by Attila Orosz
“What the hell did you do that for? You hear, what the fuck did you do that for?”
He yelled until his lungs felt empty. And then he yelled again, but the African made no reply. He just stood there staring at him.
“You’ve killed him, you savage bastard!”
Nothing.
“I should shoot you right here! I will shoot you! I kill you, you fuck!”
Alex felt his heartbeats in his ears. His chest was heavy; something was tightening around it. Breathing was a labour. Then there was a loud clatter as the rod slipped out of the inert hand of the African.
The man spoke, his voice faint. He could not make out words at first.
“Mimi kuokolewa maisha yako!”
He was pleading. Alex felt it from the tone, from the way the eyes changed. There was no trace of violence, and the man was begging him. Alex tried to focus on the words, but they did not make sense. That fucking bastard just killed Peter! He was watching the African, who was panting audibly now, his eyes wide open. He looked the murderer up and down with disgust.
“Now you fear for your life, don’t you?”
Chapter Fifteen
With a pounding chest and sweat dripping from his face, Jumaane stood still, staring at the white man who was now threatening him with a gun. He dared not look at the dead body again. He had killed him. He had never killed anyone before, but now a man was dead and he was holding the weapon. He heard the clatter of the rod falling, and he wondered what the sound was or where it came from.
Moments later his head started to clear. It was aching. As the rage left him, his ears and his head were in a strange, dull pain. He now remembered it: the leap, and the blow at the head. He was lost control and he killed. He felt his chest heaving, he felt faint. Trying to collect himself, he exhaled deeply then restrained his panting forcefully. Slowly the world was coming back to its usual form. He saw the body before him, the white man raising the dead soldier’s gun at him, and it suddenly all seemed more real. Too real. But the white man was behaving like a mad person. After having his life saved, why was he angry?
“What are you doing?” said Jumaane faintly. “I saved your life!”
The white man said something. His voice was strange, his face in a weird, mad grin.
“He was going to kill you!” continued Jumaane. “First you, then me! He was your enemy too! I helped you! I saved your life! Put that gun down!”
As he pleaded, his voice began to tremble, then it faded away. He could not keep himself upright, his shoulders sagged, his pain now engulfing all of his mind. His body was shaking and his tears began to flow. He could not contain his emotion, it was so much stronger than him.
The anger, the murderous rage, the fear for his own life, the loss of his family, the hunger, the cold, the danger and the exhaustion found their ways to the surface all at once. He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face.
“I could have run away! I could be free! Do you hear me? He was killing you! I saved you! Put that gun down! Why are you doing this?”
***
Looking at the black man sagging to his knees, the tears flowing from his eyes, and the trembling words uttered in the unintelligible language, had an effect on Alex like breaking an evil spell. He once again saw the shaken, broken, and weak man; the image of the cold blooded murderer was gone.
I cannot become like one of them. He lowered the gun. He felt confusion and bewilderment. He was clueless what to do now. The man before him just killed another. And even though a moment ago his rage was at its highest, all he could feel now was pity.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with you now?”
His swearing was meant to cover his own confusion, but in the end it all seemed to just add up. He felt the weapon starting to slip from his hands. He had never used a live weapon before. He was afraid he would shoot the man by accident; he was not used to handling automatics. He could not have judged if minutes passed or just seconds. Time was frozen, there was nothing in it, just him and the African, looking at each other. His eyes bore deep into those of the man before him. He saw that his tears were genuine. He loosened his grip on the rifle until he almost dropped it.
Then the African made a move quite unexpectedly. His head jerked up, as if having a sudden idea, and his right hand moved with considerable speed. He reached into his back-pocket and started to pull something out from there.
Alex’s reaction was instant. He gripped the weapon firmly, raising it as instinctively at the head of the kneeling African, as if he was trained to handle the situation. The man might still have weapons concealed.
“Don’t even think about anything funny!”
He knew his words were meaningless, but he felt better talking, drawing courage from his own words. He watched the African slow down. His right hand was still moving, but his left made gestures that might have been meant to be soothing. He said something in his language, in a calm tone. His voice was not trembling now, although his tears kept flowing. Then he pulled out something slim and small. Alex could not at first make out what it was. The man kept talking, and he pressed the thing onto his own chest.
Alex was watching his face with interest. He kept the weapon firm, his hands rigid around its frame, but his mind was trying to read the African’s expression. There were all sorts of emotions fighting to manifest at once. There was warmth and joy, but those were repressed by inexpressible pain.
The African slowly extended his hand towards Alex, holding the object in it. Alex chanced a look down at the hand. It held a battered, dimmed photograph of a black woman and two small children. They were visibly poor, dressed in rags. Some of the woman’s teeth were missing, but this was only made evident by her broad smile. She was hugging the small ones, who clung onto her tightly. It was picture of an unfortunate but apparently happy family. Alex had only seen such photographs in museums before. It was the sort of photo-sensitive paper they used in old Polaroid cameras, before digital ones were equipped with holographic three dimensional displays. Those things were ancient technology, yet this man was carrying one around with what appeared to be his family on the picture.
“Your family, huh?”
He expected no answer, but the other seemed to sense his meaning in some way because he nodded. Then he took the picture back, pressed it against his chest, he raised it once more, kissed it, and put away.
Alex felt even more confused. What on Earth am I supposed to do with you now? There was nothing that could have prepared him for this. Somehow all of it felt just surreal. The black man just kept talking to him, so he began shaking his head.
“No, no, sorry, I understand nothing of what you say. You’re talking about them?”
The African stopped talking, looking hesitant for a moment. Then he pulled out the image again, and with broad gestures, he pointed his finger at it, then at the gun in Alex’s hand. When Alex still looked blank, he extended his thumb, and made a gesture as if cutting his own throat with it. It started to dawn on the humanitarian.
“They are dead…?” he stated this rather than asked.
The African nodded. He understood him, like they spoke the same language now. Then the man pointed at the corpse of the guard, at the gun, then at Alex, and finally himself, finishing the pantomime with a similar gesture of cutting his own throat. Alex considered this for a moment, yet the obvious meaning could not have escaped him, even if he tried to pretend not to understand it.
“You are right,” he conceded, nodding his head to show his understanding. “He would have killed us both.”
***
How much time passed while they stood there looking at each other, the African in tears, Alex in utter confusion, he could not have told. Yet this time was important, it was a long intimate moment. He felt it somehow brought him closer to the black man with the strange language, now mourning his family. I am risking my own life for him, and I know nothing about him. He felt this was somehow just right. Not in a sense that it would be proper,
but it felt the right thing to do. Now he saw the man for what he really was, torn and abused, but stronger than anybody he had ever known. It dawned on Alex that he could barely imagine what he must have been through. He had never even thought of it. He had only ever met these people when they ‘dropped in’.
Footsteps echoed from the far side of the corridor. The sounds brought his mind back to the present in an instant. They were probably seconds away from being discovered; there was no time to waste. He jumped towards the African, who had instinctively covered his head as if expecting to be beaten. Alex stopped short, then he threw the gun away and shook the man’s shoulder gently but with a degree of firmness that he hoped to indicate urgency.
“Come on! We need to move!” He tried to sound as calm as he could manage in the situation. It was not easy, but he realised that the other was scared enough. To shout at him would probably mean he would never get him out of his defence.
The African looked up. Alex showed him his empty hands, then made a beckoning gesture, and pointed toward the corridor leading to the exit. The African got up and took a hesitant step forward. The footsteps came closer. Alex looked in their direction, then at the African. Their eyes met.
“Read my fucking mind now!” he said. “We need to move!”
When the African did not move, Alex gave up and started running down the corridor. He did not look back again. Soon he heard shouting from behind him. His own footsteps now echoed loudly, mingling with thuds of heavy boots from behind. He could not bother to try to convince the man any more. If he came, he might live.
He reached the ladder. He climbed up, opened the trapdoor and got out. It was morning already. No more sheltering darkness, the sun was over the horizon. He had to move as quickly as possible. He looked down and saw that the black man was at his heels.
“Come on!” He yanked the man out, grabbing him under the shoulder. Then he shut the door.
“Run!”
Shelter was far away and their chances were slim, yet he knew that if they stopped they would die. But he was not ready to give up yet, not without trying. They stumbled across the fields. Now he could see the way and the first bushes were impossibly far away. He was running at the edge of his breath. He heard the African pant beside him, yet he dared not look at him. He dared not look back either. He expected gunfire to erupt behind their backs. It would all be over soon. But he would not stop, not for them!
As they ran, the bushes were getting closer. He could even see the tower of a village’s Church. Still no sign of them, he began to think, but then he heard a machine gun’s staccato tearing up the quiet of the morning. Then another, and another.
Chapter Sixteen
“What do you mean, they have escaped?”
The Captain watched the Colonel’s distorted face, heard his angry voice. He is just like father, he thought.
“First they kill a patrolman and now they disappear!” he heard his superior shout. “They are making a trail like a damn snail! Only with blood, and that neither of us will be able to explain!”
He was of course right. Like his father, he was always reasonable, even when angry. And the Captain felt the scolding was due; he knew that if he had acted quicker, or handled the events better, they could have had them in custody now. The death of the patrolman had struck unexpectedly, throwing his plans off the rails. There was no way of telling which one of the fugitives had done the killing, but that was of little importance now. In the present situation both of them were considered guilty. The death of a soldier of the US of E armed forces demanded an immediate response, and that meant to retaliate swiftly and in full force. No stone would be left unturned. There was no more room for games, the capture could not happen anymore. Both the HA and the illegal must be terminated, without delay.
“I will hold you personally responsible for what happened if you do not sort this out…” The Colonel’s voice came from a distance.
Then the voice faded. The Captain was sure he knew what was coming. It was of course his fault, and his responsibility to solve his own mistakes. This was the only just course of action, expected and accepted, yet he struggled to contain his boiling temper. He had always been able to contain himself, but now he was rapidly approaching the tipping point. He felt it coming, and he was afraid that his anger would overflow this time.
He is doing it. He is doing it again! Once more everything was his fault. He saw his father before him, his face red, his hand raised to strike him. He had often been beaten as a child, and he was half expecting the back of his father’s hand across his cheek even now. He had always felt like lashing out and hitting the old man in the face, but he had been too young, too small, too weak, and his father was a strong man.
He had grown since then. He had been through rigorous military training and grown much stronger than he used to be. He could fight back now, he could hit the man, he could retaliate, after so many years he could avenge himself now! But he could not move, he could not even raise his voice; he just stood there sheepishly, looking into his father’s eyes, unfocused. He was paralysed. There was nothing to do but stand and take it. Soon would come the beating, or discipline as his father called it afterwards. And his father just kept yelling at him like a madman.
“Captain! Captain, answer me!”
He came to his senses and saw the Colonel’s red face. Reality streamed back into his mind. He was in the Colonel’s office, and the senior officer was raging.
***
“What is this? Refusing orders?”
The Colonel stopped as he saw the Captain’s eyes change. He looked like someone who had just been woken up.
“No, Colonel.”
“Then move it! Tighten bloody security! Watch them closely! Make sure they are herded into here like a pair of sheep! Use all our engagement units, if need be, but do not engage! Understand? Do not, under any circumstances, are they to engage!”
“Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir!”
The Captain looked pale. There was something upsetting about him, something unusual. But that did not matter, not now. The Colonel knew he had to start organising things himself. He could not trust any of his men, not even his aide, apparently. Too many mistakes had been made, and it was just too important for him to get this right.
The whole operation would soon be over, but the last window of opportunity was still open and he would not miss it. This could be the only chance he would get to gain back his wife’s affections. If anything, an expensive gift would make her change her mind. The Colonel decided that he must push this through, regardless of what came in his way. He would just buy her off, and then she would serve him duly.
“You are still here, Captain?”
“Yes, Sir. I was thinking about your order.”
“Thinking?” The Colonel raised his eyebrows but decided not to show any offence as the young officer’s expression once again began to worry him. He had been looking for a spark of emotion in those eyes for years and, now that he found it, it made him uneasy.
“So what exactly do you have in mind?” he asked finally with a noticeable edge in his voice. The Captain did not appear to acknowledge it.
“You still insist on a clean capture, Colonel?”
“Indeed, I do.”
Although it was a simple statement, the tone it was delivered in turned it into an unspoken inquiry, as to whether his aide had any objection. The Captain’s response confirmed that he did in fact understand it to be a question.
“Given the ongoing investigation, the sudden demise of the former patrolman, and the gravity of the situation as a whole, I suggest we terminate the subjects at the first given opportunity. With all due respect, Sir,” there seemed to be a little change of tone here, “having recognised my mistakes, I am also quite aware of the dangers of your request.”
“You are?” The Colonel was surprised by his own patience.
“Yes, Sir.”
The Colonel said nothing. He began to enjoy watching the Captain’s face
. It had changed. Never before had he seen his features move. It was expressive. He could not quite read it yet, but that would come. Now he listened and watched him with interest. To his disappointment, the Captain probably noticed this, because he steeled his eyes and pressed his lips tightly before he continued.
“Sir, I wish not to lose my position. Should anything go wrong, we both will—”
“You worry too much, son,” said the Colonel, satisfied in his efforts. He had managed to squeeze a human response out of the Captain, even though he was not quite sure how. “You will be taken care of. You have my word.”
The Captain was silent for a moment, then conceded, “Thank you, Colonel.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the Colonel. “I mean, to anyone,” he added with a half-smile. “And now, I have important business to attend to. You may go.”
The Captain saluted and left the office. After that moment of collecting himself, he seemed to have returned to his old ways. Not a drop of emotion could be seen on the stone-hard face, but the Colonel had already got what he wanted. He turned to the holographic screen that was already dialling his wife’s home line.
“You will dance to all my little tunes too, sweetheart. Soon enough,” he said to the screen showing his wife’s picture perfect image, while listening to the long distance dialling tone.
He was in a good mood now. He felt on top of the world. He wanted to show the wife. He wanted to feel in position, but the call ended without an answer. The Colonel tried two more times, with similar results.
“She should be back in by this time,” he said half aloud, to himself.
Then he turned to the screen showing a detailed map of the area and called up all the movements of the past four hours. He was determined to find the illegal and the trafficker, and it was time he took matters into his own hands. He was once again in control, fully, and unquestionably. He would see this through and make sure he would still profit from the situation. First thing was to make sure the Captain had not given any hasty firing orders yet.
