If We Survive

by Andrew Klavan

  I wondered which of them—which of those men, women, and children—were being lined up against a wall and shot to death as we stood in the cantina, waiting to learn our fates.

  I turned back to the television. The video was over now and they were back in the studio with the newsman and newswoman. It was kind of an awful sight. The looks on their faces . . . They were trying to go on as if nothing catastrophic were happening. But the anchorman’s brown skin had gone a funny off-color. He was licking his lips between words as if his lips were as dry as my throat. The anchorwoman had turned white and looked like she was on the verge of tears.

  “What . . . what are they saying now?” I barely managed to whisper.

  Pastor Ron’s voice didn’t sound much better than mine as he translated. “They’re saying they will continue to bring us the news for as long as it’s possible. They’re saying they won’t desert their posts until the very last minute and that they have full confidence the army will restore order soon. . .”

  “But they’re lying,” I said. “Right?”

  Pastor Ron nodded. “It sounds like it, yes. Now they’re saying President Morales will speak to the nation very soon.”

  Palmer gave a short, cynical laugh. “Yeah. From his hotel in Los Angeles,” he joked sourly.

  I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. Nicki. She had drawn back from Meredith. She was staring into Meredith’s eyes. The expression on her face was pitiful beyond description. The fear. The helplessness. Like a child lost in a crowd.

  “I don’t want to die, Meredith,” she said. “I’m only seventeen.”

  Palmer glanced over his shoulder at her. He gave a soft derisive snort—as if to say, Who cares how old you are? You can die anytime. Then he turned back to the TV.

  And just at that moment, there were a few bursts of static on the screen—and then the picture went out. There was nothing, not even a test pattern. Just darkness.

  We all stood there—we Americans and the locals just the same. We all stood there, staring at the blank screen.

  Palmer made a gesture to the old lady. She lifted the remote again. Changed the channels. Nothing. More nothing. Then the soccer game. She cycled through the channels one more time. The soccer game was the only thing playing anywhere.

  She shut the TV off. The cantina was silent.

  “Well . . . what does that mean?” I asked. “The picture just . . . I mean, it just went off like that. It just went dark. What does that mean?” I don’t know why I bothered to ask—I knew well enough what it meant. The rebels had overrun the station. Which meant they had gotten inside the government compound. Which meant they were winning, if they hadn’t already won. “What . . . what does it mean?” I asked again anyway. I guess I was just hoping someone would tell me I was wrong.

  No one answered. No one had to. Pastor Ron put a hand on my shoulder and gave it what was supposed to be a reassuring squeeze. I was not reassured.

  “This might be a good time to pray,” he said quietly. He went back to his chair. He sank into it slowly, his eyes cast down, his lips moving silently.

  “Is it over?” asked Nicki, turning from Meredith to him and back to Meredith again. “Did the rebels win? Are they coming now? Are they going to kill us?”

  “Stop, Nicki,” Meredith said. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. None of us knows.”

  But the way she said it—well, it sounded like she did know.

  Long, slow seconds ticked away in silence. I took Pastor Ron’s advice: I prayed. Hard.

  Then—horribly—my prayer was cut short. The air in the cantina seemed to rattle as gunfire exploded—right outside now—right in the plaza beyond the cantina door.

  Nicki let out a short scream at the sound of it, jumping in her chair and covering her mouth with both hands. The gunfire continued. And there was cheering too. Men cheering as they fired their machine guns. There was a small front window, but it didn’t show much. Just a rectangular section of the square. Now and then I saw a figure running by, but other than that, I couldn’t see what was happening.

  I glanced over at the guard by the front door. He was looking out the door into the street. I couldn’t see what he saw, but when he turned back to the room, he was smiling. He pumped his fist at the other guard, the hamster-faced guy at the door.

  Hamster Face’s hamster face lit up with a hamster-faced grin. All at once—no warning at all—he let out a highpitched whoop of his own. He raised his rifle into the air and pulled the trigger.

  Nicki screamed again. The gunfire was deafening. Plaster came pouring down from the ceiling like snow. Hamster Face let out another burst. And now Nicki lost control of herself, screaming and screaming.

  “Stop! Stop! Make him stop!” she shrieked, covering her ears with her hands. “Please! Make him stop!”

  Meredith could only hold on to her while she screamed. Finally, the pounding explosions of the gun fell silent. The last bit of plaster pattered to the floor. And Nicki, still covering her ears, stopped screaming and bent forward against Meredith, sobbing instead.

  That was the only sound in the room. Nicki sobbing. Nothing else for I don’t know how long.

  I stood where I was, looking at—well, nothing really. Just sort of staring around the room, from corner to corner, from face to face. Thoughts were racing through my mind at a crazy speed:

  Wait a minute . . . wait a minute . . . this is me here. The one and only me. Will . . . good old Will from Spencer’s Grove. I just came to this country to help out. I just came for a week. To build a wall. For my church. To be a good guy. I’m supposed to be going home today. Back to school. Back to ordinary life. They can’t just walk in here and shoot me. Can they? For no reason? Because I’m an American? Because they don’t like the way people behave in this country? I never even heard of this place before I got here. What about my mom and dad? I mean, they may be angry at each other, but they still love me . . . We’re a family . . . They’d be heartbroken if they just . . . I mean, they can’t just . . . kill me . . .

  Can they?

  That’s what I was thinking when the front door opened and Mendoza walked back in.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When I saw him—when I saw the look on his face—the light of triumph in his eyes—I felt as if a hand were closing on my throat. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t swallow. I could barely breathe.

  This can’t be happening. Not to me.

  Then two more gunmen entered behind him. The two already in the cantina—the ones guarding the exits—moved to join them. The four men flanked Mendoza, two on either side, holding their machine guns up at their chests at the ready. As Mendoza slowly moved his gaze over the room, over our faces, the gunmen’s eyes moved right along with his.

  Is this it? I thought. Are they just going to do this? Are they just going to start shooting us? Right here? Right now?

  An image flashed through my mind: a policeman coming to my house . . . telling my mother that I had been killed . . . the shock and grief on her face . . . It was an unbearable idea.

  I could still hear shooting and shouting out in the streets beyond the cantina door. A figure running by the window sometimes. But in here, there was only stillness, silence. Mendoza seemed to study each of us—one frightened, staring face after another. Some of the villagers seemed to shrink under his gaze, as if they hoped they could disappear from in front of him.

  Mendoza let out a short, sharp order. Nicki gasped and started in her chair. I felt myself stiffen too, afraid that he had just commanded the gunmen to kill us all.

  But no. His next words were in English.

  “Everyone out but the Americans. The Americans stay.”

  He didn’t have to tell the villagers twice. Even before he translated, the cantina was loud with the scraping of their chairs and the rumble of their footsteps as they bolted from their seats and rushed to the front door. One of the gunmen held the door open for them, grinning sadistically at their fearful faces as they raced to
get out of there, to get away from Mendoza. As they f led into the streets, we heard more shooting outside and more shouting. The rebels celebrating their victory and lording their power over the villagers.

  Finally, all of the locals were gone from the cantina. The only people left were we Americans, Mendoza, and his four gunmen.

  In the quiet, Mendoza went on studying each of our faces. I saw his mouth curl underneath his mustache as, finally, his eyes came to rest on Palmer Dunn.

  “Well, Señor Dunn,” he said. “It is over, yes? The army is finished. The capital is ours. The question is settled.”

  Palmer regarded the rebel coolly. He nodded. “It looks that way.”

  “You hold out hope? You think your American spies will bother us now? Or your fellow Marines?”

  “They’re not my fellow Marines. I told you.”

  Mendoza ignored this. He went on. “That was many years ago, after all, you know. The Cold War is over now. Your country has no Soviet Union to worry about anymore. So who cares if the people of a tiny Central American country choose a government that treats them with justice?”

  To my surprise, Palmer grinned. A great big grin, as if he thought this whole thing were just some kind of joke.

  “Is that what’s happening?” he asked.

  “Yes! Yes! It is!” This was Jim. Still on his feet. His eyes urgent. He turned to Mendoza. “He doesn’t get it, Señor Mendoza—but I do!” he said. “We talked about this earlier— out in the field—don’t you remember? I agree with you! With your cause! I support what you’re trying to do, I just—”

  “Shut up,” Mendoza said to him.

  Jim looked surprised. “No, I’m just trying to say—”

  “Shut up,” Mendoza said again.

  He gestured. One of the gunmen stepped up to Jim. I held my breath in fear. Nicki let out another gasp.

  But the gunman only pressed the butt of his machine gun into Jim’s chest and shoved him with it.

  Jim staggered backward. The back of his legs hit the edge of his chair. He sat down into the chair, hard. The gunman stood over him, scowling down at him. Jim stared up at him, frightened into silence.

  The exchange had turned Mendoza’s attention toward our table—and his eyes fell on Meredith again. I could see something spark in his gaze, some unfinished business, some unexpressed rage.

  The rebel leader hooked his thumbs in the sides of his belt—an arrogant posture—and came swaggering toward where Meredith was sitting. He moved past me as he went, casually knocking me aside with one elbow.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, looking down at Meredith. “The deaf girl. The one who cannot hear the orders that I give to her.”

  Meredith lifted her face to him where she sat. “I hear you very plainly, Señor Mendoza,” she said.

  “Oh? Oh yes?” said Mendoza. He looked around at his gunmen and gave them a laugh, and they laughed with him, sharing the hilarity. “You hear me but you do not obey my commands? Is that it?”

  Meredith went on looking up at him, but she didn’t answer.

  Mendoza reached down and put his hand under her chin— an affectionate gesture a guy might make toward his girlfriend, only she wasn’t his girlfriend and it wasn’t affectionate at all.

  “I am asking you a question, señorita . . .”

  “Please take your hands off me, Señor Mendoza,” Meredith said.

  Mendoza hesitated—but he didn’t take his hand off her. Instead he shifted it from her chin to her cheek. He stroked her cheek with one finger.

  “I am afraid you do not fully understand the situation you are in,” he said to her.

  “I understand,” said Meredith. “Please take your hands off me.”

  I held my breath as I stood there watching them. I can hardly describe what I felt. I was afraid. I don’t mind admitting it. I thought they were going to kill us and I didn’t want to die and I was afraid. But at the same time, I wanted to knock Mendoza down—I wanted to so bad, so bad. It made me sick in my heart to see him treating Meredith like this, taunting her and trying to humiliate her like this. And to just stand there, helpless to stop him—that was the worst— almost worse than the fear of dying—to stand there with all those guns around me and not be able to do anything to help her . . .

  Mendoza went right on stroking her cheek as if he hadn’t heard what she said. He looked around at his gunmen. Laughed as if to ask them: Can you believe this woman? I could tell he had no intention of letting Meredith boss him around—certainly not while his men were watching him.

  Now, he took his finger from her cheek and crouched down in front of her. He reached out to take her hand, which was lying in her lap. I saw Meredith try to pull her hand away, but Mendoza caught it in both of his hands and held it. Crouched down like that, his eyes were level with hers. He held her hand and looked into her eyes.

  “Dear girl,” he said quietly—almost gently. “I have to tell this to you: you are in terrible danger here. Do you understand this?”

  “Yes,” said Meredith. In the quiet cantina, her clear, ringing voice was startlingly steady and calm. “I understand completely.”

  “These are very violent times in my country, very dangerous times. At times like these, life becomes very cheap. A person can disappear very easily, causing much grief to everyone who knows them. You understand?”

  Meredith didn’t answer but only gazed at him, her face stony, expressionless, as he went on holding her hand in both of his.

  And I watched the two of them. Everything inside me wanted to stand up for her, but I knew if I did, I would get myself badly hurt, maybe worse. I hated myself for being a coward, but I just couldn’t bring myself to speak up or move.

  “On the other hand,” Mendoza went on, “there is a hope. A possibility. For a woman like yourself, an attractive woman. You might be able to make a friend, you know? A powerful friend who can protect you in times of need.” He smiled at her. “Señorita,” he said in a tone of appeal. “There is no reason for this animosity between us when instead you could improve your situation very greatly by showing me the kind of affection you—”

  Meredith spit in his face.

  The shock of it. Man oh man! It was as if a lightning bolt had gone through the room. It was as if a lightning bolt had gone through me—pierced me head-to-toe in a single instant like a spear hurled down from heaven. I could hardly believe what I’d seen, could hardly believe that Meredith would do it—and would do it here, now, when it was sure to bring misery and pain down on her like an avalanche.

  But it was real. It really happened. She spit sharply right in Mendoza’s eye—and he was so startled, he let go of her hand and fell back out of his crouch, dropped down—bang—onto his backside on the floor.

  Instantly, he scrabbled up. Leapt to his feet. His rugged face was dark with fury as he wiped the spit off it with the heel of his palm. There was this moment then—this moment captured like a snapshot in my memory—when he stood there looming over Meredith like some enormous storm and she sat looking up at him, with her eyes as clear as ever, her face as calm, as if nothing he did could have any effect on her whatsoever.

  Then Mendoza barked out a word in Spanish—a word I didn’t know—some curse word, I’m sure. And with a growl of rage, he drew back his hand to slap her.

  I grabbed his arm. I didn’t know I was going to do it. I didn’t even think about it. I just leapt forward and grabbed hold of his wrist with both my hands to hold him back.

  It was the first time I’d ever heard a note of fear enter Meredith’s voice. “No, Will, don’t!” she cried out.

  But it was too late. One of Mendoza’s gunmen smacked me in the face with the butt of his machine gun.

  No one had ever hit me before, not ever. It was awful. An awful feeling. A jarring trauma through my whole body. It drove out everything, every other thought. I went stumbling backward helplessly, and the next moment the gunman—or maybe another gunman, I don’t know—hit me again, driving the machine-gun butt i
nto my stomach, knocking the air out of me.

  I tumbled sideways to the floor, another shock going through my body as I hit. Someone screamed—Nicki, I guess. A chair scraped. I heard Pastor Ron say, “No more—please!”

  Clutching my stomach, groaning, I looked up and saw Mendoza. From that angle, he seemed enormous, a looming tower of pure rage. His face contorted in fury. He had already wiped the spit off himself, but he did it again and then again, as if it were stuck on him and he couldn’t get it off.

  Then he let out a roar and he kicked me.

  I tried to protect myself, covering myself with my arms, but the tip of his heavy boot drove into my gut and then pulled back and drove into my forehead. I felt a double explosion of pain, saw a double explosion of light and then sparkling darkness. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t think about anything except how much I hoped this would stop, how I would do anything—say anything—to make it stop.

  When I managed to look again, tears blurred my vision. I saw Mendoza. I saw him pull the pistol from his holster. He was going to shoot me where I lay.

  A new prayer flashed through my mind: Please be with me, God. I was pretty sure I was about to be making that request face-to-face.

  But just then Meredith jumped to her feet. She made a move to rush to me where I was lying on the floor. I think she was going to throw herself between me and the bullet. But she never got the chance. Instead of shooting me, Mendoza pulled his pistol back as if he were going to smack her in the head with it.

  This time it was Pastor Ron who stopped him. He got between him and Meredith and grabbed Meredith by the shoulders. He pushed her away from me and away from Mendoza. He settled her back into her chair, murmuring something to her I couldn’t hear.

  Breathing hard, the pistol still lifted in his hand, Mendoza turned back to me. I could see he was wild with rage. He still didn’t shoot me, though. He turned away. He started stalking around the room, stomping here and there as if he weren’t sure which way to go. He started shouting at everyone, turning from side to side.