Authors: Brendan DuBois
Twilight (14 page)
I ran and ran, thinking I should head up to the left to warn the others. But then there was more gunfire, and the flat, heavy sound of an explosion. Charlie. Charlie was fighting back.
I stopped, leaned back against a birch tree, breathing hard. More gunfire. Another explosion. Distant yells. A gunshot or two. And then â¦
Car engines. Starting up. Revving up. Now moving off, now fading away, now quiet.
I clenched my fists, waiting. More quiet.
I was alone.
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FOR AN HOUR
or so I stayed in a hidey-hole where a tangle of tree trunks had fallen together near a swampy area. I crawled in and waited, trying to calm my harsh breathing, trying to quiet the thumping in my chest. I closed my eyes for a moment, just a second, really, trying to remember last night and Miriam. But all I saw was that line of armed militiamen, heading up to our campsite. I crouched as low as I could, trying to stop moving, trying to stop the rustling of leaves and branches. I waited, my throat dry and my chest tight. I looked up overhead at a tiny patch of gray, where the clouds still blocked the sky. I blinked and waited some more.
or so I stayed in a hidey-hole where a tangle of tree trunks had fallen together near a swampy area. I crawled in and waited, trying to calm my harsh breathing, trying to quiet the thumping in my chest. I closed my eyes for a moment, just a second, really, trying to remember last night and Miriam. But all I saw was that line of armed militiamen, heading up to our campsite. I crouched as low as I could, trying to stop moving, trying to stop the rustling of leaves and branches. I waited, my throat dry and my chest tight. I looked up overhead at a tiny patch of gray, where the clouds still blocked the sky. I blinked and waited some more.
Some more gunshots, up on the hill where we had just been.
I waited some more. I coughed and rubbed my face.
The wind rose, rattling some branches, making me think that people were out there, waiting for me. I kept watch on the faint patch of gray.
I checked my coat. The pockets were empty. No hat. No gloves. No food. No water.
I eased back out of the hidey-hole, looked around. Poplars, bare blueberry bushes, dead swamp grass. Nothing else. I stood up, still breathing hard. I rubbed at cramps in my legs, tried to gauge where the sun was, up there beyond the clouds. The smart thing would be to start moving, moving real slowly, taking my time, heading out to the highway. Hide there by the roadway, wait for a UN convoy to come by. That would be the smart thing.
I rubbed my face again, looked at where I had come through, and gauged something else: where our campsite had been.
I didn't feel very smart.
But I did feel right.
I moved in that direction.
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IT WAS SLOW
going, pausing and waiting. I remembered a time when I was twelve or thirteen, going on a disastrous deer hunt with my father. One of those father-son bonding rituals that are supposed to bring one closer to one's dad or son, and which usually did exactly the opposite with us. I learned a lot of things back thenâhow I hated being cold and wet, how I hated getting up early and standing among the dark trees, and how I hated
seeing an innocent deer being blown away by riflefireâbut I also learned how to move through the woods. I learned to move as quietly as possible, pausing every now and then to look at the trees and brush and openings. I learned to look for shapes that didn't belong, that marred the background, because usually it meant that Man or his works were nearby. And the particular examples of Man and his works crawling around here this fine day were bent on slaughtering me and my workmates.
going, pausing and waiting. I remembered a time when I was twelve or thirteen, going on a disastrous deer hunt with my father. One of those father-son bonding rituals that are supposed to bring one closer to one's dad or son, and which usually did exactly the opposite with us. I learned a lot of things back thenâhow I hated being cold and wet, how I hated getting up early and standing among the dark trees, and how I hated
seeing an innocent deer being blown away by riflefireâbut I also learned how to move through the woods. I learned to move as quietly as possible, pausing every now and then to look at the trees and brush and openings. I learned to look for shapes that didn't belong, that marred the background, because usually it meant that Man or his works were nearby. And the particular examples of Man and his works crawling around here this fine day were bent on slaughtering me and my workmates.
In any event, my caution meant that a fifteen-minute stroll back to our campsite took almost two hours, and that was no problem at all.
I came to a point where the trail emerged into the tiny clearing and I waited, kneeling behind a tree trunk, fists clenched on my thighs. One of the Land Cruisers was there, resting on flattened tires, windshield glass blown out and its white sides peppered with shrapnel and bullet holes. A couple of collapsed tents were strewn around, along with bits of clothing and other belongings.
But that wasn't what was bothering me.
The body beyond the Land Cruiser was bothering me.
I looked around, trying to see if anybody could be there, watching the scene. I knew I was balancing a couple of possibilities: possibility one was that a couple of the militiamen were hanging back, to see if I or any other UN worker was returning. Possibility twoâthe one I was gambling onâwas that having completed their ambush they were now on the move, on the chance that a UN rapid-response force was riding to a belated rescue.
The body was still there.
I got up again and walked into the campsite, right up to the body near the shot-up Land Cruiser. I felt terribly exposed, like a naked Christian dumped in the middle of the Colosseum, and I wasn't sure if any lions or gladiators were around. But still, there was that body.
I got closer, looked down.
Sanjay Prith stared up at me, his eyes open and sightless.
I knelt down, automatically touched his throat, though the torn-up condition of his abdomen and lower legs told the story. Blood had caked and pooled around him. I hoped he had died quickly. His skin was dry and cold to the touch.
“Sorry, Sanjay,” I said. “Sorry you had to end up here, so far from home.”
I closed his eyes with my hand, tears starting to form in my own eyes. I moved closer to him, whispering, “If I'm ever contacted by anybody from New Delhi I'll tell them you were a hero, a true gentleman who did everything by the book. And I'll mean every word of that.”
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I STAYED ONLY
a few minutes longer. A thought came to me that I should dig a grave for Sanjay, or at least cover him up, but a colder part of me took over. No, it could not be done. I didn't want to leave any evidence that I had been here.
a few minutes longer. A thought came to me that I should dig a grave for Sanjay, or at least cover him up, but a colder part of me took over. No, it could not be done. I didn't want to leave any evidence that I had been here.
The Land Cruiser was a charred hulk. The upholstery had burned away and the exposed bare springs of the seats looked odd. Among the debris of the campsite, I could see that our tents had been shot through and sliced by bayonets, as had the sleeping bags. I sniffed, and became nauseous as I saw that the attackers had relieved themselves on the scraps of the tents and sleeping bags, shitting and pissing everywhere. There was no food, no water, nothing I could take away with me. Just the soiled cloth and empty brass casings of cartridges, their dull brass color looking icy.
I also saw some blood trails leading back into the woods, and that colder part of me came back. I hoped that Charlie had charged a hefty toll before leaving.
I went back to my own tent, saw that my gear had been trashed as well. My Heinlein book was soaked through and its pages had been torn, but the Orwell book had survived. I stuffed it in an inside coat pocketâand then I saw something else that made my hands start shaking again.
A green flannel nightgown, torn and bloody.
Miriam.
I brought it up to my face. Then I let the cloth drop, and walked away from the campsite, not looking back once.
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IT WAS A
long afternoon. I headed away from the campsite, staying away from the road, moving at my own pace through the woods. I kept going at a constant rate, taking the time to scan around me as I tried to head toward the highway. As I moved I strained my ears to pick up any sound from the forest around me, waiting to hear a faint voice, a branch snapping or the sound of a rifle bolt being slammed home. And as I moved my thoughts whirled around in two separate vortices: anger and fear at the ambush I had survived, and anger and fear at having been abandoned. I knew the latter emotions made no sense at all. What could I have expected? That Charlie and the others would stay there, hoping I would make a triumphant return? Hell, no, they made the right decision, hard as it was. Leave me and the body of Sanjay behind. No doubt Charlie had taken control, and had made the tough and right decisions.
long afternoon. I headed away from the campsite, staying away from the road, moving at my own pace through the woods. I kept going at a constant rate, taking the time to scan around me as I tried to head toward the highway. As I moved I strained my ears to pick up any sound from the forest around me, waiting to hear a faint voice, a branch snapping or the sound of a rifle bolt being slammed home. And as I moved my thoughts whirled around in two separate vortices: anger and fear at the ambush I had survived, and anger and fear at having been abandoned. I knew the latter emotions made no sense at all. What could I have expected? That Charlie and the others would stay there, hoping I would make a triumphant return? Hell, no, they made the right decision, hard as it was. Leave me and the body of Sanjay behind. No doubt Charlie had taken control, and had made the tough and right decisions.
Still, I didn't like the feeling.
As the light started to fade I smelled something familiar, the stink of something that had burned. Then I saw spaces among the trees opening up
and I noticed that a whole swath of birch and pine had burned away. Another battle site? I came closer, intrigued despite myself, and saw that large areas of earth had been churned up by chunks of metal. I stopped, looked around and up and saw how branches and trunks had been ripped down.
and I noticed that a whole swath of birch and pine had burned away. Another battle site? I came closer, intrigued despite myself, and saw that large areas of earth had been churned up by chunks of metal. I stopped, looked around and up and saw how branches and trunks had been ripped down.
I looked back at the pieces of metal, saw the remains of an airplane engine.
Aircraft-debris field, a rational part of me observed. A jet had crashed here.
I walked around the crash site, sniffing again the old odor of fuel and plastic and metal, burned and crumpled and destroyed. Movies and television shows always depicted aircraft crash sites as being neat, with fuselage and other parts readily identifiable. But everything here was so charred and mixed up that it was hard to tell what the hell each item had once been. And just when I was ready to give up I came across a piece of wing. It had been charred along most of one side but I made out a national emblem: a black Maltese cross.
German, then, I realized as I looked down on the wing fragment. And I remembered that overpass, how it had been dropped and how the freeway on-ramps had been chewed up. A German Tornado, on a NATO mission to bomb that overpassâa mission that hadn't ended well.
I kept on moving, heading toward where I hoped the highway was.
A
bout an hour after I found the crash site I stopped at the bank of a river, the water rushing past, rapids spewing up sprays of foam. I knelt down and took a swig of water, using both hands to form a cup, and then sat back against a moss-covered boulder. I took a deep breath, wiped my cold wet hands against my coat. It was getting dark and I had no idea where I was. I guessed that the highway was on the other side of the river, but with the light fading I didn't want to try to cross that surging torrent without a better idea of the surroundings. One misstep and a month or so later my father would get an interesting letter from the UN.
bout an hour after I found the crash site I stopped at the bank of a river, the water rushing past, rapids spewing up sprays of foam. I knelt down and took a swig of water, using both hands to form a cup, and then sat back against a moss-covered boulder. I took a deep breath, wiped my cold wet hands against my coat. It was getting dark and I had no idea where I was. I guessed that the highway was on the other side of the river, but with the light fading I didn't want to try to cross that surging torrent without a better idea of the surroundings. One misstep and a month or so later my father would get an interesting letter from the UN.
“Well, Boy Scout Samuel,” I said out loud. “Time to find some shelter.”
I went deeper into the woods so that the sounds of the river faded away some. I knew I was going to have a hard time sleeping tonight; I didn't want the noise of the rushing water back there to keep me even more awake. As I moved, I kept to the same pace that had kept me alive during the afternoon, pausing and looking about me, listening again to any sounds out there.
But so far everything had been fairly quiet, with just the chattering of the birds and the sounds of tree limbs knocking against each other every time the breeze came up. I walked for another ten minutes or so until I found a place where an evergreen was growing out of the side of a small
rise. Earth had fallen away from around some of the roots, and by carefully digging a hole into the base of the root system I made a tiny cave. Working slowly and diligentlyâI didn't want to leave freshly disturbed piles of leaves or dirt lying aboutâI filled the little cave with leaves and boughs from another evergreen tree. It started to get even darker and I crawled into my little shelter, my head hitting the rough surface of its ceiling. Some earth trickled down the back of my neck. I coughed and managed to pull in a few additional boughs to block the narrow entrance. I lay back, pulled my collar up and put my hands inside the coat pockets. I listened, but all I could hear was my own breathing, labored and still frightened.
rise. Earth had fallen away from around some of the roots, and by carefully digging a hole into the base of the root system I made a tiny cave. Working slowly and diligentlyâI didn't want to leave freshly disturbed piles of leaves or dirt lying aboutâI filled the little cave with leaves and boughs from another evergreen tree. It started to get even darker and I crawled into my little shelter, my head hitting the rough surface of its ceiling. Some earth trickled down the back of my neck. I coughed and managed to pull in a few additional boughs to block the narrow entrance. I lay back, pulled my collar up and put my hands inside the coat pockets. I listened, but all I could hear was my own breathing, labored and still frightened.
I shifted in the darkness, the leaves that I was lying on sounding very loud as I moved. My stomach rumbled with hunger and I licked my dry lips, wishing that I had drunk more back at the river. Of course, who knew what the hell was in the water I had just drunk, but I didn't care. I shivered some, crossed my legs, and stared up into the darkness.
I remembered being eight. I remembered my mother sitting with displeasure in the den, my father grabbing my hand and saying that he was going to break me of my fear of the dark, right then and there. I remembered being sent out into the rear yard, carrying blankets and a pillow. It had been a warm night. There was a quarter-moon up. It hadn't made a difference. I remembered this eight-year-old boy going from the front door to the rear one, trying to open them but finding both doors locked. I remembered the eight-year-old boy crying for his daddy, crying for his mommy, refusing to believe they weren't coming to get him. I remembered the eight-year-old boy being terrified at seeing all the lights in the house out, nothing there but a dark house, knowing that his mommy and daddy were asleep, ignoring their boy outside. I remembered the eight-year-old boy, huddled by the cellar door, blankets wrapped around him, shivering all night long, hearing the night noises, waiting and waiting for the sun to rise.
I remembered.
I shifted in my hole.
It promised to be a long night.
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I AWOKE WITH
a start, wondering why the tent was so cold and my damn sleeping bag was so lumpy. I moved some and listened to the noise of the leaves that cushioned me. Then I remembered, remembered everything, and my legs started trembling as I recalled the gunfire, the dirty and unshaven faces of the militia members, the bloody campsite and the body of
Sanjay lying there in the cold, so far away from his home in India. And, of course, the torn green flannel nightgown that belonged to Miriam, that had sweetly enclosed her body and had kept her warm, and was now a bloody and torn rag. I could not bear to think of what might have happened to her.
a start, wondering why the tent was so cold and my damn sleeping bag was so lumpy. I moved some and listened to the noise of the leaves that cushioned me. Then I remembered, remembered everything, and my legs started trembling as I recalled the gunfire, the dirty and unshaven faces of the militia members, the bloody campsite and the body of
Sanjay lying there in the cold, so far away from his home in India. And, of course, the torn green flannel nightgown that belonged to Miriam, that had sweetly enclosed her body and had kept her warm, and was now a bloody and torn rag. I could not bear to think of what might have happened to her.
I shifted about some more and then froze. I heard voices, out there in the woods. I waited and tried to stay still. The voices were low and barely audible, and I couldn't even make out an individual word. Then there came the sound of a dog barking, and then another, and I shivered some more. Searchers, maybe, looking for that lone UN observer who had gotten away after scalding one of the militiamen. A dog barked again.
Hold on, the rational part of me observed. It didn't make sense that they would be looking for me, not at night, not in the woods. Too much trouble with flashlights and stumbling along the trails and such. No, it didn't make sense, not at all. Maybe there was a militia unit out there, maneuvering around, but it didn't mean they were looking for me. The rational part of my brain said,
Look, that doesn't make sense, not at all
.
Look, that doesn't make sense, not at all
.
I crossed my legs, tried to ease the shivering. It didn't work. The irrational part of my brainâwhich was in full control this dark nightâwas saying that it made perfect sense. Considering everything that had gone on before and the search for Site A and what I had seen, it made perfect sense that the hunters would be on the prowl.
I kept as still as possible. The voices faded away. There was one more bark from a dog, and then silence.
I stayed there, breathing evenly and slowly, waiting for the voices and the dogs to return.
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ANOTHER START AS
I woke up again, and there was no missing what had disturbed me: a flight of jets, low over the valley, their engine noise extremely loud. I turned on my side as the sound of the planes faded, and then there came several hollow-sounding
booms!
as the bombers dropped their ordnance some distance away.
I woke up again, and there was no missing what had disturbed me: a flight of jets, low over the valley, their engine noise extremely loud. I turned on my side as the sound of the planes faded, and then there came several hollow-sounding
booms!
as the bombers dropped their ordnance some distance away.
Some cease-fire. Some armistice.
And another thing: during the much-censured bombing campaign that had finally brought about the armistice, NATO had been criticized for doing their job from so high up, at altitudes of five or ten thousand meters. Too many civilians had been killed in that pleasant euphemism known as “collateral damage,” but since most NATO countries really didn't want to be here they sure as hell weren't going to expose their pilots to shoot-downs, like the poor German pilot from that Tornado wreckage I had
come across yesterday. But if what I had heard just now was any indication, the days of high-altitude bombing were over. These jets were low and their aim was definitely more accurate. Something had changed.
come across yesterday. But if what I had heard just now was any indication, the days of high-altitude bombing were over. These jets were low and their aim was definitely more accurate. Something had changed.
I shifted again, tired of hearing the leaves rustling. I remembered how much I had disliked being in that tent and sleeping bagâall right, before Miriam had come along, let's be realâbut in the cold and damp and dirt I was now living in I would gladly have agreed to spend the rest of my life living in a tent in the common area of my apartment block back in Torontoâif only I could get out alive.
Out alive.
What a phrase. What joy in those two little words.
More jets overhead, and it was starting to make sense. I was able now to work it out from everything that had gone on these past few days. It was plain to see that the agreement had collapsed, that UN communications were being jammed, and any UN forces in-country were being hunted down and picked off, one by one, by the militia. Or by the death squads, if one was being impolite.
I sure hope Charlie was on the ball yesterday, I thought. Good ol' Charlie. Put in an impossible position to do an impossible job, and he had done well. It looked like everybody else had got outâleaving just me and Sanjayâand I hoped they had made it past the cease-fire lines.
Still more jets. I tried to ignore the thirst in my throat, the hunger in my belly and the cold everywhere.
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MORNING, FINALLY. I
stumbled out of my hidey-hole, stretched some and felt muscles and ligaments pop and creak. I watered a nearby tree, then went back to my hiding place and carefully covered it up. It had been a good location and if I couldn't make it across the river, or if something bad was going onâanother euphemism for so many bloody possibilitiesâit was good to know that I had somewhere to hide out. I went back to the river, falling into the earlier routine of moving slowly, and I wondered whether, if I ever got back home, I would at least be able to talk to my father about how I had made my way through the woods and survived. Maybe he would appreciate what I had done. Maybe we would finally bond in that magical way that real fathers and sons supposedly share. Or maybe he would growl and grunt and go on for an hour about how I could have done everything better. Knowing my father, that would be the most likely possibility.
stumbled out of my hidey-hole, stretched some and felt muscles and ligaments pop and creak. I watered a nearby tree, then went back to my hiding place and carefully covered it up. It had been a good location and if I couldn't make it across the river, or if something bad was going onâanother euphemism for so many bloody possibilitiesâit was good to know that I had somewhere to hide out. I went back to the river, falling into the earlier routine of moving slowly, and I wondered whether, if I ever got back home, I would at least be able to talk to my father about how I had made my way through the woods and survived. Maybe he would appreciate what I had done. Maybe we would finally bond in that magical way that real fathers and sons supposedly share. Or maybe he would growl and grunt and go on for an hour about how I could have done everything better. Knowing my father, that would be the most likely possibility.
Back at the river I grabbed another sip of water, splashed some on my face, and then kept on heading downstream.
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AND IT DIDN'T
take long, much to my joy. After about ten minutes' worth of walking, the river widened some and slowed down, and there was an area of exposed rocks and sandbars that made it easy for me to get across to the other side. The gray clouds that had been overhead all the time during these past days had finally dispersed and it felt good to see the blue sky overhead. If Charlie and Jean-Paul and Miriam and Karen and, yes, even Peter were in a safe area, having clear skies would make extracting them by helicopter that much easier. Even if the communications gear was still being jammed, all they would need would be an exposed area of land, the sound of a patrolling NATO helicopter overhead and one shot from a flare gun.
take long, much to my joy. After about ten minutes' worth of walking, the river widened some and slowed down, and there was an area of exposed rocks and sandbars that made it easy for me to get across to the other side. The gray clouds that had been overhead all the time during these past days had finally dispersed and it felt good to see the blue sky overhead. If Charlie and Jean-Paul and Miriam and Karen and, yes, even Peter were in a safe area, having clear skies would make extracting them by helicopter that much easier. Even if the communications gear was still being jammed, all they would need would be an exposed area of land, the sound of a patrolling NATO helicopter overhead and one shot from a flare gun.
Thenâmaybeâsomebody would come looking for me.
In the meantime, I still had to find that damn highway. How hard could it possibly be?
Now I was on the other side of the river, I made it through some low areas of brush and bramble, actually eating some blueberries that had managed to hang on. But instead of quieting the hunger in my stomach, they made it worse. It was as if some ravenous beast inside my belly was now fully awake and on the rampage, demanding something to eat. My mouth watered as I remembered Tico's Place, a coffee shop about a block away from my old job at the Toronto
Star
, and how I could easily spend an hour there, eating my way through crullers, eggsâscrambled, over easy, any which way you wantedâand back bacon and sausage andâ
Star
, and how I could easily spend an hour there, eating my way through crullers, eggsâscrambled, over easy, any which way you wantedâand back bacon and sausage andâ
I finally stopped drooling over my memories of food. The slope I'd been toiling up had flattened outâand I had found a road.
A damn road.
I knelt down and looked up and down it. It wasn't much of a road, just dirt and gravel, but it sure had been churned up some by heavy vehicles. I glanced again. Nothing. Just a dirt road, almost parallel to the river. I got up. Which way? Left or right? Just like that old short story, the lady and the tiger. Which door would be the right one? Which one would lead to death?
If I'd had a coin I would have flipped it. Instead, I turned left and started walking, if for no other reason than that if I headed to the right I would be going back to where the ambush had taken place. And that was unappealing, for so many reasons.
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I WALKED SLOW
but sure and after a while I came across something of an oddity: twice I noted a place at the side of the road where a wooden post
had been sawed off. That's all. A wooden post, about the width of one's hand, sawed off by a chainsaw, it looked like. The second time I noticed it I searched the area to see if a signpost or something else had been taken down. But if it had, whoever had done the work had taken away the sign.
but sure and after a while I came across something of an oddity: twice I noted a place at the side of the road where a wooden post
had been sawed off. That's all. A wooden post, about the width of one's hand, sawed off by a chainsaw, it looked like. The second time I noticed it I searched the area to see if a signpost or something else had been taken down. But if it had, whoever had done the work had taken away the sign.
After about another ten minutes of walking, I found another signpost. But not one made of wood.
The road had curved to the right, and as I rounded the bend I saw something hanging from a tree. I ducked back into the brush on the side of the road, waiting. Nothing. Not a sound, not a movement. I waited some more, and then started walking through the brush, my feet sinking into wet soil. What I had noticed became clearer. It looked at first like a tangle of wires, as if someone had dumped some telephone cable in a tree. But then I saw something flapping there like a large banner, moving slightly with the wind. I walked closer, stopped, and then saw the shape.
I didn't move. I just stood there, fists clenched in my coat pocket.
I thought, just for a moment, about turning around and going back. I didn't want to see what was ahead.
But all that time, all that distance covered â¦
I shook my head and stepped out onto the road again, finally recognizing what I had seen. I stepped closer, now hearing the faint billowing sounds of the parachute flapping in the breeze. What I had thought were telephone wires were actually parachute cables. And dangling from them, like a store mannequin or some college mascot, was the body of a pilot. I came up to him, saw him hanging there about two or three meters up from the road. He had been dead a while, and somebody had stripped him of his boots and helmet. His dark green flight suit was intact, save for some rips, and his face was blackened and had shrunk some from exposure to the elements. It looked like he'd had a moustache. It was hard to tell. His hands too were black, as though they had turned to leather from being exposed. I looked closer, wanting to see if he had a name stripe on his flight suit, but most of his chest was obscured by a cardboard sign. The sign had been made from a flattened six-pack Budweiser beer carton, and had been fastened around his neck by a thick string. Written in thick letters on the sign was this:
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