Dead of Night

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The late breakfast was eventually served: scrambled eggs again—and I sure as hell wasn’t complaining—with a sausage link apiece and toast made from homemade bread. We ate quickly and Stewart raised his voice only once, when Jerry tried to give a piece of his solitary sausage to the dog.

‘Jerry, that sausage is special. It’s been in the freezer for months, and I’ll be goddamned if a dog is going to eat it, even if it is Tucker,’ Stewart said. ‘Now, you go ahead and eat, so you can grow up and be strong. And don’t pout.’

And the little guy didn’t pout, just held on to his fork with a pudgy fist and kept on eating. His eyes were shiny and I had a feeling that he and his grandfather had this dog-eating-from-the-table discussion on a regular basis.

The food was hot and went down quickly. I had another cup of tea and when we were finished eating Stewart said quietly, ‘Now, you go and clean up, and go into the living room. All right?’

Jerry looked over his empty plate. ‘Can I watch TV?’

‘Only if you turn on the VCR and run a tape,’ Stewart said.

‘Which one?’

‘How about The jungle Book?’

Jerry nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yep. I’d like that.’

He got up, cleared the dishes and placed them by the sink. When he was done, he said, ‘Tucker,’ and the English springer spaniel followed him. Stewart leaned back in his chair to catch what was going on in the living room. He lowered his voice. ‘Just want to make sure he’s watching a tape,’ he explained. ‘I don’t want him watching the tube in case one of the militias is running things for a day or so on one of the local cable stations. The crap they put out over the airwaves… You know, racist warfare, the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, white power, red state versus blue state… Bad enough things are happening on the ground, then the clowns who seize the television stations have to pollute the airwaves again.’

‘I see,’ I said, sipping from the tea mug.

‘You do, do you?’ Stewart asked skeptically. ‘Tell me, Toronto man, what exactly were you doing, working for the UN?’

I tried to gauge his expression, what was going on in his mind, and decided to hell with it. ‘I was assigned to an investigation unit, looking into war-crime sites. We were investigating allegations around this county and others.’

‘Find much?’

‘A little,’ I said.

‘Bah, whole place is one whole war crime, if you ask me. So, Canadian man that you are, what do you think of our poor misguided country?’

I said, ‘I’m not sure I can really answer that.’

‘Oh, give it a try,’ Stewart said. ‘I read the papers, watch the news. I know that you nice folks up north have always had a strange relationship with us Yanks. Who could blame you? Here we are, overbearing and powerful and full of ourselves, and there you were, peaceful and trying to choose a path that didn’t involve our rough-and-tumble way of doing things. Bad enough to have our kind of nation as a neighbor. When that terrorist attack hit Manhattan late last year and then came the follow-up balloon bombings… it was the tipping point. Hard to believe that one coordinated strike would cause all this chaos, even with that damn EMP effect…’

‘Up north, although we didn’t get zapped like you people did, it was hard to understand what was going on,’ I said. ‘The news coverage was spotty and all we heard were the worst of the stories. Exodus from the cities… lack of food and fuel… refugees being shot at by the militias…’

Stewart looked like he wanted to slam a fist on the table. ‘Damn it, we had years of warning. We should have been prepared for all types of attacks, but we never are. Never prepared for a boatful of explosives motoring its way up to a moored warship. Or some guys armed with box-cutters and knives, flying planes into buildings. Or some group stealing suitcase nukes and detonating them to fry all our electronics. The population looks to its leaders and their leaders fail them, and then the poor, scared, frightened people take matters into their owns hands. But then again, people… sometimes they get the government they deserve, you know?’

‘That’s what I’ve heard,’ I said.

He gave me a wry smile. ‘You see, a few years back I worked on the planning board for our little town here. I’d retired from a machine shop and thought I’d give something back to the community. You know? And you know what happened after that?’

I rubbed a finger around the rim of the tea mug. ‘What’s been said before: “No good deed goes unpunished.’”

A firm nod. ‘Absolutely right, Samuel. A little job like the planning board, making sure any new construction comes in and follows the rules. And you’d have thought I was wearing jackboots and a peaked hat with a goddamn swastika on top. We had people coming into meetings, screaming and yelling, I got hate mail and I got phone calls at midnight, wanting to know why I was giving my neighbors a hard time about what they could or couldn’t do with their property. I mean, shit, some people thought owning a piece of land gave ‘em the right to store drums of toxic waste on the back forty. So what if it leaked into the ground water, or seeped into a stream that went into a reservoir? Man’s home is his castle, et cetera, and all that crap. So I gave it up, after one term. I’m getting older and I don’t need the aggravation.’

‘Why so much anger?’ I asked.

‘Who knows?’ Stewart said. ‘This isn’t a bad place. Not very rich, mind you, but it was peaceful enough before the troubles. Hell, even had a nice little state park on the other side of the county. Bronson’s Iron Works, one of the earliest mine and iron forges in the state. But when people started dropping out and not caring, when government becomes something to be hated and feared, and when rumors and half-truths are believed, over and over again, well, that’s when the bad times come. And when the bad times come people want to hate somebody, and when those somebodies are poor refugees from the cities, trying to get some food and a place to sleep, it’s easy to do.’

From the living room came some boyish laughter, as I heard the rollicking tunes from The Jungle Book. Stewart saw that I was paying attention and said, ‘Thank God for VCRs. I’d hate to try to take him into town now to see a movie.’

I said, ‘A couple of days ago I saw a road overpass that had been taken out by a bombing raid. That sure looked like something that came from the movies.’

‘Yeah, and you know what? Even with the killing that was going on, lots of us were humiliated when the UN approved the intervention and when NATO came in. I know they had their reasons. From state to state, you didn’t know what the hell was going to happen. Some states didn’t have any militias, any trouble, and their governors just used any National Guard units that weren’t overseas to take care of any problems from the refugees. Other states fell apart and couldn’t hold back the militias once they started gunning. And with our power and our nuclear weapons, it didn’t take much to see that the world didn’t want another Russia out there, a country with nukes falling apart, you know? But still, the hell of it, being bombed and strafed by countries who were supposed to be friendly to us. Not that some of the militia units didn’t deserve it, but a lot of innocent civilians, in Idaho and Texas and Kentucky and Tennessee and here, they were killed by those raids, before the armistice.’

I remembered the schoolteacher Gary, and what had happened to his fiancée. ‘But when the news footage came out, showing homes being burned and so many people being killed and hurt, and some of the rioters raiding National Guard armories and some other military bases, there was a lot of pressure to intervene. It was a bad choice, but I think sitting back would have been an even worse one.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Stewart said, finishing off his own mug of tea. ‘Even now, even with that humiliation, I wish you guys had come in earlier. It could have made a big difference.’

‘I know,’ I said.

His eyes flashed at me. ‘No, you don’t know. I don’t mean to get pissy, but you don’t know.’

I just nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. I don’t know.’

‘Ah,’ he said, leaning over again to look at his grandson in the living room. ‘I can’t help it; I’m sorry. You see, it all has to do with little Jerry over there.’

Something cold started tickling the back of my throat. ‘His parents?’

‘Yes,’ Stewart said quietly. ‘My daughter, Kelly. And her husband, Ralph. She went to school in Manhattan, learning about sculpture. Met up with a nice fella named Ralph Powell. Got married and came back here, opened up a little studio. He worked on-line for some brokerage firm, got to work out of the house. Beautiful little house, beautiful little boy.’

I kept silent, letting him tell the story. He took a breath. ‘They’ve been missing ever since the troubles. I keep telling Jerry, don’t worry, your mom and dad, they’re on vacation. They’ll come back when they can. But I don’t know how much longer I can keep telling him that. I… I just don’t think it’s going to end right. And you want to know why?’

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘Because in some people’s eyes what Kelly did was a crime. And her crime was to marry a black man from New York City and to have a child with him. And in those people’s eyes that’s a crime worth being killed for.’

I helped Stewart wash up the dishes and then we went out to the living room, where Jerry was enraptured, staring up at the colors on the television screen. Tucker was on a dog bed of sorts, snoring fitfully. Stewart said, ‘You OK, kiddo?’

Jerry still stared up at the screen. ‘Yep.’

‘Tucker OK?’

‘Yep.’

Stewart said, ‘We’re going upstairs for a couple of minutes, so you stay down here, right? And remember, stay away from the windows.’

“K, Grandpa.’

Stewart managed a smile, glanced at me and said, ‘Come along. Let’s go upstairs and see what’s going on in the world. Maybe then we can figure if it’s safe to get you out of here.’

‘How’s that?’

‘You’ll see.’

I followed Stewart up the narrow wooden staircase, past little framed sketches of skiers hanging on the right-hand wall. At the top we went straight through to a small room filled with radio gear. A quick glance to the left and the right showed a bedroom on either side. With my UN-trained investigative know-how I figured which one belonged to Stewart’s grandchild by the toys on the floor. In the small room were three metal tables, each set against a wall. There were a couple of amateur radios set up on two of the tables, and in front of them was an old office swivel chair, its back repaired with some gray duct tape. There were maps on the wall as well, ranging from one of the world to some that depicted the several counties in this part of New York state. Stewart flipped a few switches and sat down. I perched myself on a corner of a desk and watched closely.

‘Nice old stuff, huh?’ Stewart said. ‘That’s what saved it, when the balloon strikes came. Old electronics could muddle through better than the newer stuff. That’s how some of the militia units communicated with each other at the start, when they started setting up roadblocks and such. The old gear still worked, while the newer stuff—belonging to the cops and National Guard units—got fried.’

‘There doesn’t seem to be a microphone,’ I said.

‘Don’t need one,’ he said, rotating a dial slowly. ‘You see, Samuel, I don’t particularly care to talk to people. I’m just a goddamn big snoop, that’s all. Used to be I’d get a kick from catching some obscure regional station in China, or an American task force in the Persian Gulf, but fortunately—or unfortunately—the really interesting stuff now is nearby. So I don’t have to worry about getting a weak signal. The thing today is, I take a gander at what’s going on out there, then I can get an idea of how safe it might be before you start walking.’

‘All I need to know is how to reach the highway,’ I said. ‘If I get there, then I’ll just hang tight until a UN convoy comes by.’

Stewart turned in his chair, looked up at me. ‘Where the hell have you been the past few days? Under a rock?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve been running through the woods, being chased by your gun-toting neighbors. And I spent a couple of days at a militia camp, held prisoner, seeing lots of nice touristy things. Like men being shot in the back of the head for the crime of being in this country without your militia’s permission. So I haven’t really been up on the news.’

‘Well, bully for you, sport, ‘cause things have really gone to the shits for you UN folks these past few days,’ he said. ‘Like I said, the armistice has collapsed here and in a few other states. Which means some of the resettlement camps are under siege, your UN investigators have scurried back to their base camps, and the open highways—like the one nearby that you’re so goddamned keen to visit—have been closed.’

‘What broke the armistice?’ I asked.

‘Some militia leader in another county — probably a used-car salesman in his previous life—was captured by one of the arrest squads working for the War Crimes Tribunal,’ Stewart said, adjusting a dial on one of the consoles. ‘Thing is, his militia unit was under the impression that he was traveling under some sort of protection. Like a get-out-of-jail-free card. So they shot up a UN convoy. Then some other militia units, not particularly liking the armistice in the first place, decided to get in on the action.’

I shook my head. ‘NATO units and arrest squads versus the militias. Doesn’t seem to be a fair fight.’

‘You’re right, but for the wrong reason,’ Stewart said. ‘The militias don’t think it’s a fair fight either. But the way they see it, if they keep on sniping and harassing the UN, sending body bags back to Europe and New Zealand and elsewhere, then the home governments will get tired and bring their boys home. Then the militias can get back to what they do best: killing their neighbors who just wanted some help. All right, let’s see what we’ve got here.’

Stewart looked at a small open notebook, made another adjustment, ‘I like to keep track of the stations I’m listening to. OK, here’s the first one. A militia station, a few towns over.’

He turned up the volume and I leaned forward, listening to a man’s hurried voice.

‘… Heavy casualties at Bremerton. This message is for the Second New York Activists. I repeat, the Second New York Activists. Your message is as follows: Tango, Tango, Bravo, Foxtrot, Charlie. Repeating again, this is for the Second New York Activists: Tango, Tango, Bravo, Foxtrot, Charlie.’

Stewart turned his head my way. ‘Get a lot of messages like that. Code.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘These guys are organized, aren’t they? They set up codes, already in place, just in case. That way, they can communicate without worrying about being monitored.’

‘Shhh,’ he said, ‘they’re still yapping.’

He boosted the volume again and the voice said, ‘Another warning to our brethren near the Finger Lakes district. Armored units are reportedly moving in your direction. Repeating for the Finger Lakes district. Armored units, possibly Polish, are moving in your direction. We’ve got word that these units are sticking to back roads, avoiding the main state highways. All right. And a report in from Vanson’s Volunteers: they successfully ambushed a UN convoy heading along Highway Fourteen. Congratulations to Vanson’s Volunteers. And I’m Lieutenant Henry, reporting to you on Radio Free USA. Pass the news along, patriots, pass the news along…’

Stewart pursed his lips, moved the dial and said quietly, ‘Not good, hearing those clowns. Let’s see what the UN has to offer.’

A woman’s voice, more modulated and professional than her competition: ‘…Food-distribution centers at Hopkinton, New Canaan and Riley have been temporarily closed. Please stay tuned to Radio Pax, Albany, for additional information. At the top of the hour today, Radio Pax will again broadcast those areas under safe UN control. If you are not in one of these safe areas, please be assured that the UN Force in the United States will reach you and your family. In the meantime, if you are under some type of threat or hostility, remain calm. Help will be coming to your vicinity. Retreat to a basement or a secure room. Stay away from windows. Do not travel. Listen to this station for further information. Again, this is Radio Pax, Albany…’

Stewart gave a snort of disgust, flipped through the dials again. ‘Not to worry, the woman says. Chaos is set loose upon the countryside, and neighbors are killing each other because of their place of origin. Help will get there eventually.’

As the nearest UN representative, I kept my mouth shut. I knew the history of peacekeepers and peacemakers over the years, from Rwanda to Liberia to Bosnia and now the United States. Most times the UN were just like overworked police: by the time they got to you, the best they could do was bury the bodies and tidy up the countryside. But Stewart was leaving me alone. He just went back to his radio consoles.

‘Ah, first real good bit of information’ he said, moving the dial slowly with his thick fingers. ‘Hear that?’

I strained to listen but could only make out the hiss of static. ‘No. I don’t hear a thing. Just white noise, that’s all.’

Stewart grinned. ‘Yeah, and that’s good. One of the worst militia stations was broadcasting on this frequency, inciting people to rise up in arms and fight the oppressor, whoever the oppressor of the hour happened to be. They went off the air during the armistice but came right back again a few days ago. Real vile stuff—I’m just glad to hear them silenced. Gives me the idea that maybe somebody saner is gaining the upper hand.’

‘Where were they located?’ I asked.

He kept fiddling with the dial. ‘About three miles down the road. So maybe things are clearing up. OK, just one more station, for the hell of it. Let’s hear some of your countrymen.’

And then came a cultured voice that I recognized from one of the morning news shows on the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Hearing that older gentleman’s voice on the boring and bland and wonderful CBC suddenly made me so homesick that I wished I had never even heard of the UN or UNFORUS.

‘… UN headquarters in Geneva is reporting that the general armistice has been successfully reestablished in the states of Michigan and New Hampshire, and that negotiations are continuing in the states of New York, Vermont, Kentucky, Tennessee and Texas. Scattered outbreaks of violence among militia units and supporters of the UN intervention are also continuing in those states, sources said. Meanwhile, hearings on the UN intervention and the terrorist attack on Lower Manhattan and the aerial bombardments last spring are continuing at the American Congress on Capitol Hill, while the President of the United States continues to remain in seclusion at the presidential retreat at Camp David. In national news, the Prime Minister stated today that Canadian military units will remain on duty at all border crossings to the United States for the foreseeable future. The opposition leader, Mister MacDonald, stated that—’

Stewart switched off the station and said, ‘Well, I think things are about as good as they can be right now. Having the armistice take effect again in Michigan and New Hampshire is good news. Hopefully, they can straighten out the mess here in a few days or so. Even if our glorious President sits on his hands and says and does nothing.’

‘Based on what you’re hearing, when would be a good time to leave?’ I asked.

‘How does dusk sound?’

‘Not any earlier?’

Stewart started fiddling with other switches on the radios. ‘The militias like to split their activities between daylight and darkness. I’ve found out that around dusk and dawn is when they’re on the move, getting ready to go home. That gives you more opportunities to slip through and make it to the highway—if that’s where you want to go.’

I shifted my weight on the table. ‘Yeah, I’m still looking at the highway. Eventually the UN’s going to have to regain some sort of control, and the interstates are their best transport operation.’

‘All right,’ Stewart said. ‘Like I told you, the interstate is about—’

A phone rang, startling me. Stewart turned in his chair. The phone rang three times, and then stopped.

‘Who could that—’

He held up his hand so I kept my mouth shut. The phone rang again, five times, before stopping. And then it rang five times again. Stewart’s face seemed to turn gray and his body also seemed to sag in the chair.

‘Coded call, right?’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

‘So the militias aren’t the only ones using codes,’ I said. ‘Who’s calling you?’

‘A friend who, like me, isn’t associated with the militias.’

I asked, ‘What does this code mean?’

Stewart rubbed at his beard, ‘It means two things. The first is that you’ve got to get going.’

I knew I should have stood up but I felt frozen to the chair. ‘And what’s the second meaning of that call?’

Stewart looked right at me. ‘It means a militia unit is heading right here, right now.’

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Stewart got up and I followed him as he raced down the stairs. He talked over his shoulder at me as we went into the living room. ‘Because of who my daughter married, I’ve been on a list. Big deal. Half the county is on a list of some sort, especially those of us who fed or hid refugees from the cities when the shooting started. But we tend to know each other and we try to keep track of what’s going on. And part of keeping track is giving out a warning when the militias are on the move. Jerry.’

The boy looked up from the television. He didn’t say a word.

Stewart said, ‘Red alert, son. Take the dog and go down into the cellar. All right? You know the drill.’

Jerry nodded and said, ‘Tucker.’ The English springer spaniel leaped up and followed him out of the room. I heard the noise of feet and paws slapping on wooden stairs.

Stewart said, ‘Poor guy’s seen more crap in his nine years than some people have during their entire lives.’

‘I’m sure,’ I said.

‘And I’m sure of one other thing, and that’s that we’ve got to get you out of here,’ he said. ‘C’mon, not much time to waste.’

We went into the kitchen and Stewart filled my water bottle, which he passed over to me. I put on my coat and slung my blanket roll over my shoulders. He said, ‘Sorry it can’t be dusk. OK. Here’s the directions. Back past the bam, go over the electric fence. Don’t worry, it’s not turned on. By the fence is an old bathtub. Used it for a while as a watering trough. From there, head up the hill. You’ll see the path. Get up the hill, keep on going straight. The trail will widen some. When you start coming down the opposite slope, you’ll spot the highway in the distance. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes away. Just try to keep moving in a straight line. You can’t miss it.’

I held out my hand. ‘Thanks. I owe you a lot, Stewart, a hell of a lot.’

He ignored my outstretched hand. ‘Remember we’re out here, OK? See if you can’t do something about that. And one more thing.’

Stewart brushed past me, went to a closet beside the door leading outside. He opened the closet door, reached up and pulled something down off an upper shelf. Then he brought it out and presented it to me.

A scoped rifle with a leather sling.

I shook my head. ‘I’m UN. I’m not supposed to carry—’

‘Yeah, and our Declaration of Independence promised us life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and see where we are now. Look, you said this morning that you didn’t want to go back to the militias. Fine. But for God’s sake, man, take something so you can defend yourself.’

It took about a second for me to make up my mind, a second filled with memories of the Aussie television crew and Sanjay and the dead German pilot and Gary, the executed schoolteacher. ‘OK. You’ve convinced me.’

‘Fine,’ Stewart said. ‘Listen up, ‘cause we don’t have much time. This is a Remington .22 semi-auto.’ In his other hand he held a small box of ammunition, which he now popped open. He undid a screw assembly under the barrel and said, ‘Simple way of loading. Tube magazine, here beneath the barrel. Takes twelve rounds. Load them in like this, sliding in, one right after another. Then replace the tube.’

Which he did before handing the rifle over to me, along with the cardboard box in which the cartridges rolled around like tiny marbles. I put the box in a coat pocket and continued listening. ‘Little knob there by the trigger guard, that’s the safety. If you see red, it means the safety is off. Action there on the right. Snap it back once and you’re ready to go. Then just keep on pulling the trigger. Savvy?’

I shouldered the rifle and went outside to the gray-green and muddy lawn. I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. Stewart was smiling and now his hand was extended.

‘OK. Now that you’re on your way, good luck,’ he said.

I squeezed his hand, feeling the roughness of his skin. ‘Thanks again. And I certainly won’t forget you. Not for a moment.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Now get your ass in gear before the bad guys show up.’

He went back inside and closed the door. I moved as quickly as I could, slipping my way through the mud. I went past the barn and reached the wire fence. I hesitated to touch the wire, seeing how it was secured to each post by an electric insulator. If it was on, it sure could give me a tingle, I thought.

Too late to doubt Stewart now. I grasped the fence, felt nothing except the coldness of the metal strands, and I climbed over. Nearby was the old rusty bathtub, just like Stewart had described, and there was the path, leading up to a hill, a hill nearly covered by pine trees and a few oaks. I started up the path and began huffing with exertion, the rifle bouncing on my back, the rolled-up blankets tugging me a bit off-balance, the spare cartridges rolling around in the little cardboard box. I puffed some more and then the path leveled out. Almost there, the top of the hill. And what had Stewart said? From the hill, on the other side, the highway would be in view. And from that point, about ten or fifteen minutes to reach the road. Ten to fifteen minutes away from being picked up by a convoy, from being saved and having a good meal and a hot shower, and being able to tell somebody, anybody, what I had seen and what I had done, and to get a world of hurt to descend upon the traitorous Peter Brown—

I stopped and moved to the left, past some low brush, which I pulled aside. I heard the sound of engines. I dumped my blankets, pulled the rifle off my shoulder and, remembering again what Stewart had said, snapped back the bolt. And then I checked the safety. No red showing. Safe, then. I placed my arm through the leather sling and brought the scope up to my eye, and the house and buildings and muddy field below me came into close-up. A pickup truck and minivan with every window busted out were parked by the house. I breathed in and out, watching what was going on through the small rifle scope, the black cross-hairs sight superimposing itself over everything I watched.

Five guys in fatigues and carrying weapons were milling around the yard, and one of them started pounding repeatedly at the kitchen door from which I had exited just a few minutes ago. Stewart appeared soon. I could see that they were talking back and forth and Stewart was shaking his head. He stepped out into the yard, talking some more. Two of the guys were leaning against the fender of their pickup truck, ignoring the discussion going on between Stewart and the man I guessed was the leader. The rifle scope shook some as I recognized the guy. One of my escorts, back at the militia camp. Swell.

The door to the house opened again and Stewart turned round, his face screwed up with anger as Tucker barreled out of the house, followed shortly by Jerry. Stewart pointed to the house but Jerry ignored him and went over to the militia guy, tipped his head back and said something to him. For some reason, the fellow looked embarrassed. Tucker the dog went over to the two guys resting against the pickup-truck fender. One of them bent down, picked up the spaniel’s tennis ball and tossed it down the driveway. The dog went after the bouncing ball with joyful enthusiasm.

‘Careful, Tucker,’ I whispered. ‘You’re playing with the enemy.’

The militia leader seemed now to be talking louder to Stewart, jabbing his finger at Stewart’s chest, and Jerry was beside him as well, tugging at the militia leader’s coat. My mouth got dry and I thought of the water bottle that I had inside my coat. But I dared not move, not while I was watching what was going on. Now the militia guy was poking Stewart hard, forcing the older man to step back.

And then it went to the shits.

The militiaman—by now looking seriously irritated -pushed Jerry away with one hand, causing the kid to sit down hard in the mud. Stewart rushed forward but the militia guy had already unslung his rifle and now he swung it at Stewart, catching the older man in the jaw with the weapon’s heavy stock. Stewart fell down to lie splayed out in the mud as Jerry sat there, bawling. Even Tucker had stopped playing and was looking around him quizzically, as though he could not believe the stupidity and hatred in the human race.

When the militiaman raised his rifle and aimed it at Stewart, I flicked the little knob on the side of the Remington with my thumb. And shot him.

I couldn’t tell you who was more surprised. Me, the militia guys or Stewart. The report was quite loud and since the Remington was a .22 the recoil was non-existent. I wasn’t even sure if I had hit the son of a bitch, but I kept on firing, aiming at the running and hiding members of the militia group and then popping a few bullets into their vehicles for good measure. I kept on firing until the trigger suddenly got stiff and unyielding, and I realized that I had blown through all twelve rounds. I did another quick scan of the scene through the telescopic sight and saw Stewart and Jerry and Tucker racing back into the house. I moved the rifle, the view shaking some now as I realized what I had just done. I couldn’t make out any of the militiamen, not at all. Then came a flicker of movement, and gunfire crackled and stuttered from the yard down below me. I moved back into the brush, breathing hard, remembering the quick lesson I had gotten from Stewart. The magazine tube came out with a snap and a twist, and I took the cardboard box of cartridges from my pocket. Two of them fell on the ground and, swearing, I scrabbled among the leaves and dirt to retrieve them. This was no time to waste ammunition.

Counting slowly—I wanted to make sure I put in the correct number—I reloaded the magazine tube, replaced it in its position beneath the gun’s barrel, and put the few remaining cartridges back into my coat pocket. I snapped back the action and then squirmed my way back to my shooting spot. Through the scope I saw movement down below: a line of militiamen were coming up the hill toward me. I fired three times more and then ducked and crawled out of there as they returned fire in a rapid sequence of loud booms, punctuated by the frightening sounds of rounds coming in over my head and slamming into branches and tree trunks. They sure as hell weren’t firing .22s.

I paused, just long enough to gather my thoughts and an extra breath or two. Then I resumed running.

I got back on the path quick enough. A small rational part of me understood that this wasn’t a good idea, being out in the open like this, but I knew I had no choice. My goal wasn’t to sit in the woods and play at being sniper. My goal was to haul ass to the highway, and if that had been my only intention, I wouldn’t have shot at those clowns back there. That had been stupid. That hadn’t been rational. I should have gone quietly on my way. But, damn it, I was glad that I hadn’t been rational. I was glad I had stayed and had shot at them. And as I’d been shooting, I’d wanted to shout at them as well: ‘How does it feel, being on the receiving end of gunfire? How does it feel to hide and cower? How does it feel?’

Somehow, I think they were pissed.

There were distant shouts back there, and some more gunfire, and I ran hard, branches and brambles snapping at my face and hands. For the first few minutes I was at an advantage, slight as it was. They couldn’t be sure if I was up on the hill, hiding and waiting, trying to snipe at them. So they had to take their time coming up that rise and keep their heads down. I stopped and fired off a couple of rounds into the air, hoping the noise would slow them. My breathing was racing so hard that it felt like I had little razor blades inside my lungs that lacerated me with every step. Then I fell flat on my face.

I rolled over, saw the exposed root that had tripped me up. I got up from the cold ground and winced. My right ankle was sore. Damn. Time to slow down, just a bit. I picked up the rifle and continued running at a more cautious pace, making sure I took a few extra seconds to dodge the rocks and tree branches that were now threatening to kill me by tripping me up and offering me to the militiamen I had just been firing at.

Some more shouts and shots behind me. The path widened as it passed a knoll of gravel and rock, and below me, in the distance and beyond another line of trees, was my Holy Grail, my Place in Paradise, the Prize of Prizes: the stretch of asphalt and concrete that was the interstate highway. To celebrate what I had just seen I turned around and fired a couple more shots into the woods, just to let my pursuers know I was still alive.

And I kept on running.

About ten minutes later I slogged through a drainage ditch at the side of the highway, soaking my legs up to my knees, flailing through some cattails growing in long brown stalks beside the muddy water. I went up the grass embankment, breathing hard again, the rifle slippery in my hands. The highway: two lanes right in front of me, then a grass median strip, then another two lanes.

And bless every one of us, some distance toward the west were three Toyota Land Cruisers, parked by the side of the road, all painted white and one with the UN flag flapping from a radio whip antenna at the rear. There seemed to be someone standing beside an open door. I actually choked up for a moment, as if I was seeing the familiar red and white maple-leaf banner out there in the distance, offering me safety, offering me sanctuary from the murderous men behind me. I stood, took a couple of deep breaths, and—

Whee, whee! Rounds went blasting over my head, followed immediately by the sharp cracks of gunfire. I had been spotted, and then some. I ducked and ran as fast as I could across the pavement, dodging back and forth, and I made it to the grass median. More gunshots and then my feet were slapping on the pavement of the second stretch of highway, and I didn’t try to make it fancy or pretty as I flopped to the ground and rolled down the other embankment, right into another drainage ditch. My breathing was harsh and spit was running down my chin. I dumped the blanket roll and edged up to the edge of the embankment, peering through the tall grass. Across the way I saw uniformed and armed men heading out into some sort of skirmish line. I put the rifle to my shoulder, aimed through the scope at some guy with a gun, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. I looked at the bolt. Wide open. Out of ammunition.

‘Shit,’ I whispered, slithering back down into the cold water of the ditch. I fumbled through my coat pocket, took out a now-soggy cardboard box of .22 cartridges. Some shouts came at me from across the highway. The box felt dangerously light. I popped open the flap and poured out the tiny cartridges into my dirt-covered hand. Six. Just six shots left. Not even one more, to make it a lucky seven?

I went to work, trying to ignore the yells from the militiamen scant meters away from me across the lanes of the deserted highway. Deserted—except for those three vehicles waiting for me. I spared a quick glance up the highway, but the UN Land Crusiers were hidden by brush from this angle. I could barely make out the blue and white UN banner. I reloaded the tube magazine, put it back into the Remington with shaking hands, snapped the bolt back in and then squirmed my way back up the embankment. Still some movement, heading off in both directions. For a militia, these clowns weren’t half bad. I snapped off two shots and then ducked again as return fire went whistling over my head.

I stayed bent over, started moving as fast as I could, my feet slopping through the mud and water of the drainage ditch. More gunfire, and then a shout, heard clearly: ‘Might as well give up now, UN man! We’ve got you smoked!’

I decided it was time to start talking as well, but not to them. If I was lucky, the three UN four-by-fours up ahead were guarded by cousins of Charlie, our Marine escort from such a long time ago. I didn’t want any misunderstanding as I blundered my way toward them, carrying a loaded rifle in my hands.

‘UN coming in!’ I yelled. Then I remembered a code phrase I had learned back when I’d thought I could make a damn difference in this damn country, a code phrase of identification. ‘This is Geneva, Geneva, coming in!’

Finally the brush gave out and there I was. The three Toyota Land Cruisers were all parked on the side of the road, in a row. And if I could have cried, I would have started weeping.

For all three vehicles were abandoned, shot up, tires flattened and glass shattered. Even the UN banner was torn and burned, and judging by the rust around the bullet holes and shrapnel gashes, these Land Crusiers had been here for a while. What I’d earlier thought had been a person was just a coat, hanging from the side of an open door. The place was deserted.

Abandoned. Just like me.