Twilight

by Brendan DuBois

  In front of me were mobile trailers, tents, pickup trucks and groups of armed men who were moving about, eating, talking among themselves or cleaning their weapons. There were even a dozen or so horses, off to the left, grazing peacefully from oatbags hung around their necks. I got up and went to the other side of the bus. The same type of peephole had been scraped away, but the view here was not as interesting: just a cleared lane of dirt and a woodline a few meters away, and a few strands of rusting barbed wire stretching away on both sides. That was all. Below the window someone had carved a message into the paint. I looked closer, felt a chill as I saw a Star of David, and below that, in tiny letters: S. Steinberg, please remember me. I went back to the seat, sat still for a moment and then looked at my wrist. No watch, of course. Confiscated earlier. I reached into my coat pocket, took out my book of Orwell essays, and settled down to read.

  There was nothing else I could do.

  LOST IN THOUGHT after reading an essay about Orwell’s experiences in the Spanish Civil War, I jumped as the door up forward slammed open and a younger militiaman came in. His face was shadowed with stubble and his head was almost fully covered with a black wool cap.

  “Come along,” he said.

  I kept the book open, not knowing why I was doing what I was doing, only that it felt right. “You didn’t say the magic word.”

  The militiaman looked confused. “What do you mean, ‘the magic word’?”

  “Please,” I said. “That’s the magic word.”

  He shrugged, reached under his coat, pulled out a pistol. “Here’s my fucking magic words: Smith and Wesson. How about that?”

  I closed my book, put it back in my jacket. “They’ll do.”

  I got up and headed to the front of the bus, the floor creaking again under my weight. Outside, two more militia members flanked me and I fell in with them. Again, this is the place in the movie where the hero overpowers the armed militiamen, hot-wires a pickup truck with a paper clip and a snappy quip, and then roars away to safety. But this particular hero just shivered and looked around at the campsite. It looked like nearly a hundred people were living there, under the trees and in the trailers and tents. I saw a number of women and children as well as the men I’d already noticed. If there was any particular uniform, it was blue jeans or camouflage pants plus military-surplus jackets. Almost every person I saw was carrying a weapon, even the women and some of the children. Two of the kids, young boys about nine or ten, pointed guns at me and made shooting noises. I flinched, making one of my escorts laugh. “Don’t worry, UN man,” he said. “Those guns are just plastic.”

  “For now,” the other one said.

  I kept quiet.

  At the nearest trailer, a militiaman standing guard opened the door and I went in. I noticed something odd on the side of the trailer, two words painted in red. RED RULES! This trailer looked like it had once been a residential home, but the chairs and couches had been taken away. The small room, with thick soiled carpeting, had a wooden desk in the center, and behind the desk was the same bearded man who had arrested me back at the general store. At each side of the desk stood an American flag and another flag sporting a blue ensign and seal that I couldn’t recognize. In front of the desk was an empty chair, straight-backed and wooden. My escorts stayed behind at the door. The bearded man looked up at me and said, “Have a seat.”

  “All right, I will,” I said, taking the empty chair.

  The bearded man picked up a pen and prepared to write on a yellow legal pad. “The name is Saunders. Royal Saunders. I’m colonel-in-chief of the Free Columbia Militia. Your name?”

  “Simpson. Samuel Simpson.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Toronto, Ontario.”

  “Age?” Saunders asked.

  “Twenty-six.”

  The pen moved rather delicately, considering how large Saunders’s hand was. If I had been a prisoner of war I guess I could have gotten away with name, rank and serial number. But I’d been told in my training—which seemed like a lifetime ago!—that if captured one should cooperate as much as possible. What would be the point otherwise?

  “Occupation?”

  “Current or prior?”

  “Let’s start with prior,” Saunders said.

  “A reporter with the Toronto Star.”

  “And currently?”

  I looked at that calm bearded face, a face that wouldn’t have looked out of place anywhere in Toronto, at the CN Tower or the Astrodome, the face of a man who was judging my fate. I cleared my throat. “Special investigator, UNFORUS.”

  Somebody behind me muttered something. Saunders motioned with his free hand. “For those of us who don’t know acronyms, could you explain what ‘UNFORUS’ stands for?”

  I had a feeling that he was playing with me, but I went along with the game anyway. “United Nations Force in the United States.”

  “Where did you train?”

  “Ottawa, to start. Then here in Albany, where I was assigned to my unit.”

  “Uh-huh,” Saunders said. “And who invited this force into our country?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Saunders looked up from the legal pad. “I asked you a question, Samuel. Who invited this force into our country?”

  “I think you know who.”

  A slight smirk. “Since I’m the one asking the questions, I want the answers from you. So, Samuel, who invited this force into our country?”

  Third time lucky. “A Security Council resolution, which authorized UNFORUS after the terrorist attack on New York City and the balloon strikes last spring resulting in the … disorders and riots in certain states. You know that’s why the UN came in.”

  “A resolution. A piece of paper. And it gave you and everybody else reason to invade us, is that right?”

  “The Security Council authorized the force, because of the … the disturbances taking place here. That’s why. Even the American ambassador to the UN didn’t vote against the resolution. He abstained. Even your President didn’t come out directly to oppose it. Some of your senators and congressmen were even in favor of the intervention. Which enabled the resolution to pass, which in turn authorized the creation of UNFORUS.”

  “And how long did that traitorous ambassador live after that vote? One week? Two weeks? Even with him being in Geneva and all?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “And why did you join this force?”

  I shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “I like the States. Always have. And when the troubles started, well, I wanted to do my part to help out. I was bored with my reporting job. I thought I could make a difference by signing up with the UN.”

  “By spying against us?” Saunders asked sharply.

  “I wasn’t spying.”

  More murmuring behind me. Saunders talked lower and slower, like he was trying to make a point. “You’re a foreigner. You’re in this country illegally. You and the rest of your crew have high-tech surveillance and tracking equipment. We don’t care what you say about why you’re here. We know your real mission. You’re identifying targets, identifying areas to strike, for the next round of attacks, to weaken us even further.”

  “I wasn’t spying.”

  Saunders went on as though he hadn’t heard me. “Bad enough that you and the other UN folks snuck in after the bombings and the balloon strikes, killing more of us and forcing us to accept your intervention. Now you’re setting us up for the next round of attacks, even worse than before. Take away our sovereignty. Take away our flag. Take away our guns.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That’s our secret plan. Take away your guns. You see, we have this funny little idea about men and guns. We think it’s a bad thing when men with guns start killing their neighbors, start raping their women, slaughtering their children, shooting them in hotels or buses or cars. We think it’s a bad thing when—for whatever reason—the local, state and federal gove
rnments seem incapable of preventing such slaughter. That’s why we’re here. To stop the killing and document what happened—and to prosecute the guilty.”

  Someone behind me whispered, “See? They admit it. They’re here to take everything away from us.”

  I rubbed at my eyes. “Listen, do you folks know anything about sarcasm? Do you?”

  Saunders stared right at me. “We know a lot of things. We also know that you and your kind don’t belong here.”

  “There’s been an agreement, an armistice.”

  He made a motion with his hands. Then, in a blur of activity, I was grabbed and wrenched back as the chair was pulled away. I fell on my butt and then the kicking started as I turned over and tried to protect my head with my hands and arms. I rolled around the floor, screeching and hollering, remembering my earlier training: if you’re ever attacked, make a lot of noise. It’ll either attract help or it will satisfy your attackers that they are doing enough damage.

  No help was likely anytime soon, but I guess the second part worked because the kicking didn’t last that long. They stopped and I lay there as Saunders leaned over his desk and said, “Can you sit up?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then do it.”

  I sat up, my ears ringing. The inside of my cheek hurt where a kick had slammed it against my teeth. I looked behind me at the two militiamen, who were breathing hard, faces red, looking pretty satisfied with themselves. Then I stood up, weaving back and forth, and limped over to the chair, where I sat down.

  Saunders also sat back down. “You asked me earlier if I knew anything about sarcasm. I’ll tell you what I know. ‘Sarcasm’ is in the dictionary, just before ‘shithead.’ Understand?”

  I gingerly touched the edge of my jaw. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Good,” Saunders said. “Samuel, this was a lousy interrogation. You should think of doing better next time. Or else we’re gonna start by breaking your fingers. All right?”

  I just looked at him, said nothing. Saunders said, “Fine. Take him back to the bus. And in case you haven’t figured it out, the armistice is over.”

  I guessed it was.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Back in the bus, I went to the rear and used the chemical toilet, where the shakes started and where I vomited into the filthy plastic bowl. I rinsed out the bowl. There was a bucket of water by the toilet and I used it to wash my hands and face. Then I went back to the main part of the bus. A plastic shopping bag that said PRICE CHOPPER on the side was on one of the seats. I opened it up and found a hard stick of salami, some bottled water and a piece of cheese. The seal around the water bottle was unbroken, and it looked like the salami and cheese were also firmly sealed.

  So what?

  If they wanted me dead, I doubted that poisoning would be their method of choice. I sat on the seat and ate the meal, the salami’s saltiness making the wound in my cheek sting. I sipped at the water and saved half the bottle. The tiny bulbs were still burning, and I began to appreciate the ridiculousness of having Christmas lights illuminating this deceptively peaceful and actually deadly little scene. I found the green wool blanket and wrapped myself up. It was getting colder, and it didn’t look like there was a stove or a heater in here. I pulled out my trusty Orwell and started reading. Then I put the book down. There was a commotion of some sort going on outside. I moved over to the other side of the bus, went up to the little peephole. Out under the trees there was a cluster of militiamen, and when they moved I saw that they were escorting four or five men. In the lengthening shadows it was hard to see who they were, but as they got closer I saw that they were all dressed in uniforms. Their arms were bound in front of them, they were barefoot, and on two of them I glimpsed blue brassards on their shoulders. UN forces. Irish, British, Canadian, Hungarian, Egyptian … who could tell?

  But they were prisoners now, that was easy to see.

  Then things got hellish, quite quickly.

  One of the prisoners at the end of the line suddenly spun around and made a run for it to the woodline. “Jesus,” I said out loud. “Don’t do it.”

  There were shouts and the other prisoners fell flat on their faces. After another couple of shouts one of the militiamen raised his rifle and popped off three or four rounds, the muzzle flashes very bright. The soldier trying to make a run for it flopped to the ground without making a sound. More shouting, and the militiamen kicked at the prisoners lying in the dirt as if it was their fault. A couple more militiamen and some militia women came up and examined the shot prisoner, and he was dragged away. His comrades were kicked again, then dragged to their feet and they started shuffling away once more. Not one of them looked back at the body being dragged away. Not one.

  I moved away from the window and then stretched out on the mattress. I stared up at the metal ceiling of the school bus, trying not to think about anything much. Later the lights slowly dimmed until they were barely glowing and I kept on staring up, still trying not to think. I got up and looked outside for one last time and saw that almost all the lights in the camp were dimmed as well.

  Night had fallen.

  LATER IN THE night there was the sound of helicopters, low overhead. I rolled off the mattress and went to the window again, my heart thumping. A UN raiding party, maybe—God, wouldn’t that be wonderful. A quick search-and-rescue, and I could be out of here in a matter of minutes.

  But no rescue arrived. I looked out the window into blackness. All the lights were off, not a single one showing. Damn, the militia were good. The faintest sound of something overhead, and everything went dark. The noise of the helicopters grew louder and louder until I could almost imagine them overhead, searching. If I’d had matches or a flare or something, I think even I would have had the stones to break out and make some sort of signal. But all I had were my empty hands, clenched in frustration, as the helicopter-engine noise started to fade away.

  I stepped back from the window and then was startled so much that I almost banged my head on the school-bus ceiling as the front door scissored open and cold air came in, along with a flashlight beam. I remembered the warning I had received earlier about staying away from the window, and I thought this was it, I had been spotted. I’d be dragged out and shot, just like that UN soldier earlier.

  “Hey!” came a voice. “Back away—show me your hands!”

  I did just that. There was some confusion up front and a man stumbled forward and slumped onto his knees. A militiaman was behind him, holding a flashlight, the same young guy who had showed me his Smith and Wesson.

  “Hope there’s room at the inn, ’cause you’ve got to share quarters,” he said, stepping back outside. “And remember the rules. No looking out or sneaking out, or you’re dead men.”

  The door squeaked shut and the man in front of me moaned some, and then rolled over and sat up. The side of his face was covered with dirt and looked bruised. He seemed a few years older than me and was dressed in khaki slacks and a dark blue sweater and sneakers. His hair was dark and he had a nicely trimmed beard. He rubbed at the side of his head and looked over at me.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Since I’ve been here longer, I think you should start,” I said.

  “Ouch,” he said, pulling his fingers away from his head. “The name is Gary Nealon. And yours?”

  “Samuel Simpson.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “And why are you the guest of our fair county militia this fall evening?”

  “I’m from Canada,” I said.

  Gary shook his head. “If you were from France, I could understand. But why Canada?”

  I folded my arms. “Because I was in the employ of the United Nations, that’s why. And you? What’s your story?”

  He leaned up against one of the few remaining bolted seats. “Ah, I’m here because of a very nasty and dastardly crime,” he said.

  “Which was what?”

  “Being a schoolteacher and teaching the truth,” Gary said.

  “Oh.�
��

  He shook his head, managed a smile. “Doesn’t sound like much, but in this time and place I’m afraid it’s now a capital crime. Tell me, could I bother you for some water?”

  I thought about going back and picking up the plastic bucket at the rear, but looking at what had just happened to him and what he had said, I handed over my bottle of water. He examined it and said, “Your last water?”

  “Back behind the blanket there’s a chemical toilet and a bucket for washing up that has some water.”

  He started to get up. “Then I’ll use that …”

  I pushed him down gently. “No, it’s fine. Drink from the bottle. I’m sure we’ll get some more supplies in the morning.”

  Gary undid the cap and said, “Then you’re a romantic, aren’t you?”

  “So I’ve been accused.”

  He took just a couple of sips, and then passed the bottle back. He said, “Been here long?”

  “Just about a day.”

  “And what were you doing for the UN?”

  “Investigating war crimes.”

  “Oh. Sounds very serious.”

  “It was very serious,” I said, “though it seemed like most of the time we drove around in circles, finding a whole lot of nothing. Until just the other day, when we came upon a TV crew from Australia that then got ambushed.”

  “Prying eyes,” Gary said. “The first rule of authority. Keep prying eyes away.”

  “They sure seem to be doing a good job.”

  “What are you? A lawyer? A coroner? A forensics investigator?”