by Brandon Dean
“Stop!” Riley interrupted. “After all that’s happened, you’re still going to believe that goody-two-shoes bullshit?” he asked. “Get a grip, Clint! Realize that we don’t have an option! There’s only one way to do things, and that way often causes us to become something we never imagined.”
“Your father made the right choice. Not you,” I said.
“My father?” Riley snapped, the bitterness clear in his voice. “My father left us because he didn’t want anything to do with his family.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked in confusion.
“The man was drunk from the minute he woke up to the time he went to sleep. And if he couldn’t drink, he’d put his hands on us!” Riley said. “Here’s a little secret, Clint: I hate sports! I only played them because it was easier to explain the bruises. But he’s a hero because he put on a uniform, right? No, he left us because he hated us and hated his responsibility. And here I am on the other side of the fence just to protect the same woman he walked out on!” Riley calmed himself down, realizing he might be drawing attention. “American hero. A man who goes into battle to fight and defend, right? But what about the American husband? The American father? Isn’t that just as important?”
“I’m sorry, Riley,” I said. “But I’ve known you since we were in the first grade. This isn’t you.”
“I know it isn’t. I’ve had to do some horrible things, Clint. But I have to protect her—he never did,” Riley replied.
“I know how that feels. All too well.”
“Come with me,” Riley said, following me back to my shack to give the appearance that nothing was out of the ordinary. “How are your folks doing? You know, despite everything.”
“Mom is running. I don’t know where she is. And Dad’s dead,” I replied matter-of-factly.
“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine. The baby was born—a little girl. She’s with Mom.”
“No kidding? Congrats on that,” Riley said.
“Thanks. Can I ask you something?” I asked.
“Go ahead. Make it quick, though; can’t be seen talking together for too long,” Riley said.
“What do you know about Willard?” I asked.
“He’s a real piece of shit, the type even the Nazis think is messed up. But he’s devious, and as long as he can get more bodies in here, they put up with him,” Riley said.
“All of these people suffering. He brought them here?” I asked.
“No, but he sure found a lot of them. They started out just killing them the first few days; then we put this shithole together. After a while, the amount of people wore thin, and then they found Willard. It was actually his idea to manipulate those poor people, sick bastard. He gets to know where they’re either living or hiding, and then leads the Krauts to them,” Riley said. “And you know what else? Those bodies with the bullet holes in their heads? He did some of that. Almost like he gets his rocks off on putting his own down. The more he did it, the more he realized how powerful it felt.”
“And what about the other camp? The one the children and women are sent to?” I asked.
Riley took a second to respond, as if he didn’t want to talk about what went on there. “You don’t want to know.”
“Riley . . . tell me,” I insisted.
“I’m not sure who has it worse over there, the children or the women. But I do know it’s a hotter level of hell than even this place. The kids, the ones old enough, do labor a lot like the people here do. Only difference is they’re expecting the same output from a ten-year-old as they are from a twenty-year-old. And the consequences for failure are the same. The younger kids, they get experimented on—testing new drugs, mainly—for no other reason than to see if it won’t cause a reaction. They seem real interested in modifying physical strength or pain thresholds. Most of their little bodies can’t take it for long, and they die. The ones unfortunate enough to live suffer until they die, too. The sick, they’re just starved to death—the easiest and least complicated outcome in a place like that. And the women—the ones they like, the ones that catch their eye—they’re used as service girls against their will. Knowing my mom’s in there, it’s not something I like to think about,” Riley admitted.
“I have someone in that camp. I met a girl; her name is Hazel.”
“I’m so sorry, Clint,” Riley said, sounding genuine.
“She’s the most beautiful girl in the world, and I have to help her,” I replied.
“If she’s as pretty as you say, then . . .”
“I know, Riley,” I snapped.
“I wasn’t trying to be an asshole about it. I was just saying,” Riley replied.
“I know that, too. Let’s not talk about it.”
Riley looked up to the rooftop watchpoint, at the armed guards atop it, as we approached my shack. “We’ll talk more later,” he said, looking slightly worried. “But we can’t let anybody know we go way back.”
I nodded and stepped inside as Riley walked away, carrying on with his normal duties.
Emmett was already waiting for me; I nearly tripped over his extended legs in the darkness. “Watch your step, pal,” he said.
“Was it bad?” I asked.
“Wasn’t fun, but—no offense—I wouldn’t trade it for your job,” he replied.
I squinted to see if anyone else was in the shack with us. I could only count the silhouettes of two other people inside.
“Two of ’em passed today. This little shack suddenly feels a lot bigger. Gotta think of something quick. Hey . . . by any chance, you get fed today?” Emmett asked.
“No,” I said. “You?”
“They gave me half a cup of tomato soup—pretty much just red water,” Emmett replied.
“We’re going to end up like them, aren’t we?” I asked.
“No. Ain’t gonna happen,” Emmett said. “I’ve seen too much shit to go out like this.”
“You got a family?” I asked.
“No; not by blood, at least. My mom died in childbirth with me. Grew up an only kid with my dad. Saw him get shot to death a while back.”
“I lost my dad, too,” I said. “I know how that feels. These Nazis took everything, huh?”
Emmett chuckled. “Wasn’t Nazis, pal. Not in my case. Dad’s car broke down in a part of town he didn’t know. Went up to a house to ask for help, and they shot him dead cold ’cause they felt threatened. If you ask me, it’s ’cause they didn’t like our kind,” Emmett confessed.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I said.
“It’s all right. Motherfuckers never loved a nigger anyway, huh? I was sixteen years old when I watched my dad get shot down from the back seat of that car. Lived on my own for two years before I joined the military as a way out, eating out of garbage cans, sleeping on benches . . . You get the picture. Lived most of my later years in Indianapolis, usually kept to myself. Didn’t trust anyone after what I saw happen to my old man. Couldn’t afford much of a place to stay, though. Nobody wants to hire a black man if they don’t got to, so I usually found myself doing odd jobs to get some cash. Mowing lawns, painting fences. That kind of shit. My neighbor, his name is Murphy. A white boy like you. It was actually his idea to get that caravan started. And he always saw me for a man instead of a subhuman. Best friend a guy like me could’ve asked for. Closest thing to family I had.
“And you, what’s your story?” Emmett asked.
“A lot better than yours. Lived a cozy life with both of my parents. Dad was a steelworker; Mom stayed home. The American dream, pretty much. Now it’s a nightmare. Only three things I live for now, three women who mean everything to me: my mom, my baby sister, and Hazel,” I said.
“That’s good,” Emmett replied.
“How is that good?” I asked curiously.
“’Cause you
still got something worth fightin’ for. All these others in here with us? They gave up long ago. We ain’t gonna die here; this ain’t the last chapter for either of us,” Emmett said.
“What keeps you going?” I asked.
“What keeps me chuggin’ along is the fact I refuse to let some fascist fuck kill me. I ain’t goin’ out like that. Not in this lifetime. And think about it: What are the odds that me and you meet up here on the same day, and your best friend is an insider? All this? These are the ties that bind us together. There’s a way outta here. We just gotta find out what it is before it’s too late,” Emmett said.
I nodded. “I’ll follow you, but on one condition,” I said.
“What’s that?” Emmett asked with a yawn.
I lay down on my side with the intent of getting what rest I could. I stared out the window at the stars above, noticing Dad’s star had returned, before facing Emmett. “When we get out of here, if it comes down to it, don’t kill Willard.” I paused for a moment, taking one more glance at that star. It served as a reminder of the man I’d known and how he would have wanted me to do whatever it took to escape that nightmare. I lay my head on the floor again and said, “I want to be the one who does it,” before nodding off.
When the front door of our shack banged open hours later, we were commanded to wake up for work. They took Emmett first again, and then Willard made yet another unwelcomed visit to escort me. The entire time I followed, my mind savored the idea of murdering him right where he stood. The only thing that held me back was that I knew I’d have sealed my own fate in seconds.
“You did such a good job filling that hole in yesterday, I put in a good word for you to do it again today,” Willard said.
We were standing about thirty feet to the right of the first freshly covered grave, and I looked down to see half a dozen bodies, naked and carelessly thrown on top of one another in a tangled mass. The body on top was one of the men who had been in my shack two nights before; his eyes were still open. He looked much the same in death as he had while he’d been “alive.” I began to feel choked up as I came to the realization that I was about to bury someone I’d shared quarters with.
“What’s the matter, boy? See a friend?” Willard said with a sneer.
I closed my eyes, fighting against the wave of anger that washed over me.
“Aw, ain’t that nice!” Willard laughed.
I opened my eyes to see him reach down to grab the man’s right hand and mimic a wave with it. “Hey there, it’s me! Your friend!” he said in a childish voice, flailing the arm through the air. “Enjoy your time here in camp. I know I did! I was a fat slob when I first showed up, but look at me now! I got my girlish figure back!”
I looked away and huffed under my breath as my blood began to boil.
Willard let go of the corpse’s arm and asked, “Why do you keep looking away? Don’t wanna look at him? Something bothering you?”
“If you want me to dig your hole, leave me be and let me do it,” I replied.
“I’m just makin’ this as enjoyable as I can, boy,” Willard said as he unholstered the same pistol he’d used to murder Beverly and aimed it at the dead man’s head. “And you obviously don’t want to look at him,” Willard said with a disgusting grin.
“What’s the point of this, you sick son of a bitch?” I asked.
“I’m just trying to be a good host, is all,” Willard said before he pulled the trigger. “Wow! That was way messier than that old bitch at the house, huh?”
I bit back my response.
Willard thrust a shovel into my chest. “Dig. And if I don’t like the hole, you’ll be the first one buried in it.” Then he walked away.
“I can’t wait for the day to come, Willard,” I said, and he stopped in his tracks.
Willard turned to face me. “Did you say something?” he challenged.
“I’m not going to let you get away with this. Beverly, Hazel, and wherever my mom and sister are,” I replied. “You’ll pay.”
“And how you gonna manage that?” Willard asked, clearly amused.
“I’m going to do what I should’ve done the minute I laid eyes on you,” I said. “I’m going to put a bullet through your skull.”
Willard laughed. “You really think you got a chance, boy? Pathetic,” he replied. “You and all the other empty shells wearing them stripes are done. Quicker you realize that, the better. We are the vultures, and you and all the other weaklings here are nothing more than the roadkill we feast on. Now, get to digging—or I may have to pay the other camp a little visit.”
Willard left, and I walked toward the pile of bodies, breaking ground with the shovel a few feet away. It was nearly impossible to force the spade into the ground with my foot, so spent were my muscles from the day before. A sharp pain traveled through my body as I used all that was left in me to pull through. My arms, shoulders, and legs felt as if they had just gone ten rounds with a boxer. The deeper I dug the hole, the dizzier I became. Lack of food, water, and sleep were winning the fight against my own sense of determination.
By the end of the day, I could barely see. Not because of a lack of sunlight, but because I was starting to see black spots floating in and out of my line of sight from fatigue, dehydration, and hunger. The last thing I wanted was to pass out in a grave.
“Hey, Clint,” I heard Riley’s voice say.
I turned to see him standing at the edge of the hole, just above my head.
Riley squatted down just enough to hand me a small brown paper bag. “Take this. It’s all I can do right now. Bury the evidence when you’re done.”
I opened the bag to find half a canteen of water and some type of cherry-jam-filled pastry. If I had to compare it to anything, it’d be a doughnut, but there was something different about it that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
“Don’t eat it too fast or you’ll just throw it up,” Riley said. “Been there, done that.”
I took Riley’s advice and very slowly ate the first meal I’d had since I arrived in camp, using the water I had to help wash it down.
“You look like shit, you know,” Riley said.
I looked down to see the white of my clothes had gone almost entirely brown from dirt. “How deep does this thing need to be?” I asked.
“Looks like you’re at about six deep and ten wide right now. That should be good enough for a while.”
I nodded and made a small hole at the bottom of the grave to bury my trash. I stretched a hand up to Riley, gesturing for him to help me out of the hole.
“I can’t be seen helping you. Not even out of a hole. I’m sorry,” Riley said.
I sighed, placed the palms of my hands on the dirt around the hole, and pulled myself up with the last ounce of energy I had, grunting my way to the surface. I lay flat on my stomach as I pushed myself up to my feet, wincing from the tenderness of my torn muscles. I got on my knees and pushed the bodies into the hole one by one, trying not to pay attention to the sounds the bodies made as they fell to the bottom.
“I gotta go now. Follow my lead from here on out,” Riley said.
“Being a little vague, aren’t you?” I asked, wiping the beaded sweat from my brow.
“Trust me. Just trust me,” Riley said. “And, by the way, sorry.”
I looked at him with confusion. “Sorry for what?”
Riley made a fist and punched me in the stomach, knocking the air out of my lungs.
I fell to the ground, “What the hell? What the hell was that for?” I panted as I stood up again, desperately trying to catch my breath.
“Can’t let ’em know something’s going on. Have to make this convincing,” he replied.
Two German soldiers were walking toward another shack, catching Riley’s notice. “I said you’re done here!” he screamed at me. “Now go back to your hut and rot like the pig you are!
” The Germans behind him nudged one another and laughed in amusement, then continued on their way.
Riley lowered his voice. “Go back and get some rest. You’ll need it all for morning. Just remember, trust me.”
I gave a confused nod and limped back to the shack. What in the world could Riley be planning? I wondered as I watched two soldiers dispose of the bodies of the other two men from my shack, both of them walking backward with their hands wrapped around pencil-thin wrists, dragging the emaciated bodies on the ground. I sighed and climbed the wobbly, makeshift steps.
Emmett was already inside, in what had become his usual spot. “You see what happened just now?” he asked.
“Yeah. Guess it’s just me and you in here now,” I replied.
“Till they get someone else to come suffer with us,” Emmett said. “You ask your buddy for anything to eat?”
“Didn’t have to,” I replied. “He gave me something while I was digging.”
“Any leftovers?” Emmett asked, sounding hopeful.
“No, but it wasn’t much to begin with.”
Emmett scoffed, then said, “Well, I guess you needed it more than me, anyway. I ain’t the one digging holes.”
“What is it that you do, exactly?” I asked, trying to scrape together an escape plan from whatever information I could.
“You heard that asshole; I’m a little inventory bitch,” Emmett said with a sarcastic chuckle. “I ration their shit out for them and write down what they have left. It’d be a cake job if it weren’t for the fact I’m being starved to death and held in a camp against my will by a group of sick bastards who’re lookin’ for a reason to whack me. Christ’s sakes, they already hate me because I’m colored. What else is new, though, huh?”
“You don’t sound like the same guy I talked to last night,” I said, surprised by the shift in his outlook.
“Hell, you keep goin’ and goin’ and goin’ some more—almost to a point where you ask yourself why keep goin’? I can’t find an answer, but I do know I ain’t giving up, so don’t think for a second I am. I told you once already, this ain’t our final chapter. Not even close.”
