Because it made sense, that was why. To keep on hiding the evidence, the evidence that something horrible was happening here.
As I came back into the main body of the bus, I saw that the front door had opened and two militiamen were standing there, pistols in their hands, looking at me and at Gary. We both stood there, silent, both of us wondering, I’m sure, who was being summoned. But at least we didn’t have long to wait.
The lead militiaman looked straight at me. He needed a shave. He motioned with the pistol. “UN man, your turn.”
SAME TRAILER, SAME room, same interrogator and two militiamen behind me. The bearded man who called himself Colonel Saunders. He was sipping from a mug of coffee, and he looked up at me as I sat down.
“Coffee?”
“No,” I said.
“Freshly made.”
“That’s fine. I don’t want any.”
Saunders said, “You could be a bit more gracious, Samuel.”
“Tell you what: you set me free, you let me get back to a UN unit, and I’ll send you a thank-you note.”
The colonel grinned, not a very pleasing sight. “That might be a problem. There seem to be fewer and fewer of you UN folks in-country with every passing day.”
I was going to say something sharp back to him, about what I had seen earlier that morning—the killing of the prisoners—but I stopped myself just in time. I wasn’t supposed to have been looking out of the school bus. I wasn’t supposed to have seen anything going on. Not a thing. But still …
“I heard some gunshots this morning, toward the rear of the school bus,” I asked. “Target practice?”
One of the two guards behind me chuckled and I felt nauseous, that the thought of killing bound men on their knees would cause such humor. Saunders raised his coffee mug. “Target practice. Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
He put the mug down, picked up a pen and a legal pad. “This is going to be your second interrogation, Samuel. And your last. Do you understand? I want to hear some better answers from you today, or it’s not going to end well for you. Do I make myself clear?”
I clasped my hands, not wanting Saunders to see them shake. “Yes, you make yourself clear.”
“Good. Let’s begin.”
And he did, right from the beginning. Name, age, address, occupation. How long had I been in the United States? What were my political views?
I hesitated on that one. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.”
“I said, what’s your politics? How did you vote? Liberal or Conservative?”
“Moderate, I guess.”
Saunders glared. “Not a good answer.”
“Well, that’s what we have up in Canada. Mostly moderate parties.”
“And which one have you supported?”
I looked at him and lied. “The Conservative Party, of course.”
There was a pause, and then he wrote something down on the pad. I tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible. The party I usually vote for is the Liberal Party, but I didn’t want to use that loaded adjective—liberal—with these armed men. And since they were typical Americans, I’m sure they didn’t know one Canadian political party from another. Hell, for all I knew, they probably thought Bloc Quebecois was run from Paris.
“Let’s talk about your training,” Saunders said.
“All right.”
“What kind of weapons training did you receive?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question.”
He glared at me again. “Weapons training. Did you receive qualifications for handling pistols, semi-auto rifles, explosives?”
I laughed. “Of course not!”
He raised an eyebrow, and I gasped as someone slapped the back of my head. Saunders said, “The question wasn’t a joke, Samuel. So here we go again. What kind of weapons training did you receive?”
The back of my head was still stinging, but I kept my hands still, not wanting to give my captors back there any satisfaction. “All right,” I said. “No joking. I received no weapons training.”
“None?”
“None,” I said.
“You’re telling me you don’t know how to use a firearm, of any kind?” Saunders asked.
“No, I didn’t say that,” I said.
“Hmm,” he said, a hint of triumph in his tone. “Tell me what you’re qualified with, then.”
I felt the impulse to laugh again, but this time I kept it under control. “I’ve fired a .22 caliber bolt-action rifle a few times, back when I was a youngster. I’m not sure of the make or model. I also fired a bolt-action .308 once or twice, when I was twelve. My father wanted me to learn how to hunt deer with him. The lesson didn’t take. I’ve also fired a pistol a few times, as part of a story I was working on in Toronto.”
Saunders didn’t look as triumphant. “I think you’re lying.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not responsible for what you’re thinking. I’m telling you the truth. That’s all I know.”
“Then weapons-identification training. You’ve certainly received that, haven’t you?”
“Identification of what?”
“Armored vehicles, artillery pieces, mortars. How to recognize them in the field.”
I shook my head. “No. The only training I received was the use of my recording gear, some basic first aid, some tips on working in a hostile environment and the protocol of working with an investigative unit.”
Saunders scrawled some more. “Your investigative unit. Who was there?”
“Forensic pathologists, former police detectives, medical experts.”
“Any military units?”
“One Marine escort, supplied under the terms of the armistice.”
A voice muttered behind me, “Fucking traitor …”
“I want names, please.”
I thought of Charlie and Karen, both American citizens, both serving the UN and now considered traitors by the militia. “No, I can’t tell you that.”
Saunders looked up. “That’s not a request. It’s an order.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t work for you. I’m not a member of your militia. I’m not even a citizen of this country.”
“Shut up,” Saunders said.
But I got up and approached his desk. “And I’m here under the authority of Security Council Resolution—”
I was going to go on and give the resolution number, and mention how many congressmen and senators from his own country welcomed our intervention, as well as how most of the major newspapers and media outlets had managed to get back to work after the attacks. But my plan was interrupted when the two men toward the rear pulled me down and started kicking and punching me.
This time it went on for a long while.
WHEN THEY WERE done, I was half-dragged, half-carried back to the school bus, where the militiamen dumped me on the steps leading up to the interior. Gary the schoolteacher was there and he helped me up inside, where I lay down on one of the mattresses. “Jesus Christ,” Gary whispered. “They sure as hell worked you over.”
“You … you should see the other guys,” I managed to say.
Gary tried to let some water dribble into my mouth, and I winced as the cold liquid struck my lips. “Why? Did you get some punches in?” he asked.
“Not hardly,” I said, trying not to cough. “But I do think I managed to stain some of their boots with my blood.”
That got a laugh from Gary, and he tried to give me some more water, which this time I was at least able to swallow. He said, “They brought in another lunch. I could give you some of the bread, if I soften it with some water.”
“OK.”
He rustled around in a plastic shopping bag. “There’s some soft cheese, which should be all right for eating, even with a sore mouth. You up to eating?”
I closed my eyes, wanting to just sit there, just lie on the softness of the mattress, no matter how soiled and stained. “No, not yet. I just want to stay here. H
ow about you?”
“Oh, I’ll wait,” Gary said. “I’ll wait. Any particular reason they beat on you, or are they just in a foul mood?”
“I guess they didn’t like my answers to their questions,” I said, keeping my eyes closed.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “What kind of questions were they asking you?”
“Crazy stuff, about weapons training, about identifying makes and types of military vehicles, my politics …”
“And did you answer them?”
I coughed, feeling blood and spittle drool down my chin. “Yeah—but I didn’t give any names.”
Gary didn’t say anything. I opened my eyes. He sat there, once more with his arms folded around his knees. He said, “Samuel, you saw what happened this morning, didn’t you? You saw those prisoners get shot, right?”
I let my tongue move gingerly around my teeth. “I’ve just spent the morning with a bunch of thugs who think I’m an idiot … please don’t insult me by saying the same thing …”
“I’m not insulting you. I’m telling you what’s up. And what’s up is that these guys are playing for keeps. Shit, there’s a whole frigging pit full of dead people over there that shows just how real they are. So tell them what they want to hear.”
I coughed up some blood again. “But I don’t have anything to tell them … Christ, I told them everything, except the names of my colleagues …”
Gary said, “Tell them a story, then. Anything to stop the beatings.”
I rolled over, trying to ease the pain in the ribs on my left side. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”
“Then you should try. It’d be for the best. If you confirm what they believe … well, they might go easy on you.”
“And what do you think they believe?”
Gary looked over at the far bulkhead of the school bus. “They believe they’ve been wronged. They believe this country has done so much for the world and hasn’t been appreciated. And when bad times happened … you folks took advantage of us. Of course, we’re not the same country any more. For the first time in nearly two hundred years we have foreign troops on our soil. We’re still in shock because of having our first city attacked with an atomic device and because of the other atomic devices that were exploded over our territory and that temporarily knocked us back to the nineteenth century. So when the UN is crawling around the countryside, reporting to who knows who, and some of these UN inspectors—we know for a fact—are ex-military or ex-intelligence from their countries of origin, it’s not hard to believe that they’re doing more than just setting up tent cities and stopping the shooting and investigating war crimes.”
I wiped at my chin. “You say that’s what they think. What do you think?” Gary turned and looked at me. “I think you should tell them something different the next time they question you. And I think you should get something to eat.”
I was tired of talking. I just nodded and Gary came over and helped feed me some bread and cheese and water.
AFTER OUR LUNCH, Gary said, “Man, I wish I had packed a deck of cards. Or a book. Or something to pass the time. No offense, Samuel, but this waiting is driving my head up a wall.”
“I’ve got a book,” I said.
“Really?” he said, his eyes shiny with anticipation, like a kid on Christmas morning. “What kind?”
“A collection of essays by George Orwell. Hold on.”
I rolled myself up into a sitting position and freed the book from an inside pocket of my coat. Gary held out both his hands and said, “Oh, this is great, this is great.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll rest my eyes and you can do some reading.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to hog your book. I mean … man, a book.”
“No, go right ahead,” I said. One of the last things I remember about Gary was how happy he looked, sitting up against the bulkhead, a blanket over his legs. I managed to find a comfortable spot, pulled my own smelly blanket up to my chin, closed my eyes and fell asleep to the sound of Gary flipping through the pages of the Orwell book.
I AWOKE TO the sound of vehicle engines. Gary was kneeling on one of the seats, looking out through a small scratch on one of the painted-over windows. I sat up and drank some water from a nearby plastic bottle.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“More militiamen coming in,” he said. “A couple of trucks and a car. Maybe a dozen or more men. Looks like they’re bulking up their numbers for something.”
“Like what?”
Gary kept looking out the window. “Maybe an offensive, now that the armistice is over. Who knows?”
“But they’re militia, guys with guns in just a handful of states … how can they keep on fighting against professional UN troops?”
Gary turned around and sat back down in the seat. “You forget who those people are out there. Their ancestors fought in the snows at Valley Forge, ate bread made from acorns during the Civil War, whipped the Germans in the mud twice last century. They’ve fought in swamps and deserts, on and under the ocean, and in the air. If they think their home turf has been invaded, they’ll fight forever. Forever, Samuel. Till the end of time.”
I was going to say something funny about the end of time coming quicker than one might think when the door at the front of the bus opened up. Two militiamen came in, both holding pistols in their hands. One of them had a plastic bag, which he tossed on the floor. He grinned, revealing yellow teeth. “Only one supper assigned to this prison bus,” he said. “Care to guess what that means?”
I didn’t have to guess. My hands and feet and gut suddenly felt cold and clammy, and Gary couldn’t even bear to look at the militiamen. We waited, all four of us frozen in some ghastly tableau, until the second militiaman waved his gun and said, “You. The teacher. Come along—it’s time.”
Gary managed to nod, his lips pursed. He got up, handed my book back to me, and said, “Thanks for the book. I really enjoyed the past couple of hours. It’s the best couple of hours I’ve had in a month.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Look, is there—”
He held up his hand. “No, it’s OK. Samuel, I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Honestly. Hope you get home one of these days.”
The second gunman said, “Jesus, will you stop yapping and get a move on?”
Gary brushed past me, went to the front of the bus, and paused at the top of the steps that led outside.
“Thanks again, Samuel. Thanks,” he said.
I just nodded, and he walked down the steps.
If I had been a bit more brave, I think I would have made a fuss, or at least got up and gone to the seat and the window. But I couldn’t move. I just lay back on the mattress and wrapped myself up in the blanket. I flinched when I heard the report of a solitary gunshot.
A gunshot that seemed to echo for a very long time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eventually hunger managed to get me off the mattress. I got up and pawed weakly through the plastic bag, finding a hard roll and a can of corned-beef hash. There were no utensils but I was lucky that the can of hash was a single-serve one which had a snap top. No can opener necessary. I snapped the cover off and scooped the hash out with my fingers, eating it cold. It was greasy and salty and stringy and the potato chunks were tiny—and it tasted delicious. I drank some of the water and then I softened a torn-off piece of the hard roll and used it to wipe the can’s interior clean.
When I was done I wiped my fingers on my pants and sat up, wincing at the pain in my side. My ribs seemed better, but not by much. I looked around the dirty and smelly interior of the school bus, and shuddered. With Gary gone, it seemed so empty. The few hours we had spent together had seemed like a month. All the talking and discussion and questions and now … the poor guy was now in a pit, his body cooling down, everything about him—the jokes and the tales and his love for his woman who’d been killed by a NATO air strike—gone into emptiness.
I yawned. God, I was tired. I’d never thought I coul
d get this tired and still function. The lights around me started to dim as the power was turned down in the militia camp. I got up, went to the window, looked out through the peephole and saw just a few dim lights. It seemed like the camp was getting ready to bed down. But I was sure that somebody out there was keeping an eye on the door of the bus. These militia types seemed to be efficient at keeping their prisoners locked up. Prisoner. I thought about one of the last things Gary had said to me before he’d been led away. Tell them what they want to hear.
I rubbed my hands together. I had been successful during the last session in not mentioning the names of Karen and Charlie—but how long could I hold out during another interrogation like that? I had been brave once but I was sure that my body wouldn’t let me be brave again, especially if my interrogators decided to graduate from boots and fists to something like knives and propane torches.
It was getting darker. But maybe I would have a respite, a night to sleep and gain some energy. Maybe I would have a night off. Maybe … But if these militia guys were smart—and they obviously were smart in a guerrilla-style way, having held off domestic police forces and the NATO military intervention for so long—they would follow the path so thoughtfully mapped out for them by interrogators from the old Soviet Union. Those guys had been expert at grabbing prisoners at odd times and shaking their nerve and composure, so a good night’s sleep was probably out of the question. Especially if I could expect to be beaten up again.
Still, it would be sensible to try and catch some sleep. I went back and lay down on the mattress. I rolled over and pulled up a blanket. My hand brushed against the metal floor of the bus and again I felt the bite of sharp metal. I pushed back, irritated. Something snapped, and I felt cool air against my fingers. Great, just great, I thought. I’m trying to get some sleep, and I just poked a hole in the floor of the bus, letting in a draft—
Twilight Page 20
