‘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 for ever. For ever, 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.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eventually 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 tom-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.