"Tell someone to find him. "
Zacul called to the soldier again, demanding that he bring Arevilio immediately. But the soldier shook his head and pointed to a motionless figure on the floor. The Cuban appeared to already be dead.
Ford said, "I'm going to have to drive you. We'll need a truck and I'm going to need someone else who speaks English. If I get an American doctor on the phone, someone is going to have to ask him questions while Tomlinson and I work on you and your officers."
"There is Colonel Suarez—" *
"Suarez is sick, too." Talking as he loaded the other syringes with atropine sulfate, Ford then injected the saline solution into Zacul's arm.
The saline solution was a placebo; it would have no effect. Atropine sulfate was the antidote.
Zacul was coughing, rubbing his arm. "Is it so necessary? I'm too sick to think. Why do you make these demands!"
Ford said, "It's necessary unless you want to die. Someone else who speaks English."
When Zacul only groaned in reply, Ford finally just came out and said it: "What about the little American boy who was in the stockade?"
Zacul raised himself to his knees and seemed to focus for a moment. "What?"
"The boy, Jake Hollins—where is he?"
Through the bleary eyes came a sharp look, and he asked, "How did you know he was no longer in the stockade?" and Ford realized he had stumbled badly.
"I thought I saw Colonel Suarez release him."
Zacul said, "Yes, of course—the boy could help," speaking very carefully, in a way that made Ford uneasy. "He's here. In my quarters—there, with the hippie now."
Tomlinson, looking grim, was leading Jake Hollins by the hand. The boy had been bathed, his clothes washed, and he looked very small walking beside Tomlinson. His chin was down, like a shy child at a circus, and his head moved timidly as he took in the chaos around him. Ford knelt, touched the boy's arm, and the boy looked up at him and said, "Whelp, that lil* house of ours got wrecked again," with a southern accent that was nice to hear after so much Spanish.
Ford said, "We'll build a better one," before glancing at Tomlinson. "Is he okay?"
Tomlinson was glaring at Zacul, his face pointed, really angry. "You're a good argument for euthanasia, you know that, Zacul—" But, before he'd even finished the sentence, Zacul had grabbed the boy, holding him by the throat, his pistol out, barrel pressed against the child's head.
"This is what you came for, isn't it? I don't know why I didn't see it before!" Then he was on his feet, still holding the boy, eyes glazed but lucid enough to say "You're not going to leave me here. If you make any move against me, I'll shoot the boy. You are going to take me to Tambor. You are going to find help for me—" talking in surges between deep gulps of air while the boy, already crying, called to Ford, "I don't like this man! Make him let go!"
Ford had his arms out, holding Tomlinson back, and when Tomlinson tried to call out, "But you've already been given the antidote—" Ford drove his elbow backward and heard Tomlinson gasp with pain. If Zacul found out Ford knew the antidote, they'd all soon be dead.
Ford said, "Okay, Zacul. We'll take you to Tambor. Just don't hurt the kid."
TWENTY
Soldiers were running. Ford couldn't figure out why. They were running through the mud in the moonlight, glancing over their shoulders as if something were chasing them. Some of them were shooting, too, firing wildly toward the road that led to Tambor.
Ford had been standing on the porch. His glasses were fogged from the smoke inside and he cleaned them on his shirt, trying to see what it was the soldiers were running from. But when the shooting started, he dropped to the ground, as did Zacul. "What in the hell's going on here?"
Zacul just groaned and held tight to the boy. He was having trouble breathing. His tongue was so swollen that it was difficult for him to speak. When he did speak, it was in a ranting Spanish—part delirium, part fear—but his pistol never wavered.
Now Ford could hear more shooting, like strings of firecrackers popping in the distance. Then there were three explosions in quick succession, each closer than the other, the last hitting a fiberglass hut not far from the stockade. The explosion shook the ground and threw Roman candle streamers through a roiling ball of white smoke into the high trees. There was a momentary pause, then another explosion that whuffed as if drawing air before several fuel tanks ignited in an orb of white fire that crackled in the wet leaves behind the compound.
Through the smoke came more soldiers, more of Zacul's troops. They were yelling: some in pain but most out of fear.
They weren't just running, they were fleeing; trying to escape this unseen force coming from the road to Tambor.
Ford got to his feet, pulling Zacul with him. "Let's get the hell out of here. "
Tomlinson, a step behind, called, "Are we being attacked? I don't understand what's happening."
Ford, who could make no sense of it either, didn't answer. They covered fifty more yards before Zacul stopped, gasping. "No more, I can run no more. I'm very sick. Please have my orderly find us a truck." As if his orderly hadn't run with the others.
Ford said, "We try driving to Tambor and we'll die for sure. Someone's army is coming down that road and I bet they'd love to get their hands on you."
Zacul said, "Then we'll take a boat, that's what we'll do . . . take a nice boat on the lake away from the noise of all these cowards." His mind wandering in delirium.
Crouching beside him, Tomlinson whispered, "Why isn't he any better? You gave him the shot. Those guys inside started to breathe easier almost right away." Tomlinson had stayed behind to give the injections before catching up.
"Maybe he's just unlucky."
"Two of them were already dead. I think I saved Suarez, though."
"You would."
Tomlinson caught his arm. "You didn't give it to Zacul, did you? The antidote."
Ford said, "I think we'd better keep moving."
Tomlinson still held his arm. "Why don't you answer me? You didn't. You didn't give him the shot!"
Ford pulled his arm away easily, looking into Tomlinson's eyes. "I said we'd better keep moving."
More mortar rounds were coming in now, some exploding as they hit the tops of the trees. Diesel fires had spread from the trucks to some of the living quarters. The smell of melting fiberglass mixed with the stink of burning rubber and black smoke swirled in the cool wind coming off the lake.
Ford called, "Let's go!" and they made it across the parade ground, into the trees before Zacul collapsed once more, pulling the boy down with him. He was,having more cramps, really hurting. He kept waving the pistol around. He wanted to know why the medicine wasn't working. Ford said he had to give it more time. Zacul said he couldn't stand the pain much longer and maybe he should kill the boy now; kill everyone now. Ford, crouching from the mortar fire and the gun, lied, "At least you're looking better, General. Your color's coming back."
When a mortar round cut the top off a tree about fifty yards away, Ford pressed his face against the ground as leaves and chunks of limb smacked the mud around them. Zacul raised his head and began to scream "I order you to stop! I order you to stop this minute!" getting crazier as he got sicker. What was keeping the man going?
The boat dock was down a steep hill and extended about forty yards into the lake. The dock was very wide, commercial grade, and built of huge timbers high off the water. Two flat-bottomed barges were tied to it and one small skiff. There was a high outcrop of rock and mud where a bulldozer had cut the road to the lake, and Ford told Zacul and Tomlinson to stay under the ledge while he got the boat ready.
The shooting was getting closer now. Looking up the hill, he could see soldiers silhouetted by the flaming buildings. These soldiers weren't running, they were stalking, taking their time. Using grenades, too, judging by the sound. And shooting at anything that moved, which was the way of jungle fighters.