of the bus, scraping the back of my head on the undercarriage and exhaust system, and then stopped, taking in everything that I could see in the illumination available. In front of me and to the left were the dim lights of the encampment and to the right were the woods. I waited until my night vision improved before I moved toward the trees, passing gingerly through the strands of barbed wire and making sure it didn't catch on my clothing. I moved quietly and deliberately and slowly. But, by God, I sure as hell moved.
 
 
IT WAS SLOW
going all through that long night, but I did all right, stumbling and tripping only a few times. The first half-hour or so I was terrified that I'd hear the sounds of tracker dogs or of men beating through the brush, but I heard only the whispers of the wind and the cries of night animals as I plodded along. A half-moon was up in the clear sky, so I could at least get some idea of where I was going. Even then, I often bumped into low-hanging branches that made me wince and shudder at the fresh pain coursing through my old bruises and wounds. I tried to keep to a steady pace and to travel in a straight line. I didn't want to be thrashing around in circles.
The woods I was in began to thin out. I forded a small stream, the water looking almost silver from the light of the half-moon overhead. I paused there and filled the water bottle, drank as much as I could, and then refilled the container. My blanket roll stayed on my shoulders, heavy though it was. I resumed my walk, trying to hold to a straight line, keeping the half-moon in view.
Eventually I came upon a drainage ditch, which I jumped over easily enough. I had no idea how long I had been walking, but I was hopeful that I had put a number of klicks between myself and the militia camp. I wished I had a better idea where that camp was—I hadn't paid much attention to the peacekeeper and policing aspects of my training. But I still wanted to give an extensive debrief and memory dump to whatever NATO forces were still active in this region and provide them with the information they'd need to blast that wooded hidden area with everything they had, from cluster bombs to napalm bursts.
I climbed a small rise and found myself on a paved road. I paused, breathing hard, looking around me. On both sides of the road were farmers' fields, going off into the distance and punctuated here and there by stands of trees. I looked around in a circle, trying to determine where I should go. There. Off to the west, if I was correct, was a hazy glow, rising up from the horizon. Perhaps a village. Perhaps a highway. Or a UN encampment of some sort. In any event, it looked like a lot of lights, which meant some kind of operating authority. The militia groups liked to stay small and operate without being too obvious. That glow on the horizon was as good a target for me as any, I decided.
I started moving toward it.
 
 
I WAS PLEASED
with myself for finding the road, though I guess I shouldn't have been too cocky. After all, I had only stumbled over the damn thing. Still, it seemed like I was making good time, though I had to rest every few minutes or so, shifting my bundle of blankets from one shoulder to the next. I drank fully of the water, remembering my father telling me once, a long while ago, that while you could live for a long time on an empty stomach you couldn't last long without water. Thanks, Dad, for that at least, you otherwise miserable bastard.
About the fourth or fifth time I took a break, I was sitting on a stone wall when from overhead came the noise of jets again. It sounded like they were flying over the area I'd recently left. I looked up but, of course, there were no running lights. It was strange, tracking the planes' movement only from the sound, but then I thought I caught a glimpse of their deadly shapes, briefly blocking out the stars. I waited on the stone wall, my blanket roll on my lap, and soon I saw a trickle of sparks descending, orange and red and yellow, little round globes of color. Then the horizon lit up like a distant thunderstorm. I heard a series of shuddering booms and even felt them through my feet, resting on the asphalt. I actually laughed, rocking back and forth.
“Oh, I hope they got you all,” I whispered. “Every single one of you, every one of you who hit me and who killed your neighbors. And Peter … boy oh boy, I sure hope they got you as well … blow you right back to where you started … I hope they got all of you good …”
I guess I had violated some of my UN training with that little rant, but I didn't care. I stood up. The night sky off to the east was beginning to turn gray. Dawn was coming. I looked around the fields on either side of me and clambered over the stone wall. Out there, to the north, the field I was in rose up at a slight angle, and on the crest of a rise was a collection of boulders, probably too big and massive for the early farmers here to have cleared them out after exhausting themselves killing the Indians who'd been here before them. I climbed up the muddy field, very tired now. As I got closer I saw that saplings and some brush had grown up around the rocks. Perfect. I fought my way through some brambles and found a reasonably flat area that was roughly my size. I undid one blanket—saying a short prayer of thanks to the memory of the schoolteacher Gary, who had once used it—and lay down on the rocky ground. I pulled the other blanket over me and stared up at the tangle of branches and twigs overhead. I thought I saw a star but I might have been mistaken. I was surprised at how warm I was, and though the ground was hard and unyielding it sure as hell was ten times better than that soiled mattress back at the school bus.
Once I thought about a certain eight-year-old boy and then I started shivering, until the sounds of jets overhead, one right after another, drove those thoughts away. I think I fell asleep to their beautiful sounds of destruction, death and revenge.

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