by Rachel Grant
“I need to do reconnaissance to make sure the village is safe,” Bastian said. “I don’t like leaving you alone, but with your ankle—”
“I’ll find a place to burrow in and hide.” It was the only solution.
The village abutted a thick forest of trees that flourished in the flooded grassland. It wasn’t hard to find a spot for her to tuck herself into viney roots and hide. It reminded her of yesterday when Bastian had gone off to shoot the men who’d tracked them through the woods. In spite of the completely groundless optimism she’d felt since waking that morning, she began to shake. She pulled her knees to her chest in her small well in the muck and met Bastian’s gaze.
What if this was the last time she’d look into his eyes? What if something happened to him as he was trying to protect her? South Sudan was the kind of place where people were randomly shot simply for being in the wrong place.
Anything could happen, at any time. But having Bastian by her side had been a comfort, a relief. One she didn’t want to give up. Ever.
“I’m coming back for you, Brie.”
He said it with such conviction, she believed him. She had to believe him.
If she didn’t, she’d slide into a panic attack, and frankly, it was a little late for that.
12
The village had far fewer than the fifty occupants Brie had told him to expect. Bastian counted a dozen at best. The good news was, none appeared to be armed or dangerous. These weren’t rebels or government forces. Boko Haram hadn’t set up shop.
At least eight of the inhabitants were women and children. But unfortunately there wasn’t a vehicle to be seen. If the people who lived here had taken off for one of the UN camps, they’d taken their vehicles with them. Perhaps someone was ferrying groups to the camp, and they would return, but Bastian couldn’t count on that. This would be a rest stop to allow Brie’s ankle time to heal, and nothing more.
He fetched her from her hiding place. She knew these people and could get information they wouldn’t offer to a stranger. Best to enter the village with her by his side.
Together they approached a man who sat in the shade of a strung-up tarp. The village was littered with debris—broken vehicles, rotting timber from a construction project that never happened, rusted-out wheelbarrows, and brittle plastic of all kinds that hadn’t withstood the test of sun and time.
It reminded him of poorer neighborhoods—on and off the reservation—back home. But really, the place mirrored the villages in Djibouti, with the exception of water. Here, water was in abundance, saturating the earth. Lush green plants sprung from the grassland. Animals flourished.
But thanks to civil war, humans did not.
The current famine, Bastian knew, was a man-made disaster. South Sudan had abundant fertile land. They also had oil. And, for those who lived close to the rivers, water. But decades of conflict had taken a toll. In 2011, the country separated from Sudan and became the world’s youngest democracy. Peace lasted only two years before civil war broke out, and now, farmland remained fallow and citizens starved.
The man sitting in the shade by his garbage heap was emaciated and missing teeth. He bore scars along his face, neck, and arms—raised bumps he’d probably received when he was a boy. Marks of his tribe.
That too, reminded Bastian of home. Not the scars, but the concept. His tribe didn’t have markings, but others did. When Bastian was young, he’d wanted to mark himself to show pride in his heritage. He’d had the long hair and the badass attitude. The military had cut one and taught him how to channel the other.
Giving up his hair had been…devastating in a way he hadn’t expected. It was assimilation, but one he’d signed up for. His own doing. In response, he’d gotten a tattoo at the first opportunity. His hair belied his tribal connection, but his skin would wear the mark forever. The salmon motif tattoo identified his town—Coho—his tribe, and his culture.
He had that in common with this man, except his tattoo was hidden, while this man wore his tribal scars on his face.
Bastian couldn’t begin to guess his age. Life was hard in East Africa and aged men and women quickly. Famine took a particular toll. Were he to guess, he’d put the man in his fifties based on looks alone, but life expectancy here didn’t go much beyond that. It was more likely he was in his thirties.
Brie knelt before the man and clasped his hands. “Kamal, where is everyone?” she asked.
Kamal smiled at her touch, but then his lips turned downward. “They have gone. Some went to the camps. Others went to Juba. They will not be back.”
Brie squeezed his hands. “You heard what happened to our facility.”
He nodded. “The food burned. The president burned our food.”
His quickness to lay blame caught Bastian’s attention. “What makes you say that?” he asked.
Kamal cocked his head and squinted up at Bastian, who had the sun at his back. “Only the president would be so cruel to burn our food. To keep us starving. So we must abandon the fight. If we starve, we cannot fight government forces.”
This was entirely possible. Famine was a weapon of this war. But it was only speculation and could just as easily have been the rebel forces. Or another heretofore unannounced player.
“Is everyone going to leave?” Brie asked.
Kamal shook his head. “Abdo is too weak to make the journey. He and his mother stayed. Others didn’t want to leave. Another airdrop comes in two days. Four have gone to the drop location to line up for the food. That’s four bags of grain to share.”
“How long does it take to get to the drop site?” Bastian asked.
“A day, at least,” Brie said.
Kamal nodded. “Abdo only has to make it three more days.”
These people were so close to starvation, surviving three days was questionable. Brie met Bastian’s gaze. Her eyes beseeched him. He gave a sharp nod and pulled two MREs from his pack. “This is all we can spare.”
Brie swiped away a tear and took the MREs from Bastian, whispering thanks as she stood. She crossed open space—in another world, it would be called Main Street, but here there was no such thing—between two rows of thatched-roof huts. She knelt before Abdo and his mother, June. She handed June the MREs. “These are for you and Abdo. Eat them slowly.” This food would be a shock to the system, not what their bodies were used to digesting. Eating slowly was their only defense.
June nodded and held her son, who lay listlessly against her side. She stroked the five-year-old boy’s cheek. Shooing away flies as she did so. “Thank you.”
Abdo was heartbreakingly skinny. His bones looked like sticks covered with dark skin. It was hard to imagine his legs wouldn’t snap if he tried to walk. The last time Brie had seen him, a month ago, he’d been dangerously thin, but this was end-stage starvation.
June’s gaze flicked down Brie’s battered, muddy, and bloody makeshift sarong, finally landing on the sandals that barely covered her feet. “You need clothes?” Her lip curled. “Soap?”
Brie nodded. It would be foolish to say no when clothing was one thing June could offer. They might have items to spare, and she needed shoes for the long walk to Juba. “I would be grateful for shoes, sandals, anything.”
The woman nodded, signaling with her head to the inside of the hut behind her without disturbing her weakened son. “Inside. You will find my sister’s clothes. She died months ago. Help yourself.” And then June smiled, showing crooked, gapped teeth. Her smile was beautiful and something Brie had witnessed only once before. “And take soap too. You stink.”
Brie laughed and stepped into the hut, where there was a woven container in which she found several cloths long enough to wear as a traditional tobe. Even though the cloth was old and worn, the colors remained bright. Beautiful. The next item she spotted were sandals that were made from strips of rubber cut from a tire’s inner tube attached to the thick tread of the tire. They were perfect protection against thorns and other sharp items that covered this country
, and she could cut the straps and tread to fit her feet if necessary.
But the most precious item had to be the homemade bar of soap. With the rainstorm, sparing water for bathing was not an issue. She’d noted several containers and barrels had collected gallons of water. More storms would hit in the coming days, meaning she could be luxurious in her bathing.
She gathered the bounty and asked Bastian for money to pay June for the items. He gave June four thousand South Sudanese pounds—about thirty US dollars. Then Bastian and Brie sat in the shade and split a single protein bar to discuss their next move.
“I’m worried being here will endanger these people,” Brie said. “They don’t have a car or radio. I think we should move on.”
“You need to rest your ankle.”
She shrugged. “I can walk a little farther if it means everyone is safer. I’ve been thinking…if we go deeper into the bush, there’s another village. One that was abandoned not long after the civil war started. It was one of the places we’d hoped to repopulate, but it’s fallow now. There are a handful of huts. The well is dry, but with the rain, there’s probably a catchment system for water like they have here.” She pointed to the barrels and other random debris that had been set out to gather the rain.
“Won’t they be breeding ground for mosquitos?”
“I take antimalarials. Don’t you?”
He nodded. “But you’re behind.”
“I’ve only missed two days. Do you have some in your pack?”
He nodded again and pulled out a vial with the tablets.
“Great. Then I’m only one day behind.” She glanced up at the sky. “When we get there, we can dump the standing water if we see mosquito larvae. It’ll rain again tonight. We can catch freshwater and use purification tablets for drinking.”
“How far is it?”
“Three, maybe five miles? I’ve only been there once, months ago, when we were trying to decide if it was worth doing repair work. We opted to wait until next year, given that this village still had room for more people.”
“It’s possible that rebel or government forces have moved in.”
“I don’t think so. They’d have to pass through here by car. It’s not on any other road. And everyone here would’ve fled if one side or the other was moving into the area.”
“But they could walk there and bypass this village.”
“True.”
Bastian pursed his lips as he considered her proposal. Finally, he nodded. “It’s probably the safest way to give you time to rest your foot. But damn, I was hoping we’d find a radio here.”
“Fourth-world problem. Spend much time in South Sudan, and you get used to the lack of phones and radios.”
“It really doesn’t bother you, being out of touch?”
She shrugged. “I miss watching kitten videos on YouTube, but to be honest, life here sucks bad enough—taking a break from world news has been a relief.”
“The news might be bad, but it can’t be worse than this.” He glanced around the impoverished village. “I grew up on an Indian reservation. I’ll take rez poor over South Sudan poor ten days a week.”
Brie’s gaze fell on June as she coaxed her son to eat small, slow bites of food. “Me too,” she said softly.
The abandoned village was the perfect refuge. Bastian surveyed the cluster of huts. Tucked away and remote, it was easy to see why it had been deserted in the first place, but for their purposes, it was exactly what they needed. Shelter. Water. A safe place for Brie to mend.
She’d barely made it the last half mile, and he’d cursed her out once she’d settled down in the shade of a hut so he could take a look at her ankle. It was swollen, and the cut on her foot looked infected. “You should have told me. I could have carried you.”
“It was faster to just walk.”
Shit. There was no way she’d be better tomorrow for them to set out for Juba. They were going to be here for a few days at least.
He washed her wound and slathered it with antibiotic ointment, gave her an ice pack for her ankle, and then made her take an antibiotic pill to knock out the infection.
He then set about checking the various containers for drinkable freshwater, and managed to find a few gallons that were usable with purification tablets.
He dumped a few of the algae-covered galvanized bins and scrubbed them down, then rigged a tarp on an old frame to catch rainwater and pour down into the clean bin. The clouds were back, and, as Brie had predicted earlier, rain would begin to fall soon.
Medical and water needs attended to, Bastian set about inspecting the huts to find one that could shelter them from the coming storm.
There were eight to choose from, two of which were in decent shape but for a few gaps in the roof. He gathered thatched bundles from the structures in the worst shape and used them to patch the roof of the best one.
He ordered Brie to rest while he worked, but she insisted on going through the garbage that littered the village, to see what could be salvaged. When it was clear she wouldn’t sit still, he asked her to find something to dig with and to gather every tarp and piece of plastic she could find from the abandoned huts. With the rain, plastic sheeting would be a precious commodity, and he wanted to dig out an easy hiding place for her in their one good hut.
The day was muggy, so he stripped off his shirt before he climbed a rickety ladder to make the roof repairs. Thank goodness the poles that framed the structure were sturdy and could support his weight. He paused in his labor to drink from his hydration pack, and caught Brie staring at him while he did so.
Her gaze was blatantly carnal as she paused in her tarp gathering to study his chest.
He couldn’t help himself and sat back in his perch on the roof, knowing it would give her a better view.
She grinned. “What’s the tat?”
He glanced down at the fish that swam across his right pec. “Salmon motif.”
“Coast Salish?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and said, “Nice,” but her gaze wasn’t on the tattoo when she said it.
That was all it took for his prick to wake up. He returned to his job of replacing bundles of thatching, trying not to imagine how it would feel to have her hands explore his body with the same heat her eyes had.
They would be here for days, as stranded as if they were on a deserted island. Hell, they even had the grass huts and tropical heat. It wasn’t a good idea to let carnal fantasies take over.
They weren’t playing house—no matter how domestic this moment felt. They were hiding from slavers and militants and possibly terrorists. His job was to protect her until she could walk again. That meant sleeping only when she kept watch, and being vigilant every other hour of the day.
Sex couldn’t happen. Besides, it would be completely inappropriate. She was vulnerable.
She was also Princess Prime.
Although the last bit felt more and more like an excuse that didn’t hold water anymore. She’d come a long way since her Princess Prime days, and he was a dick for not letting it go.
The truth was, keeping his hands off Brie these next few days was going to be a challenge to his willpower. Especially if she kept looking at him like that.
13
The rain came down in waves, and Brie was thankful for the repairs Bastian had made on the hut. At some point in the past, the roof interior had been lined with plastic sheeting. Bastian had used duct tape to repair gaps, and between the added thatching and mended sheet, the roof did a decent job of keeping the rain out.
Brie had insisted Bastian take the first sleep shift. He’d slept a scant four hours the previous night and needed it more than she did at this point. Plus, it was hard to imagine anyone would be out in this storm if they could avoid it. Given that no one knew where they were, this was as safe as they could possibly be.
As day slipped into night, she leaned against one of the thick wall posts, clutching his M4 rifle, which he’d showed her how to use, on g
uard duty for six hours while he slept.
She’d offered to guard for eight. They’d settled on six. Staying awake wasn’t a problem for her, given the pain in her foot. She’d skipped the ibuprofen for just that reason. She’d take it at the start of her sleep shift.
She watched the rise and fall of his chest, glad he’d left his shirt off and she could get a closer look at his tattoo. It was the traditional red, black, and blue of Coast Salish art. A beautiful design on a beautiful body.
Watching him, she was grateful she hadn’t met him ten years ago. Back then, she’d have wanted to use him as she did Micah. Slipping him information that could be used against PE to kill the project.
Micah had never known the information he so conveniently found in her condo had been left where he’d be certain to find it, that she was feeding him the information because she wanted the oil pipeline to fail. Instead, he believed he’d seduced her and she was too much of a twit to guess he was committing corporate espionage. When, in fact, she was the seducer and spy.
In the end, she’d let him believe his version, and she’d played the part of the deceived woman. She’d cried real tears in their last fight, not because she felt duped, but because she’d grown to care for him, and it was over. It had to be over.
Had she met Bastian back then, she might have pulled the same stunt. Lord knows she’d have wanted to screw him. The guy could be a model, with his dark, hooded eyes and piercing looks. Even his beard was hot, and she’d never been a fan of beards.
She wanted to trace the lines of his tattoo with her tongue. To go from ink lines to the grooves that defined his muscles. She wanted to follow those grooves south with fingers, lips, and tongue.
