Twilight Page 17

  OPEN.

  I headed up to the entrance. After all, not only might I get something to eat—if I was lucky—I just might be able to get directions to the highway as well. It couldn’t be that far to walk. And it’d be easier to walk on a full stomach, full of energy.

  It made sense. It made good sense.

  I walked up the porch, opened the door, and walked in.

  A little bell over the door jingled as I entered, and I blinked my eyes, for the room was fairly dark. There were shelves of merchandise off to the right, mostly dry goods but some canned food, the cans lined up to make the shelves look full. The floors were wide and wooden, and had been worn down from years of use. To the left was a lunch counter, with a half-dozen stools lined up in front. Little metal napkin dispensers were each flanked by a menu and bottle of ketchup or mustard. It looked so damn homey and safe that it almost made me cry.

  The woman I had seen earlier, out feeding the chickens, was behind the counter, working on a ledger. She looked up, curious. She seemed to be in her early fifties, face worn but pleasant, black hair streaked with gray pulled to one side.

  “Help you with something?” she asked.

  My legs started shaking, just from the sheer pleasure of someone asking me that. The sheer joy. “Yes,” I said. “I was wondering if I could get something to eat. Some breakfast.”

  She shrugged. “If you’re not looking for fancy, sure. But I gotta warn you. I haven’t had meat in a while. So no ham, bacon or sausage. Or orange juice, either. Can cook you almost anything else with eggs, if you’d like.”

  My mouth started watering again. It had been more than a day since I had eaten. I cleared my throat and said, “Well, that would be great. But I have a little problem.”

  The woman turned a page of her ledger. “Problems in this county come by the bucketful. What’s yours?”

  I shrugged and said, “My car broke down, a couple of … a couple of miles down the road. Thing is, I left my cash back there, in the glove compartment. The only way I can pay for breakfast is through a credit card. Is that OK?”

  She smiled slightly. “Mister, last year at this time I’d have told you that no, it wouldn’t be OK. I’d have said that my policy was that only the store goods could be paid for by credit card. I wouldn’t let anybody—and I don’t care if they was my neighbors—I wouldn’t let anybody pay for breakfast by credit card. But you know what? Like they say, shit happens. Sure. Have a seat.”

  I sat down and she got up, saying, “One more thing, though. You seem to be a nice enough lookin’ fella and all, but I want to run that credit card through first. All right?”

  “Sure,” I said, opening up my wallet and passing over a Visa card.

  She took it and said, “Thing is, if the phone lines are down, like most days, then you get a free ride no matter what.”

  “All right,” I said, sitting there patiently, hands folded in front of me.

  The woman went over to the cash register and ran my Visa card through one of those little machines that rule your credit rating. “Hah,” she said. “I’ve got a dial tone. Then it’s gonna be a good day. Took some rebuilding but the phone lines are back, some of the computers, and most days we got power for a while. Guess those assholes who nuked us won’t keep us down long, right?”

  I smiled and just nodded.

  After some beeps and buzzes she smiled and came back and handed over the card. “You’re good to go. What would you like?”

  I smiled, hoping that drool wasn’t running down my chin. “Sure. How about some scrambled eggs and toast?”

  She nodded. “Two eggs OK?”

  “Could I get four?” I asked.

  The woman smiled. “My, you must have walked far. Sure. Four it is, though I’ll have to charge you extra.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Extra toast?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ve got milk and coffee, though I can only give you one cup of coffee.”

  Hot coffee, I thought. Hot coffee and real eggs, not eggs served from a plastic pouch and made whole again with cold water.

  She started working at the grill as things started heating up and sizzling. She slapped down a mug of milk and coffee in front of me and I put two sugars in the coffee and took a long, hot swallow. I wiggled my cold toes. Soon I’d be fueled up and ready to go. I asked, “Is the highway far from here?”

  The woman’s back was to me as she worked on the grill. “Oh, just up the hill and over to the right. There’s an access road that hooks up to the interstate. You hopin’ to hitch a ride or something?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I said.

  She turned, passing the plate of eggs and toast over to me. “Might be your best bet. If you’re broke down like you said, Jake in town might be able to give you a tow, but I don’t know if he’s got any gas. Here, eat up, ’fore it gets cold.”

  I sprinkled salt over the scrambled eggs and ate two or three forkfuls so fast that I don’t think I even tasted them. But my taste glands kicked in right away and I looked over at her and said, “Heavenly ambrosia. The best eggs I’ve ever eaten.”

  The woman seemed to blush. “Well, there’s something to be said for farm-fresh eggs and homemade bread. Look, would you like some raspberry jam for your toast? No extra charge?”

  “Only if it’s no trouble,” I said.

  She waved a hand at me. “No, no trouble at all. It’s back at the house.”

  “No, really, you don’t have to,” I said.

  “Bah,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “I’ve got to bring some over anyway. You just hold on.”

  I just smiled, my mouth full of food, and went back to eating as the woman went out the rear of the store. I carried on eating the scrambled eggs but forced myself to slow down—I didn’t want to show my appreciation for this nice lady by suddenly getting sick and puking up on her country-store floor. I took a last bite of toast—real butter, strong and flavorful, nothing like the margarine grease I had been used to. Then the door at the rear opened up and she came back in.

  But her hands were empty.

  “Oh,” I said. I was going to add that it was OK, I didn’t need any raspberry jam at all, when three men came in behind her. They wore jeans and fatigue jackets, and had rifles slung over their shoulders.

  I put the fork down slowly.

  The main door to the store opened up and two other men came in, dressed like the first three. Muddy boots, jeans and slung weapons. Patches of some sort or other were sewn on the sides of their jackets, along with tiny American flags.

  I swallowed the last of my breakfast.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  My gracious host and cook was no longer smiling. “He gave me a credit card. It’s from some bank in Toronto.”

  A little voice spoke up in my head, and it sounded distinctly like my father’s. Fool, fool, fool.

  The oldest man, heavyset and with a beard that came to the middle of his chest, looked at me. “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Samuel Simpson.”

  A man behind me said, “So. You from Toronto?”

  “Yes.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I looked down longingly at my empty plate. “Having breakfast.”

  A couple of the guys laughed, and then a hand fell on my shoulder. I kept on looking at the heavyset bearded man. “Not bad, mister,” he said. “I’ll give you that. But any more smart answers and Tom here’s gonna whack you one. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I sighed, looked at their faces, wondering if this was anything like what my grandfather had felt when the raid on Dieppe had gone so drastically wrong.

  “Just walking around, checking things out,” I said. “A tourist whose car broke down, that’s all.”

  The bearded man nodded slowly. “Look, it’d be easier if you just
gave it up, pal. I don’t want no blood on Beth’s floor here. That wouldn’t be polite, now, would it?”

  “No,” I said, knowing the various forms of UN identification that were in my wallet. “It wouldn’t be polite at all.”

  “The truth, then.”

  “Truth? The truth is, I’m assigned to an investigation unit with UNFORUS. I’ve gotten separated from my group, and I’m just here, having breakfast, and then I’m going to the highway.”

  I saw their faces change, all of them, as expressions darkened and eyes narrowed. Then the bearded guy said, “All right, then. You can finish your breakfast.”

  I wiped my face slowly with a napkin. “I already have,” I said. “Just as well—I’ve lost my appetite.”

  The bearded man exchanged a look with the guy behind me who was holding on to my shoulder. Then the bearded man said, “Fine. You’re now under arrest.”

  And then my arms were pulled back, and a hood was pulled over my head.

  EVEN THEN, I was surprised at how polite they were. Two men helped me to my feet as another one finished binding my arms. My arms were tied together at the wrist, but not tight enough to cut off my circulation. The hood smelled of hay, and I was flanked on either side as two of the militiamen each grasped an elbow. They walked me to the store, opened the door and led me out, one of them saying, “Steps coming up, lower your foot down, there you go.”

  Behind me, the woman said, “Well, who’s gonna pay for breakfast, then?”

  A male voice: “ … Got his goddamn credit card, now, don’t you? Use that …”

  I stood still, trying to calm my breathing, trying not to think of too much, except I was attempting to grasp what the bearded guy had said: I was under arrest. He didn’t say I was going to be taken into the woods and shot, or out to a gravel pit and shot, or to the town square and shot. Not that these options weren’t open to me—and to my captors—but I was hoping for a little wiggle room. “Where am I going?” I asked.

  A nudge to the ribs. “No talking. And if you keep talking, you’ll get the shit kicked out of you. OK?”

  I didn’t say a word, just stood there. Another—and sharper—nudge to the ribs. “Hey! I asked you a question. You understand?”

  “I do understand,” I said, letting impatience slip into my voice. “And you said no talking. So I kept my mouth shut.”

  The other guy laughed. “He got you there, Frank.”

  “Smart-ass fucker,” Frank said. “You just keep quiet.”

  Through the hood I made out the sound of a truck engine, and then I was grasped again by the elbows. “OK,” not-Frank said. “Up you go. The back of a pickup truck.”

  It was awkward, trying to ease my way up onto the bed of the truck with my hands tied behind me. Frank swore at me as I flailed around, but not-Frank gave me a boost. “Move it back, move it back,” came a voice, and I slid my butt back against the metal bed until I bumped up against some canvas bags of something. There was the clump of boots and doors were slammed, and then we were off, bumping along the road. Something dull pressed against the back of my neck.

  “Listen well, UN man,” Frank said, “I’ve taken down a lot of fuckers like you without losing a wink of sleep, so do me a favor: try to escape. I’ll blow your fucking head off, right here.”

  Not-Frank said, “Oh, calm down.”

  I didn’t say a thing.

  The truck swung around and we started going down the road. There had been movies and poorly made television shows that I’d seen in the past where the bound and blindfolded hero kept track of his progress by listening to passing sounds, by measuring the thumps of the tires against potholes and by gauging through some internal compass how many lefts and rights he took to his place of captivity.

  I never said I was a hero. The only thing I could gauge was when we left the paved road for a dirt road. We traveled for a bit until we stopped, and Frank said, “George, c’mon, time for a search.”

  So George—previously not-Frank—helped me off and I stood by the side of the road, hearing the truck engine rumbling in front of me. Frank undid the ropes on my wrists and nudged me. “Strip,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Strip. Take off your clothes. Remove everything you’ve got on, except for the hood.”

  I took a breath from inside the hood. “No.”

  George played good cop. “C’mon, guy, don’t make a fuss. We don’t have that much time.”

  “Nope.”

  Though I was expecting it, the blow to the back of my shoulders still stunned me. I fell to the ground, and then there were a few kicks before Frank, voice laboring from his exertions, said, “Will you take off your fucking clothes, huh?”

  I gasped. “No. Take them off yourself if you’re in such a fucking hurry.”

  Which was what they did—after a few more blows. In a couple of minutes I was standing there, swaying back and forth, naked in the cold except for the hood. I could hear Frank and George murmuring and then my clothes and boots were dumped at my feet. “Here. Dress yourself. But keep the damn hood on or we’ll shoot you.”

  It was hard going, but I managed. As I struggled to finally get my boots on, I said, “What was that all about?”

  Frank didn’t say anything. But George, again seemingly playing good cop, said, “You look like a smart guy, all things considered. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  I got everything back on and said, “My watch?”

  “Sorry,” Frank said, laughing. “Confiscated. Hey, George, you want the book?”

  George said, “Nah. I’ve got plenty of books. Orwell, huh? I remember reading one of his books back in high school. Nineteen Eighty-Four, it was called.”

  Frank said, “Was it any good?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. Couldn’t finish it. Cribbed from Cliff’s Notes for the term paper I had to write. Here you go.” George stuffed the book back inside my coat and I was led back to the truck. As George was helping me up, I muttered, “Tracking device.”

  “Huh?”

  I raised my voice. “You’re looking to see if I’m carrying some sort of tracking device. Am I right?”

  George said nothing, but Frank said, “Yeah, I guess you’re a smart one. Yep, looking for a tracking device. Just in case you were a plant, being sent to infiltrate one of our base camps. Set up a homing signal for some of those fuckers to bomb us.”

  Another nudge. “Just be glad you don’t have any fresh scars, you know? Heard from some militia groups in Idaho, by shortwave, that some UN guys were infiltrating their base camps with tracking devices that had been surgically implanted. So. Like I said. Be glad you don’t have any fresh scars.”

  “And why is that?”

  George sounded apologetic. “We would have shot you at the side of the road.”

  Though they didn’t ask me to, I kept quiet for the entire rest of the trip.

  ABOUT FIFTEEN OR so minutes later we passed through two checkpoints, the truck having slowed down considerably. I could make out a variety of sounds—people talking, machinery, other vehicle engines—and the smell of woodsmoke. The truck came to a stop and once again I was helped off. My hands were untied and the hood was removed, and I stood there blinking, taking it all in. We were in a wooded area that had been cleared of brush and saplings, so only the taller evergreens shaded us from overhead. In front of me was an old school bus up on cement blocks, its yellow paint faded away almost to a dull white, the tires rotting in places, parts of the sides rusting away. The bearded guy who seemed in charge came up to me. “Here’s the rules. In there—” he motioned to the school bus “—is your new home. You go in there and stay still until we come for you. There’s a potty in the rear. You come out the door, you look out the windshield or windows, and you’re a dead man. Understood?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Sure,” the bearded man said.

  “You said I was under arrest,” I said. “What’s the charge?”


  “Crimes against humanity,” the bearded man said, without a trace of humor.

  I WENT INTO the school bus, recalling all the times that I had climbed these same types of metal steps on my way to school when I was younger, dumber and sure as hell a lot happier. But I had never been in a bus like this before. It had been adapted for its new use: most of the seats had been unbolted and taken out. I walked down the aisle, past soiled mattresses lying on the metal. The floor creaked as I went to the rear where a green wool blanket hung, concealing a chemical toilet. Someone had come in earlier, painting the windows and the windshield black, and tiny white light bulbs, looking like they came from a Christmas tree, provided a little illumination. I sat down on one of the surviving seats, rubbed my wrists and my hands and face, and waited. The bus smelled of grease, old clothes and stale air, and fear. Especially fear.

  There were faint noises coming in from outside, and still I sat there, waiting. Not good, not good at all. But at least I had been arrested. I had been arrested for something—nutty as it sounded—so at any rate I was still breathing.

  But until when? Nobody at the UN knew I was alive. Nobody at the UN knew where I was. And, judging by how stealthily these militiamen had brought me in, I doubted that the UN knew the location of this particular camp.

  I shifted around, thought about all the children who might have ridden in these very same seats; wondered if they had grown up and were now busily slaughtering their long-distance neighbors who were coming up here for help. I looked at the window, saw something. I went closer and saw that somebody had carefully scraped away a bit of the black paint, allowing a tiny peephole to the outside. I remembered the warning—look out the windshield or the windows, you’re a dead man—but I couldn’t see how I could be caught.

  But still …

  I hesitated only for a moment. Had my grandfather hesitated at Dieppe? I looked closer out the window, saw the campsite. The grounds had been cleared of underbrush and other barriers, leaving tall evergreens and other trees. Camouflaged netting had been stretched between the tree trunks, hiding the complex from prying eyes overhead. If the militiamen could keep their machinery and fires under control, then thermal detection could be thwarted. Sure, maybe a spy satellite could peer through almost everything—I knew that some of the American satellites had wide-range radar that could penetrate the overhead netting—but since the Russians weren’t cooperating in this UN mission and the American satellites obviously weren’t available, I could see how this camp had remained hidden.