Bower sat there across from Stella wondering what she was thinking. As for herself, Bower was regretting not sitting in the cab with Elvis. Her heart pounded in her chest. There were times when the truck felt like it was out of control, careening around corners, bouncing out of potholes. Her life was out of control. In that moment, the truck became symbolic of all she’d been through over the past week, a roller-coaster ride without any brakes. She wanted to stop. She wanted to yell out to Elvis and tell him to stop the truck and let her out, but she knew her feelings were misplaced. Getting out of the truck wouldn’t solve anything. She had to be strong and endure. Looking at Stella, she knew she shouldn’t read her own emotions into the alien’s character, but she couldn’t help but think Stella felt the same way. The pulsating mass of tiny creatures at the heart of the alien appeared to grimace the same way she did with each erratic turn.
Elvis stopped the truck on several occasions, and Bower could hear him talking to Africans. As he drove away, she got glimpses of the various roadblocks they were negotiating.
Bower felt she was going to be sick. Fumes leaked in the back of the truck. The unrelenting flap of the canvas seemed to pound inside her head. In the growing heat, the sides of the truck seemed to close in on her, causing her to feel claustrophobic, nauseous. Her world narrowed and she fought not to vomit.
Finally, the truck slowed and turned sharply, as though they were entering a property rather than turning on another road. Bower could hear voices calling out, American voices. The truck rode up over the lip of a curb, its engine whining. She could hear Smithy and Jameson calling out to Elvis. Her heart jumped.
“Goddamn,” Jameson cried.
“You son of a bitch,” yelled Smithy.
Bower felt the cab of the truck rock as someone jumped up onto the running board below the driver’s door.
“Hey, babe,” Elvis said in his best Barry White voice.
“Don’t you hey babe me,” Smithy replied, trying not to laugh. “Scare me like that again and I’ll hunt you down and kill you myself.”
Elvis laughed.
Bower wondered how much Stella understood of their speech. Certainly, a figurative, idiomatic phrase like that must have been confusing. She wasn’t sure, but she swore she could hear Smithy kissing Elvis on the cheek as he drove slowly forward. Bower figured it was good Stella couldn’t see Smithy and Elvis as their contradictory verbal banter and physical expression would have been confusing.
Bower started moving toward the rear of the truck, wanting to get out of the stinking, hot, claustrophobic space. For a moment, she forgot about Stella, thinking only of her sense of relief to be safe in the presence of the Rangers again.
“Where is Bosco and the Doc?” Jameson called out.
“Bosco didn’t make it,” Elvis replied, his voice breaking. “Doc’s in the back.”
The truck turned in a semi-circle before coming to a halt. Pebbles crunched beneath the tires. Bower sat by the tailgate, ready to climb down.
“What the hell happened to your arm?” Jameson asked as he and Smithy walked with Elvis toward the rear of the old truck. Bower was somewhat awkwardly trying to climb over the lip of the tray running across the back of the truck.
“Oh, you think that’s wild, wait until you get a load of our guest.”
Jameson came around the back of the truck and, to Bower’s surprise, grabbed her like she weighed next to nothing. He swung her down from the truck, giving her what amounted to a bear hug.
“Liz,” he cried. “Damn, it is good to see you.”
Bower never was one for being touchie-feelie, but she was relieved to see him too. He kissed her on the lips, which took her off-guard. There was nothing sexual about it, perhaps it was the classic American GI in him, the liberation of Paris all over again. Her mind was awash with emotions. She was surprised by how heady she felt as he let go of her and she stood there in the bright sunlight.
Bower squinted. Colors rushed at her from all directions.
An American flag flew on a flagpole in the center of the courtyard. The truck had driven around a circular driveway, around an oval with green grass growing sedately in a carefully manicured lawn.
Green.
She’d seen greens in the jungle several days before, but they were deep greens. After days of darkness, the vibrant, spring greens of the grass lawn were astonishing. Small sprinkler heads sat recessed every ten to fifteen feet around the curb, ready to spray water over the lawn. And there were flowers around the base of the flag pole. Were there any other flowers anywhere within Lilongwe? Bower felt like she’d fallen down the rabbit hole and tumbled into Wonderland.
To one side, over against the high outer walls of the embassy, palm trees and shrubs marked the start of a tropical garden. It would have been aesthetically pleasing were it not for the black soot scattered along the cream wall, the bullet holes and the odd spray of dried blood. Like everything she’d seen in Africa, the US embassy was a violent contradiction.
Smithy was glowing. Her smile revealed her beautiful, straight white teeth. She punched Elvis gently on the chest.
“You had us worried,” she said, unable to wipe the grin off her face.
“So what happened to you guys back there in the intersection?” Jameson asked. “We had Tangos all over us. Fought a rolling action and made out a back alley carrying our wounded.
“We’ve been sending daily recons out to the market, hoping you’d drag your sorry ass there. If the natives knew anything, they weren’t talking.”
Elvis had climbed up on the back of the truck. As he rolled the canvas to one side he said, “We were captured by a warlord, some egomaniac by the name of General Adan. He—”
Jameson peered into the back of the truck, cutting Elvis off before he could finish his sentence.
“What the fuck?” he cried, stepping backwards. “What the hell is that?”
Smithy backed away.
“Sarge,” Elvis began. “I’d like to introduce you to a friend of ours, Stella.”
Stella stayed away from the light streaming in through the open canvas. The alien moved across the back of the truck.
Elvis stood there beckoning the creature, coaxing her forward.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Smithy cried. “Elvis, what have you done?”
Elvis laughed. “Green light, Stella. It’s OK. Green light.”
Slowly, the seething mass of tentacles and whips moved forward. As the alien creature approached the back of the truck, Bower expected Elvis to jump down and get out of the way, but he didn’t. To Bower, working with Stella was a bit like being a lion-tamer: you kept a whip and chair in hand at all times, but Elvis held no fear of the strange-looking creature.
Jameson backed across the grass, moving away from the back of the truck.
“Mother of God,” he whispered.
Bower could see his hand instinctively resting on his sidearm. “Don’t,” she said, resting her hand on his. “That really wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Looking back at the truck, Bower got her first good look at the creature in the bright sunlight. The brilliant reds and scarlets of the alien’s tentacles were shocking to behold. They shone like polished glass, reflecting the light around them. As the alien fronds waved in the breeze they seemed to be sampling the air. Stella was trying to assess how safe it was outside the truck.
“Green light,” Bower said, reinforcing what Elvis had said.
Bower watched as slick red blades wrapped around Elvis. He was completely unfazed by the creature, and from the look on Jameson’s face that was shocking to behold. Smithy held her hand over her mouth.
The swarm of insects at the heart of the alien had an iridescent pearly sheen to their black shells. Although Bower knew they were a mass of individual insect-like creatures, in the sunlight they looked like the folds and crevasses of the cerebral cortex, a brain in motion, vulnerable and exposed to the elements.