Winston waited ten minutes to be sure that Jimmy hadn’t run into any hostility before going to work on the rope binding his hands. He scooted on his ass to the shovel, wondering how Jimmy could have been so dumb to leave such a dangerous weapon behind, and grasped it with his hands. The grip was awkward, and as Winston attempted to shift the shovel into a position where he could scrape the rope against its sharp edge, it slipped out of his hands and slid all the way down the steep concrete bank and to the ground. He scooted down the slope like an inchworm until he reached the shovel. The bright sun instantly gave Winston a headache. He peered around, but saw no sign of life. Again, he positioned the shovel — this time sitting on the blade. Though it was uncooperative and difficult, Winston dragged the rope along the blade’s edge until the rope’s fibers began to shred and fall away. As he made his way through the rope, he suddenly heard the voices of foreign combatants coming his way. He sped up his efforts to free himself, increasing both the pace and pressure in which he scraped the rope against the metal edge.
Korean. It was Korean. Winston recognized the two voices, since he’d been hearing them for weeks now. They were just a couple of enlisted pukes, there to perform their daily routine of discarding the camp’s enormous amount of trash. They were still the enemy, nonetheless, armed and dangerous. Finally, the rope broke, and he was able to twist out of the bindings and work on releasing his feet. He hadn’t realized just how tightly Jimmy had bound his hands. They ached and were a bit numb, which didn’t help as he tried to untie the knot that bound his feet together. It was a fancy knot, and the voices were getting louder. Winston couldn’t assume that it wasn’t a patrol — he only knew the voices sounded familiar. He couldn’t untie the knot quickly enough, and he couldn’t flee, so he scooted back up to the very top of the underbelly of the overpass, the shovel resting on his lap. He continued to work on the tight knots as the voices slowly faded, and Winston eventually freed himself and made his way back down the concrete to the ground. As far as he was concerned, he now faced two threats — the PLA and Jimmy, who would no doubt return disappointed that Winston lied to him about the shed and May and the food. Winston would have to deal with both threats equally. Winston had a surreal thought of what the occupation did to its American victims. Had the war really turned Americans on each other, and was he prepared to treat all other Americans he encountered while outside as a threat? Winston shuddered at the thought.
Once out in the open, Winston felt reinvigorated and hungry. He hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s meal of canned creamed corn. How he loathed creamed corn. His stomach rumbled loudly, and he stealthily made his way back to the trash pile. Sure enough, several fresh loads of garbage had been dumped on top of the four dead bodies. Winston surveyed the trash, initially surprised that the enemy hadn’t simply left the garbage in bags until he realized that trash in bags created a larger pile that took longer to decompose. Smart, he thought, clever. He rummaged through the garbage. There wasn’t much to scavenge, and he wondered how hungry a man must be to make a meal out of this rubbish. He picked at the remains of a salad, half of a tomato, some meat — probably beef — and a dill pickle quarter that was surprisingly satisfying. And then, like a jewel hidden within the soil, there it was, the second uneaten half of a pair of Twinkies. Winston scooped it up and scrutinized it — it appeared to be unmolested, the forgotten twin that was now his delicacy. He rushed back to the underpass, where he unwrapped the pastry and practically inhaled it. The indulgence was a sugary epiphany that renewed his strength and supplied him with the courage to finish the task he knew in his heart he had to complete.
A Burial
May slept peacefully through the night. It was a quiet evening in Johnsonville. The war had shifted northward, toward Atlanta, and other Georgia towns were not having peaceful evenings. Their residents were being shot on sight, their daughters and sons violated in the most extreme ways, their hopes and dreams evaporating like the blood that spilled from their necks. Their worst nightmares became realities, thanks to governments and countries that could no longer feign harmony — like married couples just going through the paces, existing together as strangers, seeking to regain the autonomy that they once had when they were younger. Like bad marriages, this was also how governments and countries and peace treaties divorced.
She awoke somewhere around the time that Winston was devouring the Twinkie outside. She rolled over in bed to feel for his familiar shape, but it was not there.
“Winston?” she said too loudly.
He surely would have hushed her, but May had momentarily forgotten that she was sleeping in a hidden place inside their barn while their country was under siege.
“Winston? Are you there?” she asked again.
She sat up in bed and studied her surroundings. Her disappointment percolated when she recollected their current situation. She stood, stretched, and looked out the slits, first toward the driveway, and then toward the house. Everything appeared status quo as far as she knew — enemy soldiers milled about, several of them positioned at the gate, others walking in or out of the house.
Suddenly a voice from the inside of the barn demanded, “who’s in there?” in Korean, and then again in English. May didn’t understand the Korean, but she did understand the English and realized that the soldier had heard her. She froze in place, too frightened to even scratch her nose. After several moments, she heard a ruckus outside, and the soldiers were gone. She tiptoed back to the bed and trembled under the covers. She had to pee.
Woo-jin and another North Korean soldier were tasked with trash duty. Every morning after breakfast, the two made their rounds through the encampment, beginning inside the house. The generals’ private quarters were upstairs in the master and guest bedrooms. Each room and bathroom had a trash bin, each of which was emptied into a large, waterproof canvas bag. On the main floor was a wastebasket that needed emptying twice a day because of the food waste. The living room had been converted into a military installation — the PLA headquarters for the upcoming Battle for Atlanta. Usually, there were fewer than a dozen other officers working alongside the three generals. Enlisted soldiers were not permitted in the house unless they were performing some sort of tactical duty — or emptying the trash.