by Bob Purssell
“You’re not going to let them kill me?” I plead.
“Do exactly as I say. Go out to the car and get the package.”
“You’ll be here when I get back?”
“Go out to the car and get the package.”
Fearing Henri will not be on the line when I get back; I dash out to the SUV, locate the package under the backseat and run back into the room. I yell into the receiver, “I got it. I got it.”
“Good. Open the package and look at the map.”
Spreading the map, I see two routes, A and B.
Henri asks, “Do you see Route B?”
Route A, marked in black ink, is the route I traveled to reach the radiotelephone relay station. It goes past my start point and leads directly to the capital (N’Djamena). Route B, marked in blue ink, heads roughly in the opposite direction and ends at a town on a major north-south road that eventually reaches N’Djamena. If I use Route B, rather than Route A, I will travel twice the distance to reach the capital.
“I’ve found Route B. It’s-it’s much longer.”
“Yes, it is,” confirms Henri. He then emphatically adds, “Use Route B. Avoid Route A; it’s not safe.”
“But it’s much longer.”
“You must use Route B. Am I making myself clear?”
“Am I in danger?”
“Yes. Use Route B.”
Panicking, I try to ask a question, but I cannot form the sentence.
Henri calmly tells me, “You must leave immediately. Drive as quickly as you dare. Do not stop for any reason.”
* * *
Driven by my terror, I flee. Reaching the SUV, I throw the rifle into the backseat and rocket down the hill to the intersection with the rutted track. Turning away from the direction I came, I accelerate. The ride is hard and bumpy. I am roaring across the savanna. All the while, I am praying to, pleading with, God to save me.
A tiny village emerges. Moving off the track, I give it a wide berth. Abreast of the huts, I glance out the passenger window but see no one.
On I go. I try reading the map as I drive, but I cannot; the road is too bumpy. Calming down, I stop in an open area, look around to make sure no one is near and then begin studying the map. Route B ends at a town on a major road. The distance I have to go is greater than the distance I have already traveled. My eyes flip to the gas gauge; I have less than half a tank. Panicky, I yell, “Oh, my God!”
I resume my escape. Praying, pleading, begging for salvation, I pass two checkpoints on Route B. The first is another apparently abandoned village. All that remains of the second are burned-out huts. In neither village do I see any people, dead or alive.
Now I have a long run through a blank section of the map. Occasionally, I glance down at the gas gauge, hoping the needle has not moved closer to the dreaded “E.” The landscape racing past is changing, more vegetation, more green. The more greenery, I reason, the more water and the more likelihood of meeting people.
I do not want to meet anyone. The map indicates Route B ends at a highway. All I want is to reach that goal without incident. On two occasions, I see small groups of people moving along the road. As soon as they see me, much to my joy, they flee into the scrub. Racing along through the emptiness, I consider what I have already seen. My determination not to stop only increases.
* * *
I am coming out of the savanna. Occasionally, I pass through wooded regions with tall trees. Suddenly, I pass recently cultivated fields, now seemingly abandoned.
The last checkpoint should be just up ahead. I glance at my watch, which reads a few minutes after four. The needle of the gas gauge points at ‘E’. I have memorized the map; my vehicle will not make it to the highway.
Up ahead there is a small hill; in the sky beyond there are wisps of smoke. “This is bad,” I say as I push down on the throttle to keep up my speed.
I crest the rise and see a village that is much larger than any I have yet passed through. Two facts immediately make an indelible impression: First, flames are shooting up from several huts and a larger building is smoking furiously. Second, the road leads straight into and obviously through the village.
I slow, looking for a way to avoid the trouble. To my left is a single-lane track that leads into the surrounding fields. I hope that it will let me drive around the village. Heeding Henri’s warning to avoid contact with anyone, I leave the main road and enter the fields.
In front of me in the distance are buildings with corrugated roofs. Now I understand the purpose of the field road. On I go, hoping I have not gone down a dead end.
I reach the buildings, which appear to be some kind of agribusiness. Not interested in the structures’ purposes, I look for an exit road that will allow me to bypass the burning village.
Driving between the buildings, I plead, “Don’t let this be a dead end.”
To my right a man and woman emerge. The man has a young child in his arms, the woman an infant. They are running toward the car. Instinctively, I slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the man who runs directly in front of the hood.
The vehicle stops. I turn my head to the right; the woman is opening the front passenger door. She is getting in. The man runs past me to the rear of the vehicle.
Three men emerge from behind the building. I can clearly see the sunlight reflect off one of the machetes. The man with the boy has opened the rear driver-side door. He is having trouble getting the kid into the car.
I engage the clutch and begin to move forward slowly. I want to get moving before the men with the knives reach us. I remember thinking, this is taking forever.
The first of the attackers is sprinting out in front of the rest. “Hurry up,” I yell as I gently push down on the accelerator. The boy scrambles into the backseat; the father is having trouble getting in.
The car is picking up speed. The father falls. I slam on the brakes. The father tries to stand; the man with the machete has reached the back of the SUV. A scream pierces the air. Reflexively, I floor the throttle. There is another scream. I grab second gear; we power out.
I quickly glance at the backseat. Where is the man? I look in the rearview mirror. The man with the machete has his weapon above his head. Down it comes upon the figure lying in the road.
* * *
The car fills with screams. We are bypassing the town. Another hundred yards and we’ll regain the main road. I join the screaming, yelling, “Keep going. Keep going.”
Two men are standing where the access road joins the main road; both have machetes. Instantly, I realize their plan. They will attack when I come to a near stop before making the sharp left turn.
As I have done so many times before while racing karts, I brake hard. Fearing that I will stop, the woman screams, “Non. Non.”
Yelling out in French, “I know what I’m doing,” I position the car’s right wheels on the edge of the road and prepare to execute a late apex. In my peripheral vision I see others running toward us from the village, but I am focusing on the two men and my turn.
My braking fools the first man. Thinking I am stopping, he rushes forward into the road, not realizing I intend to turn and then accelerate. Coming off the brake, I turn hard left while applying just enough throttle to keep accelerating but not so much that I lose traction and skid.
Time seems to have slowed down. I see everything in detail. Rage contorts the second attacker’s face; he is missing two of his front teeth.
The woman screams. With a loud thump, the first attacker lands on the hood, grabs at the right wiper blade, and then slides off and under the vehicle.
The other man, the second attacker, understands what I am attempting. He waits for me to slow and correctly positions himself to grab the open driver-side rear door as I go by. I watch him begin his move and calmly wonder, will he succeed?
My eyes flick back to the road;
I pass the apex. Applying more power, unwinding my turn, I gain speed. Although I am going slowly, there is a lot of body roll. Fearing that I am going to flip the vehicle, I yell, “Damn,” as I instinctively countersteer.
Powering down the main road, I glance at my left side-view mirror. The sight of the second attacker clinging to the SUV startles me. I juice the accelerator. Going too fast for the rough dirt road, the SUV bounces up and down madly as it hits one bump after another.
Undoubtedly never having experienced anything like what they are going through now, my passengers have stopped screaming. I glance at the woman. Her eyes are wide with FEAR.
Again, I look in the left side-view mirror. The man is holding onto the door with one hand and the luggage rack with the other, his body dangling along the left side of the car. I yell, “I’ll fix your ass,” and press down hard on the accelerator. The SUV, hitting ruts and bumps, jumps wildly into the air, smashing down hard on the suspension like a demented mechanical bull. The vehicle and the man are both taking a terrific pounding. I look in the rearview mirror. The village has vanished in our dust.
How long does this go on? It feels like hours. I am sure it is only a few seconds.
Three heavy bumps in a row break the man’s grip. In the rearview mirror, I see him bounce up from hitting the ground, his body rolling after us in a cloud of dust as we continue to tear along.
* * *
I slow down to a reasonable speed. No one seems to be following us. Breathing heavily, my heart pounding, I check the gas gauge; the pointer has gone below ‘E’.
I yell, “It won’t be long now.”
The woman looks at me, uncomprehending. I sigh and force a smile.
Trying to postpone the inevitable, I drive to conserve fuel. We go a few miles more before the gas tank actually empties. I shift into neutral, and the slowing SUV has just enough momentum to make the crest of a rise. Below is a smallish river. Since the grade is fairly steep, I let the vehicle roll, picking up a fair amount of speed in the process. Slowed by the water, the SUV fords the shallow stream and then stops.
The woman asks me a question in her native tongue, which I do not understand.
In French, I reply, “We’re out of gasoline.”
Her blank expression tells all.
Standing outside the SUV, I look at the map. I am eight miles straight-line distance to the town on the highway. On foot, I guess it’s probably more like ten. Between the stream and the town, the map shows no features or settlements. “A walk in the park,” I ruefully mumble to myself.
The sun is close to the horizon, the shadows are long. I have, at best, an hour of daylight. “Time to move along,” I mutter.
The woman is standing a couple of yards from me. The boy clings to her feet; the infant she holds in her arms.
I point across the stream to the road we have just come down. I take my finger and draw it across my throat. Her slow nod indicates to me that she has understood my meaning. I point to the ground between us and again draw my finger across my throat. Again, she nods. I now point to the road that leads to the highway. She understands and says something to the boy.
I retrieve the rifle from the backseat and study the ancient weapon, which probably dates from World War II. Extrapolating from my weapons training during Basic, I remove the clip and count the number of rounds. There are six. I mutter, “Better than nothing.”
Fearing an accidental discharge, I check that the safety is on before slinging the rifle over my shoulder. I can jog the ten miles in two hours, easy. If I were alone, all this would be straightforward.
I start to walk away from the SUV. The boy, holding his mother’s hand, tugs and points to where we have come. He is imploring her. She scolds, and then stops speaking.
It is dead quiet. I am about to say, “Let’s get going,” when I understand what is happening. The boy has heard something, and now the woman is listening intently.
I have not heard anything yet, but I can guess what is coming our way. “Fuck,” I growl. The woman gives me a glance.
Then a noise.
Startled, she looks across the stream at the road we have just traveled down minutes before. The sound of a vehicle laboring up the hill is faint but quite audible.
* * *
Saying, “Get behind the SUV and stay down,” I grab the woman and the boy, pull them in front of the hood of the SUV and push them down. Unslinging my rifle as I run, I position myself behind the left rear of the vehicle.
I crouch down as the truck comes over the hill. It is a mini-pickup. Men are standing in the bed. They are yelling; their prize is in sight.
I shoulder my weapon. Will the driver rush us? Will he stop to let his people deploy?
Not really sure what I should do, what I will do, I wait. Every nerve in my body is tense.
Fifty yards or so from the SUV, the truck stops and the men in the bed jump out; the driver and his passenger exit the cab. There are six in all. Three are dressed in camo, the rest in street clothes. They are relaxed. I can tell by the shouts and laughter. One of them does a sort of dance that ends with the man wildly slashing the air with his machete.
Strangely, well strangely for me, I am calm. My nerves have not deserted me … yet. I wonder why this is. I am in a tight spot; I have but one round for each of the men in the truck. Maybe it is the rifle whose barrel I am looking down; maybe it is the fact I have been terrified too many times already today to be terrified again. Whatever the cause, I am pleased that I seem to be in control.
One of the men has an automatic rifle. He waves it in the air. The others cheer him on. He fires a few rounds skyward, and his comrades cheer and laugh.
Another man points in my direction and loudly says something to the man with the automatic rifle. Responding, Automatic Rifle Man wheels and then, holding his weapon with one hand, fires off a burst in my direction.
Completely startled, I cringe behind the SUV’s sheet metal as if it were armor plate. The bullets fly who knows where; none seem to hit anything around me.
Recovering, enraged, I aim at Automatic Rifle Man. He is an easy target. Remembering what I had learned in Basic, I slowly squeeze the trigger. The weapon does not fire. Calm, completely in control, I wonder what has gone wrong. Then it dawns upon me. I have not released the safety.
After releasing the safety catch, I re-aim my rifle, but do not shoot. Automatic Rifle Man, to my astonishment, is doing a dance, weapon in hand. This brings out more laughter and taunts from his buddies.
He stops his dance and turns toward me. I site on his chest. No one moves; no one makes a sound. Slowly Automatic Rifle Man begins lifting his weapon to the firing position. Calm, but angry, I realize this time he intends to aim before shooting.
His chest clearly in my sights, I slowly squeeze the trigger.
The rifle shot crashes out. Birds in a nearby tree take flight. Automatic Rifle Man slowly topples over, his rifle landing next to his body.
One man, then another, start running, both fleeing for their lives. The first heads for a thicket, the other dashes up the hill.
Automatic Rifle Man lies sprawled on the ground motionless, silent.
* * *
Recovering from his shock, intent on retrieving the automatic rifle, one of the three who did not panic moves toward the weapon. Bending over, his butt facing me, the man’s hand reaches down. Not able to target a critical organ, I aim at his right cheek and squeeze off my second shot.
The man’s body goes erect, and then he screams in agony. Falling to the ground, writhing in pain, he screams and screams. A comrade rushes over to help Wounded Man. The other man, dressed in camo and paralyzed by all that has happened, looks on, mouth agape. Grabbing hold of his comrade’s arms, the Rescuer begins dragging Wounded Man toward the pickup truck, while shouting to the man still standing motionless.
The motionless m
an comes to life and turns toward the truck. Now I comprehend; the motionless man is the truck’s driver. It dawns on me what is happening. They are going to put Wounded Man, who screams incessantly, in the truck and take him somewhere for medical assistance.
In an instant a thought, a plan forms in my mind.
Through my sites, I see the Driver is reaching for the door handle. In French, I yell out, “STOP,” then, “HALT.” He looks in my direction, considers my command and then starts to open the door.
My rifle already aimed, I squeeze the trigger and it discharges. The Driver falls to the ground and curls up.
Rushing forward toward the truck, I approach the fallen Driver. The Rescuer, who has been dragging Wounded Man, now emerges from behind the truck. Seeing one another, both of us stop five yards or so apart. He starts to unsheathe his machete; I point my rifle. Realizing the folly of his action, the Rescuer drops his weapon and slowly puts up his hands to surrender.
“GO! GO!” I shout out.
In poorly spoken French, the Rescuer pleads, “My brother, please help my brother.”
I shoulder my weapon, fully intending to shoot. The Rescuer does not run. Instead, he continues his pleading. Infuriated, I scream, “Run for your life. Move or I shoot. “
The Rescuer gets the message and runs off, abandoning his sibling, Wounded Man, who lying on the ground behind the truck, screams all the louder at being deserted.
I turn and look down at the Driver who, gut shot, holds his stomach and moans quietly. In his right hand, he clutches the vehicle’s keys. I reach down to take them, but stop.
At first, I do not comprehend what I am seeing. Confused I hover over the Driver. He snarls at me in Arabic, and my mind comprehends.
The Driver is Hamza.
He tucks the keys under his body.
I shout, “Give me the keys.”
With terrified eyes, with blood dripping from his mouth, Hamza says something in Arabic. Is he pleading for my help? Is he cursing me?
Inside me, a feeling of rage is growing. Today, this incident, the whole thing has been too much. For a second, I hesitate and try to regain control of my emotions. I cannot. Slowly I lift my rifle above my head, and with all the strength at my disposal, I bring the butt down on top of Hamza’s skull. Again and again, my rage now hopelessly beyond my control, I smash away.
