Scars

by Patience Prence

  Becky fought back tears, not wanting to cry in front of her mother. She stood and rushed to the stairs.

  Dad’s voice echoed in her head: You can tell a Dane, but you can’t tell them much!

  As she closed her bedroom door she burst into tears. She pulled the teddy bear her father had given her for her tenth birthday out of a pile of stuffed animals and held it close to her chest as she fell onto her bed.

  She had never wanted to believe her father when he told her she was just like her mother. But now she knew it was true. They were both stubborn and single-minded. They both knew how to hurt each other.

  Tears streamed down her face as her mother’s voice played over and over in her head. “Rebekah, if you hadn’t been snooping around on that internet and bought that stupid Bible, your father and David might still be here.”

  Sadly, she knew the real reason they were picked up was because Jewish blood flowed in their veins. It’s obvious, she thought. Then why didn’t they take Momma? Duh. . .it’s because she’s not Jewish! She didn’t know why, but it seemed like throughout history the whole world hated the Jews. It didn’t make sense. After all, Jesus was a Jew.

  She feared her life might be in danger because of her bloodline and religious beliefs. Luckily I have straight blond hair and blue eyes, she reminded herself. Nobody would ever guess that I’m Jewish. Nobody knew. . .except Momma—oh. . .and those awful men that picked up

  Daddy and David. . . .

  6

  THE DEATH CAMP

  Becky snuggled between her soft, heavy blanket and light-blue cotton sheets. Her breathing was slow and deep, and she could feel the tensions of the day melt away from her neck and back.

  Earlier that evening she’d helped Momma prepare dinner. The house was quiet except for the low sounds of Becky draining the water from the spaghetti into the colander and her mother stirring the sauce on the stove. They stood side by side at the counter as Momma mixed the contents together into a large, glass bowl. Momma had aimed the remote control at the television and switched off the constant stream of clattering news before calling Becky to help with dinner. Becky couldn’t remember the last time they had been together without the unrelenting discord of WNN supplying the background noise to their hollow conversation. Now the only noise filling the house was the clacking of the pots and pans on the stove.

  As her mother sliced an aged tomato into small wedges she took a deep breath and broke the silence

  between them. “You remember that softball team you played on and I used to coach when you were nine years old?”

  Becky looked at her mother who had not taken her eyes away from the fleshy red fruit. Her face was soft; the deep lines of worry in her forehead and around her eyes seemed to have faded.

  “Yes, I remember,” she responded. “The Roadrunners. Why?”

  Still concentrating on the tomato in front of her, the corners of her mouth lifted into a gentle smile. “Oh, I don’t know why, but I was just remembering that time when the umpire made that ridiculous call, calling you out when it was obvious to everyone that you were safe, and how I got so mad.”

  Becky snickered as the scene flashed across her memory. Her mother’s long, blond ponytail bobbed wildly under her green baseball cap. She stomped her foot and pointed aggressively at the umpire then to the Tigers’ coach before finally throwing her arms in the air, cussing and plodding off the field in a huff.

  “Yeah, I remember all the other girls were so confused and didn’t know what to do when you walked off the ball field,” Becky recalled. “But I just kept telling them, ‘That’s totally normal for my mom. She coaches like a man!’”

  They both laughed. They continued to reminisce about the good times over dinner and stayed sitting at the kitchen table, talking and laughing, long after the dinner plates were empty. Her mother’s sudden cheerfulness was puzzling to Becky. But she reveled in the familiar comfort of her mother’s laugh and the warmth of the gentle touch of her fingers as she reached across the table to brush a stray hair away from Becky’s eyes.

  Before climbing the stairs to her bedroom, Becky wrapped her arms around her mother and embraced her tightly. A sense of peace and security washed over her as she felt her mother’s arms around her. Everything is going to be okay now, she thought.

  As she reluctantly pulled away and looked into her mother’s eyes, she detected a twinge of sadness.

  Becky curled up in the warm blankets on her bed, the strong, smiling eyes of Blake Collins watching over her protectively. She soon fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

  “Rebekah!” The unfamiliar voice was deep and masculine. “Rebekah! Wake up!” The sounds of weighty footsteps and movement in her room startled her out of the foggy region between dream and reality.

  “Huh?” She tried to open her eyes, but the blinding light from the overhead fixture burned. She blinked rapidly and rubbed her eyes as she tried to sit up.

  Two foreign men dressed in black shirts and trousers stood on either side of her bed. She could smell bad breath. UGH! She hid her nose with the end of the sheet.

  “Rebekah Silver?” It was the short man with a pudgy face; his black beret hid his bald head. His large, meaty hand grabbed the sheet and yanked it away from her face.

  The violent movement jostled Becky awake. Who are these men, and what do they want? A feeling of impending danger rose within her. She began to feel afraid, very afraid.

  “Momma!” she called out as she tugged at the blankets on her bed and wrapped them up tightly around her body.

  A tall slender man aimed an M-4 automatic gun at her; his thick black hair stuck out from under his beret.

  “Get up!” the pudgy man commanded.

  “Who. . .who are you?" she stammered, her voice trembling.

  “Get up and come with us!” the pudgy man repeated.

  Releasing the covers, Becky moved slowly, sliding her slender leg out from under the protection of the bed covers. She eyed the doorway and the hall beyond. She hoped to see her mother come through the hall to rescue her. She thought of the story they had relived earlier that evening, her mother so angered by an injustice to her little girl that she nearly came to blows with the opposing team’s coach.

  Her bare feet hit the wood floor with a light thud as she crawled out of bed tugging her crooked nightgown back into place. She stood motionless facing the men for what seemed like an eternity. Her eyes darted nervously from the large gun aimed squarely at her chest, to the doorway and back again to the gun. With every glance she desperately waited for her mother to come charging into her room, ready to fight and protect her little girl.

  Her mind raced. Who are these men, and what do they want?

  Suddenly it hit her like a huge boulder crushing down on top of her chest. THEY’RE KIDNAPPING ME—just like Daddy and David!

  “Scream and yell in case of an abduction,” she heard her dad’s voice saying. “And whatever you do—don’t let them take you because the farther away they take you, the lesser your chances are for survival.” Becky knew that if they took her out of the house she would never be allowed to come back.

  Terror overwhelmed her, and she broke into a hysterical cry. “Momma! Where are you? Momma!” she screamed out loud and made a break for the doorway.

  The pudgy man moved quickly, his large hands circling her upper limb in a vice grip.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she pleaded.

  The pudgy man tightened his grip.

  “Let go of me!” she wailed. “You’re hurting me!” She kicked and squirmed violently, trying to free her arm, but his grip was too strong.

  “Momma! Momma! Momma! PLEASE HELP ME!”

  A strong aroma of halitosis lingered on his breath as the pudgy man twisted Becky’s arm hard behind her back. Becky braced her legs against the doorjamb as the man began to push her through the door.

  “NO, I WON’T GO!” she screamed. “You can’t take me! Momma, please stop them!”

  Suddenly a fl
ash of light crossed before her eyes, accompanied by searing pain deep inside her head. Her vision blurred, and her legs went limp as she slowly collapsed into the pudgy man. Sprawled against his feet, she smelled his rancid breath as her eyes began to focus. The skinny man held the butt of his gun high over his head.

  “You are going to shut up and come with us quietly, or I will crack your puny skull open like a watermelon. Got it?”

  The pudgy man grabbed her arm and began dragging her behind him like a bag of bricks. Becky tried hard to stand and walk. But every movement made her feel as if she were swimming in glue, and her head throbbed with pain.

  As the pudgy man pulled her out into the hallway, Becky looked with hope toward her mother’s room. The light in the hallway was illuminated, and she could see clearly down the long corridor to her mother’s door. It was cracked open slightly, and a shock of her mother’s golden blond hair glistened in the narrow shaft of light.

  “Momma?” Becky’s lips moved.

  The door creaked slightly as it shut and the latch clicked.

  Becky’s heart moved deeper into despair as she realized the truth. Her mother was not coming to rescue her.

  A landfill of confusion dumped into her mind. How come Momma didn’t help her? Did she turn her in? Did she follow through as she had threatened? Were they taking her to some camp to get re-educated? How could Momma do this to her, her own child?24

  Filled with hopelessness, Becky stumbled as the two men forced her down the stairs and out the front door.

  “Dear Jesus, please help me,” she whispered under her breath.

  Outside, a single street lamp cast a weary glow on the dark street below.

  She heard a rumble as the pudgy man slid open the back door of a black SUV parked alongside the curb in front of their house.

  “Get in!” he ordered.

  Becky reached up and grabbed the armrest and pulled herself into the back seat of the large vehicle.

  The pudgy man slammed the door behind her and walked to the front of the vehicle. He opened the door and scooted into the driver’s seat as the other man jumped into the front passenger seat.

  Becky’s eyes searched for an escape. A black wire grille separated the front seat from the back seat, and there were no handles on the inside of her door. Disheartened, she realized she was locked in, with no way out.

  The pudgy man inserted a white plastic card into the dashboard then hit a switch. A high-voltage electrical spark ignited the air-fuel mix in the engine’s cylinders bringing the large engine to a roar.

  Becky glanced at her neighbor’s dimly lit house as they pulled away from the curb and headed down the street. She wondered if she would ever see them again.

  No cars were on the road except for white or black government vehicles.

  They crossed over the railroad tracks then turned onto the main highway and headed toward downtown

  Valencia. As they passed, she glimpsed her favorite taco fast-food restaurant at the corner, boarded up with red-and-black graffiti spray-painted all over the plywood.

  As the SUV crossed over the highway and turned left into a nearly vacant parking lot, Becky noticed black graffiti scribbled on the sign of the entrance that read, “WORLD UNION HEADQUARTERS.”

  The large car parked in front of the used-brick government building, taking up two parking spaces.

  The pudgy man flipped a switch then yanked out the plastic ignition card. Stone-faced, he jumped out and headed toward the buildings and disappeared through the corridor.

  Becky’s head ached. She had an excruciating pain over her left eye. It felt like someone was stabbing it with a knife.

  She was scared and tried to think of why they had brought her to this place and what horrible things they would do with her.

  She feared they would take her to the back of a warehouse and secretly keep her as a sex slave. The thought of their filthy hands all over her body repulsed her. I swear I’ll kill them if they lay one hand on me!

  Her weary red eyes focused on a giant World Union flag flapping hard in the wind illuminated by the street lamp. Ten white stars representing the ten unions surrounded the blue world, and the olive branch below represented peace. Peace? Yeah, right. She rolled her eyes.

  Her gaze wandered to the mall across the street; its huge triple-deck concrete parking structure was usually packed with cars. Memories of her and T.J. flooded her mind. They loved to go shopping and hang out at the mall, and on weekends they’d meet there and go to the movies.

  The sky was slowly turning white as the rising sun began to show itself over the horizon. The pudgy man arrived with a stack of papers in his hands. He mumbled something in a foreign language to the slender man as he jumped back into the vehicle and restarted the engine. The tires on the big black SUV squealed as it pulled back out onto Valencia Boulevard.

  Becky noticed several cars were now on the roadway, signaling that curfew was now over and cities across Southern California were coming to life as shops opened and people made their way to offices and factories in the bright, early light.

  They slowly followed Valencia Boulevard west until they turned southbound on to a road that paralleled the I-5 (Intercontinental) freeway. Barren, sharp, jagged mountainous cliffs rose around them as they drove through the Newhall Pass.

  As she rested her head against the window and stared at the blurred landscape passing by she thought of her father and brother. Had they passed these same hills? She felt her throat clinch and her eyes become moist with tears, and she quickly pressed the image of her father and David out of her mind.

  She recognized that they were near the reservoir by the 5 and 405 freeways. She could see the big water tank perched on top of the hill. She remembered how delighted she was as a little girl when at night the water flowed down the hill displaying a rainbow of beautiful colors. What a sight it was! It was bone dry now, probably because of the drought.

  The blinker clicked as they slowed down then turned right off the main road onto a dirt road. Glistening silver steel railroad tracks lay neatly on wood ties running along the right side of the dusty road. Dirt kicked up as they sped through the canyon, slowing down when it turned back into a worn paved road riddled with potholes. Large mature oak trees silhouetted against the morning sky sprawled across the hills.

  The vehicle slowed to a crawl.

  A grey guard shack with black windows stood behind a tall chain-length fence with a gate. About five hundred feet from the guard shack was a wood tower with windows. The train tracks proceeded through the fence and through another gate by the tower.

  As the SUV crept closer to the gate, Becky noticed the top portion of the fence had sharp barbed wire pointing inward.

  That fence is backward, she thought. Security fences are supposed to be pointed outward to keep people out, not inward.

  It suddenly struck her so hard it felt as if she’d been hit by an eighteen-wheeler truck. Maybe this was one of those prison camps T.J.’s father, Mr. Smith, had told her about? Becky felt a shock of panic run up her spine as she recalled the stories he had told of the camps. He had talked for hours about how the former government, the United States of America, had built hundreds of these camps all over America.

  Becky had never paid much attention to the stories, but now she wracked her brain trying to remember the details. T.J.’s father mentioned something about an REX 34 program and something to do with the illegal aliens crossing the Mexican/American border. He said an Operation Orange Slice and Rose Garden something would allow the federal government to take over, and he said something about population control. He also mentioned that in the case of a martial law terrorists would be rounded up and quarantined in these camps. He said they built most of these camps close to water facilities.

  She dreaded what lay ahead. She knew it couldn’t be good. She felt hopeless, like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

  She cowered low in the back seat. The SUV pulled up and stopped behind the wire gate. She slid d
own low; her blue eyes peeked over the front seat between the shoulders of the pudgy and slender men.

  The door of the drab, grey guard shack swung open. A young man carrying an M16 cautiously and purposely strode toward the gate. An armband bearing “W.U.” in blue letters was wrapped tightly around his bicep over his olive-green uniform. He held his hand up in a gesture to stop them. His black leather combat boots scudded on the asphalt as he wheeled open the chain-length gate halfway.

  The pudgy man rolled down his window and handed the young guard some papers.

  The guard looked in at Becky, his sharp nose set deep between his grey eyes and his black hair sticking out from under the light-blue helmet.

  She quickly cast her eyes downward avoiding his gaze.

  He muttered something to the pudgy man then turned and disappeared into the guard shack with the paperwork.

  Minutes passed. The engine idled quietly over the incomprehensible chatter of the two men in the front seat. The door of the guard shack swung open again, and the young man walked out with his rifle slung over his back. He pressed his weight against the gate and rolled it back wide enough to accommodate the big black SUV. Then with a wave he gestured them through the gate.

  The tires rolled over the gravel road for what seemed to be several miles until they reached a small settlement of white and grey government buildings and a long, black landing strip. White military vehicles with a black “W.U.” painted over the hoods sat facing a large, square tarmac where four Black Hawk helicopters swayed in the wind. A faded black A400M, a beastly military tactical transport aircraft, sat near a hanger, its eight-bladed propellers rotating with the strong gusts of air.

  They traveled along the train tracks then passed through an empty field and over a small hill.

  As they crested the hill, Becky was puzzled by the sight of dozens of large white freight containers with strange pipes jutting out of the tops. The boxcars were lined up like houses in a subdivision.