Dead of Night

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.

Now the radio gear I’d seen Peter with made sense. He had set us up. And that Australian television crew had been right, lethally so. There were indeed traitors within the UN groups operating in-country. Hell, maybe Peter had even met with some of them, the night I’d seen him outside the motel.

More laughter and some loud voices came from the trailer. Then it got quiet again.

Jesus. Peter. I glanced back at the hole I had just made.

‘Think,’ I murmured. ‘Have to think this through.’

I looked around the floor, gathered up the rusted and broken chunks of metal, and tossed them into the hole. Then I rolled up two blankets and tied them together with a kind of rope that I’d fashioned from the tom-up plastic bags. Then I took the water bottle, filled it from the bucket in the rear, and went back to the opening. I dropped the water bottle and blankets down the hole, and then lowered myself into it. The jagged rim reached my waistband before my feet touched the dirt. I leaned forward, grabbed the mattress, and tugged it toward me. Then I squeezed down -the metal edge of the hole scratching at my hands, neck and head — and tried not to gasp from the pain. Now I was underneath the bus. I reached up, grabbed hold of the mattress again, and pulled it over the hole. Darkness engulfed me but I thought it was worth it. Might as well make them wonder how I might have gotten out. It might only work for just a while, but just a while was all I needed.

And Peter? Damn that man, damn him to hell. If I ever got back to the UN lines I’d make sure that the son of a bitch ended up in the dock at The Hague, along with his bloody-minded fellow bastards.

But no time for that, not right now. It was time to get moving.

In the darkness I crouched down and by touch gathered up the water bottle and blankets. I crawled toward the rear of the bus, scraping the back of my head on the undercarriage and exhaust system, and then stopped, taking in everything that I could see in the illumination available. In front of me and to the left were the dim lights of the encampment and to the right were the woods. I waited until my night vision improved before I moved toward the trees, passing gingerly through the strands of barbed wire and making sure it didn’t catch on my clothing. I move: quietly and deliberately and slowly. But, by God, I sure as hell moved.

It was slow going all through that long night, but I did all right, stumbling and tripping only a few times. The first half-hour or so I was terrified that I’d hear the sounds of tracker dogs or of men beating through the brush, but I heard only the whispers of the wind and the cries of night animals as I plodded along. A half-moon was up in the clear sky, so I could at least get some idea of where I was going. Even then, I often bumped into low-hanging branches that made me wince and shudder at the fresh pain coursing through my old bruises and wounds. I tried to keep to a steady pace and to travel in a straight line. I didn’t want to be thrashing around in circles.

The woods I was in began to thin out. I forded a small stream, the water looking almost silver from the light of the half-moon overhead. I paused there and filled the water bottle, drank as much as I could, and then refilled the container. My blanket roll stayed on my shoulders, heavy though it was. I resumed my walk, trying to hold to a straight line, keeping the half-moon in view.

Eventually I came upon a drainage ditch, which I jumped over easily enough. I had no idea how long I had been walking, but I was hopeful that I had put a number of klicks between myself and the militia camp. I wished I had a better idea where that camp was—I hadn’t paid much attention to the peacekeeper and policing aspects of my training. But I still wanted to give an extensive debrief and memory dump to whatever NATO forces were still active in this region and provide them with the information they’d need to blast that wooded hidden area with everything they had, from cluster bombs to napalm bursts.

I climbed a small rise and found myself on a paved road. I paused, breathing hard, looking around me. On both sides of the road were farmers’ fields, going off into the distance and punctuated here and there by stands of trees. I looked around in a circle, trying to determine where I should go. There. Off to the west, if I was correct, was a hazy glow, rising up from the horizon. Perhaps a village. Perhaps a highway. Or a UN encampment of some sort. In any event, it looked like a lot of lights, which meant some kind of operating authority. The militia groups liked to stay small and operate without being too obvious. That glow on the horizon was as good as a target for me as any, I decided.

I started moving toward it.

I was pleased with myself for finding the road, though I guess I shouldn’t have been too cocky. After all, I had only stumbled over the damn thing. Still, it seemed like I was making good time, though I had to rest every few minutes or so, shifting my bundle of blankets from one shoulder to the next. I drank fully of the water, remembering my father telling me once, a long while ago, that while you could live for a long time on an empty stomach you couldn’t last long without water. Thanks, Dad, for that at least, you otherwise miserable bastard.

About the fourth or fifth time I took a break, I was sitting on a stone wall when from overhead came the noise of jets again. It sounded like they were flying over the area I’d recently left. I looked up but, of course, there were no running lights. It was strange, tracking the planes’ movement only from the sound, but then I thought I caught a glimpse of their deadly shapes, briefly blocking out the stars. I waited on the stone wall, my blanket roll on my lap, and soon I saw a trickle of sparks descending, orange and red and yellow, little round globes of color. Then the horizon lit up like a distant thunderstorm. I heard a series of shuddering booms and even felt them through my feet, resting on the asphalt. I actually laughed, rocking back and forth.

‘Oh, I hope they got you all,’ I whispered. ‘Every single one of you, every one of you who hit me and who killed your neighbors. And Peter… boy oh boy, I sure hope they got you as well… blow you right back to where you started… I hope they got all of you good…’

I guess I had violated some of my UN training with that little rant, but I didn’t care. I stood up. The night sky off to the east was beginning to turn gray. Dawn was coming. I looked around the fields on either side of me and clambered over the stone wall. Out there, to the north, the field I was in rose up at a slight angle, and on the crest of a rise was a collection of boulders, probably too big and massive for the early farmers here to have cleared them out after exhausting themselves killing the Indians who’d been here before them. I climbed up the muddy field, very tired now. As I got closer I saw that saplings and some brush had grown up around the rocks. Perfect. I fought my way through some brambles and found a reasonably flat area that was roughly my size. I undid one blanket—saying a short prayer of thanks to the memory of the schoolteacher Gary, who had once used it—and lay down on the rocky ground. I pulled the other blanket over me and stared up at the tangle of branches and twigs overhead. I thought I saw a star but I might have been mistaken. I was surprised at how warm I was, and though the ground was hard and unyielding it sure as hell was ten times better than that soiled mattress back at the school bus.

Once I thought about a certain eight-year-old boy and then I started shivering, until the sounds of jets overhead, one right after another, drove those thoughts away. I think I fell asleep to their beautiful sounds of destruction, death and revenge.

Something pushed at my foot. I pushed back, woke up and found that a dog was looking at me with soulful brown eyes. An English springer spaniel, white and brown, its stub of a tail wagging madly. In his mouth he had a dirty green tennis ball, which he dropped on my blankets. He gave a little muffled woof, and then nudged the ball with his nose.

‘Sorry, pal,’ I said, sitting up and wincing at the pain in my back. ‘Not in the mood for playing much.’

A voice from beyond the rocks: ‘Sorry, that’s all that damn dog wants to do sometimes.’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Truly,’ the voice said.

Some of the saplings and brush were pulled away, and an older man with a thick white beard, black coat and overalls was peering into my little resting place. A boy of about seven or eight was next to him, rubbing at a red nose that was dribbling snot. The boy’s hands were empty, but the older man had a shotgun, which at least wasn’t pointing in my direction.

The man said, ‘The dog’s called Tucker. My name’s Stewart Carr, and this is my grandson Jerry.’

‘Hello to all of you,’ I said. ‘The name is Simpson, Samuel Simpson. If this is your property, I’m sorry I trespassed and slept here.’

‘That’s OK,’ Stewart said. ‘At least you weren’t partying or driving across my fields or shooting a cow and thinking it was a deer.’ Then the English springer spaniel woofed again and started to worry at the ball. ‘Tucker… You see, the thing is, the dog just purely loves to play. You could spend hours just tossing that damn ball back and forth, and he won’t get tired. But we get tired after a while, which is why he likes to find strangers to play with. He picked up your scent and saw a potential playmate.’

‘Makes sense to me,’ I said. ‘Look, if you don’t—‘

‘Where you from, Samuel?’

The boy was sniffling some, still rubbing at his nose. He had on a red wool cap with a blue pom-pom that seemed about three sizes too big for him. I looked back at his grand-father and said, ‘Toronto. Canada.’

Stewart nodded. ‘I know where Toronto is. You lost?’ ‘Surely am.’

‘Where you headed?’

‘To the nearest highway.’

Another nod. ‘UN, am I right?’

The dog’s tail was wagging and drool was actually running down his chin, he looked so excited at the prospect of playing with me or anybody else. I said quietly, not raising my voice, ‘Stewart, if you’re going to turn me over to your militia, then send your grandkid away and go ahead and shoot me. Because I’m not going. I’ve already spent some time with them and I’m not going back.’

The boy’s eyes were wide and Stewart spat on the ground. ‘Do I look like a monster?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Who did you have a run-in with?’

‘The county militia. Headed by a guy named Saunders.’

‘Saunders? Fat and with a beard and not enough sense to pour piss out of a boot, even if the instructions were printed on the heel?’

‘Sure sounds like him,’ I said.

‘Bah,’ Stewart said. ‘‘Fore everything started going to the shits he ran a lube-oil place, where you go in, get your oil changed, and then leave after twenty minutes or so. Then he got some surplus army gear, a few weapons and some friends as dimwitted as he is, and poof! Now he’s a colonel in a county militia. Well, shit, son, just ‘cause my name’s in a phone book, it don’t make me a telephone repairman. I don’t have nothing to do with him or his friends. But come along up from there, we’ll get you fed and on your way.’

I got up slowly, started rolling up my blankets. Stewart nudged the young boy and said, ‘Crawl in there and give ‘im a hand.’

So Jerry came in and said his first word since I’d met him—‘Tucker!’—and pushed the dog away. He helped me roll up the blankets and I tied them off with the plastic strips. Then Stewart helped me out, back onto the field. It felt good to be standing and I said, ‘You don’t have to feed me. Just point me in the direction of the highway and—’

Stewart interrupted. ‘The radio said a lot of crap is going on, so I don’t think you want to be walking anywhere out in the open right now. And what’s the problem? You ain’t hungry?’

I think he could’ve heard my stomach grumble at the mere mention of food. I said, ‘I’m hungry, sure, but I do want to make some time. And no offense, the last time I got something to eat the woman feeding me turned me over to the militia.’

‘Where was that?’

‘A general store. The Cooper General Store.’

Stewart nodded and started walking, and I went with him. ‘She’s another one. Sweet Jesus, Samuel, you sure had a run of bad luck, hooking up with her. Look. If you’re dead set on making your own way, fine. I’ll point you there. But your face is all cut up and you look like you could use a wash and a meal. Then you can get going. The choice is yours.’

By now the muddy field had joined up with a dry and unkempt lawn. In front of us was a two-story farmhouse, with an attached barn and a couple of outbuildings. A dented red pickup truck was parked in a dirt turnabout. I coughed and looked over at Stewart and his grandson. ‘That’s a nice offer. Really it is. I’m just gun-shy, that’s all.’

A firm nod. ‘‘Course you are.’

I shifted the blanket roll in my hands. ‘Why, then?’

‘Why, what?’

‘Why are you feeding me, a stranger and trespasser? I mean, you could have just sent me on my way and I would have been happy with that.’

Stewart slung his shotgun across his back, slapped me on the shoulder. “Cause that’s a neighborly thing to do, that’s why. Something a lot of us forgot last spring. Now let’s get going.’

I walked a couple more steps and then the dog cut in front of me, dropping the tennis ball again at my feet. I picked up the ball, warm and slimy with dog drool, and tossed it down the gravel driveway. The dog raced after it, moving almost at an angle, before snapping it up and then trotting back proudly with it in his mouth.

‘Tucker,’ the boy said.

The dog dropped the ball at my feet, and Stewart laughed and kicked it away. ‘You get caught up in that, you’ll be here till suppertime. Come along, Tucker. Jerry, get the leash and bring that damn dog in.’

‘OK,’ I said.

‘OK,’ Jerry said.

Then we went into the house.

The kitchen was cluttered and had a big range and a refrigerator that had drawings secured to it with little magnets. I apologized for tracking mud in with my soiled boots but Stewart just waved me off, putting his shotgun down in the corner next to a collection of boots, shoes and half-chewed dog toys. Tucker came in, gulped down some water from a dish and then collapsed on a blanket by the refrigerator, breathing hard, tongue hanging out. Stewart pointed out an adjacent bathroom and I went in and used a real flush toilet for the first time in a long while. I washed up with hot water and soap and examined my face. I was about another week away from having a serious beard—which was probably for the best—to cover up the bruises and scrapes along my forehead and left cheek. I scrubbed my face, winced a couple of times, and then dried myself on a towel that proudly stated it was from the Buffalo Hyatt Hotel.

Back in the kitchen, waiting for me at the table, there was a mug of tea, which I sipped, enjoying the strong taste. My stomach was now wide awake with the smells of wonderful things cooking. Stewart said, ‘‘Bout another ten minutes or so, we’ll have something good to eat, just you wait.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how to pay you, but—’

Stewart moved his bulk over to the refrigerator, popped open the door and bent down, coming back up with a fistful of eggs. ‘You get back to the UN, you just might say that not all people out here are killers. You think you could do that?’

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Then you’ll have paid me back,’ he said, returning to the stove.

I took another sip from the tea. Jerry was on the other side of the table, tongue sticking out from his mouth at an angle, drawing something on paper. I said to Stewart, ‘You mentioned something about the radio. What’s going on?’

‘Depends on what station you listen to. The local stations, most of ‘em run by the militia or their friends, say the UN and NATO violated the armistice agreement and it is now defunct. Now, defunct. That’s a hell of a word. Didn’t think most militia types could use such a word. The local stations, run by what’s left of the state government and the UN, they don’t say much, just to stay in your homes and listen to the responsible authorities. But when the weather’s right I get the BBC World Service, late at night.’

I rubbed the tea mug, enjoying the warmth on my fingers. ‘What does the BBC say?’

Stewart reached up to a cabinet door, opened it and took out three thick white plates. ‘The BBC—and, man, I do like hearing their voices, they sound so civilized — anyhow, the BBC says that the armistice with the militia units has broken down in some counties in Michigan, New York, Vermont and New Hampshire but seems to be holding on in Texas, Idaho, New Mexico, Kentucky and Tennessee. Most other states are still quiet, the ones not really hurt by the bombings. And nobody’s too sure when the armistice might be up and running again.’

From outside I could hear a thrumming noise, which seemed to get louder and louder. Helicopters. Stewart stopped his work and looked up, a spatula in his large hand. Jerry stopped drawing and his eyes grew wide as he looked up at the ceiling. In the corner Tucker even whimpered some. The vibration from the helicopters’ engines made the dishware rattle as they flew overhead. I thought briefly of racing outside and waving a dish towel or something to attract their attention but I knew how fast they flew: they’d be over the horizon by the time I found the door.

Then the sound drained away. Jerry picked up his pen and Stewart looked over at me.

‘I guess the armistice won’t be up and running again today,’ I said.

‘I guess you’re right,’ Stewart said.