Andrew Britton: The Exile

“I’m not going anywhere,” she finally said. She did her best to sound calm and assured, but her eyes slipped away when she spoke again. “Al-Bashir is afraid of my country, Limya. He is afraid of our army. They won’t hurt you if I stand in their way, I promise. They wouldn’t dare to-”

“You’re wrong,” the girl said. Her voice was quiet but certain, and Lily felt a sudden tremor of doubt. “They will kill you. They will kill everyone, and there is nothing more you can do. You should leave now.”

Lily didn’t shift her gaze from the girl, but her eyes glazed over as she struggled to take sane, logical stock of her choices-or some approximation of it amid the fundamentally insane circumstances confronting her. On one level, she felt a primitive, almost overpowering urge to run, and she hated herself for it. At the same time, what more could she do?

Fair enough question, she thought. She had stayed behind at this crucial moment, stayed true to her principles, and she had tried to help them. Wasn’t that enough? Could she really stop what was going to happen here? Even delay it? Or would she just be another lamb to the slaughter?

Limya seemed to sense what was running through her head. “Go,” she repeated. Her voice was little more than a whisper, her brown eyes damp, wide, and imploring. “Please.”

Lily Durant cast one last desperate glance at the door, but she had already made her decision.

“I can’t,” she said quietly. She locked eyes with the girl again, and this time her gaze was steady. “I won’t leave you.”

A look of profound sadness crossed the teenager’s face. She closed her eyes, lowered her head, and murmured a few words in Zaghawa. At that moment the first of several figures appeared in the door, blocking the last remaining route of escape. When she heard them enter, Lily took a deep breath, stood, and turned to face them. She had just set her feet when the first one reached her on the run.

She didn’t see the punch coming. It simply arrived, landing high on her right cheek, splitting the skin to the bone. Stunned by the sheer force of the blow, she stumbled back and raised her hands in self-defense. But it was no use; they were just too strong.

The beating that followed was both methodical and completely merciless. They slapped her face, pulled her hair, and tore the clothes from her body. She felt a pair of hands groping her bare breasts and pried them loose with all her strength, or tried getting them off her, crying out in rage and revulsion. Then they wrestled her to the floor-five of them, six, maybe more than that crowding over and around her, mobbing her, too many of them to fight. Somewhere in the distance she could hear Limya and a few others begging them to stop, but the assault continued, their fists raining down from above, their boots pounding relentlessly into her ribs. Even as the world seemed to fade around her, she forced herself to stay conscious. For what, she didn’t know. But some stubborn inner voice told her to keep fighting.

She turned onto her right side and tightened into a ball, trying to make herself a smaller target. That only seemed to enrage them further. A particularly vicious kick to the base of her spine caused her back to arch, and her arms and legs sprung open, as if of their own accord. Her assailants were quick to take advantage. One man dropped down on top of her, pinning her splayed arms and legs to the floor, and the others moved in on either side to await their turn.

At that moment a single shot penetrated the chaos. The hands moved away, and the men holding her down jumped up and stepped aside. They backed off slowly, and she managed to scramble away in turn, her feet kicking wildly at empty air, splinters from the rough wooden floor digging into the heels of her hands. She slid back until she hit a wall, but it wasn’t far enough, and she kept pushing against it like a trapped, helpless creature surrounded by a feral pack, irrationally willing her body to sink into the solid material.

It took her a moment to realize that someone had followed the militiamen into the hospital. He was standing before her now, and even through the swelling around her eyes, she could recognize that his uniform was that of a lieutenant colonel in the Sudanese army. He murmured something over his right shoulder, and another man stepped forward, lifted a digital camera to eye level, and pointed the lens down at her face. When he was satisfied that it was recording properly, he said a few words in Arabic to the officer, who replied with a grunt.

Lily had folded her arms over her exposed breasts the instant she saw the camera, but the officer didn’t seem to notice. He was holding a small square of glossy paper in his right hand. He stared at the paper for a long moment, as if committing its contents to memory. As her mind slowly adjusted to the unexpected turn of events, Lily realized he was looking at a photograph. His eyes moved to her battered, tear-streaked face, and he studied her carefully.

“You are Lilith Durant?”

She was still struggling to catch her breath. When she could speak, she said, “Yes.”

“The niece of the American president?”

For a second Lily did not think she had heard correctly. But then the full weight of the words hit her, and in that instant she knew why they had attacked the camp.

Somehow, they had learned who she really was. She had done everything in her power to keep a low profile, but it was now clear that somewhere along the line, she-or somebody close to her-had made a critical mistake. It was the only possible explanation, and the officer’s words were enough to verify her worst fears. They had come for her, and in doing so, they had been willing to destroy anything and everyone that stood in their way.

Everything that had just happened to the camp, the destruction that swept over it, killing so many of the refugees, leaving those innocent men, women, and children massacred…she had brought it all down on them.

All of it, all of it, was her damned fault.

She closed her eyes in anguish, crushed by her sudden revelation. She felt dizzy, sick with guilt, but she couldn’t change what had happened, and it wouldn’t help to dwell on it. The only thing she could do now was try to save as many lives as possible, starting with the people in the surrounding beds.

She took a second to collect herself and then opened her eyes. The commander was watching her closely.

“Please,” she whispered through bloodied lips. “Let it end here. With me.”

The commander didn’t react, but he had spoken in fluent English before, and Lily knew he could understand.

“You don’t have to do this,” she pressed. “These people are not a threat to you. The camp is destroyed, and the people who ran will not come back. You’ve made your point-”

“And what do you believe that to be?” His eyes were fixed on her. “Look at me carefully, Ms. Durant. Is mine the face of a master or follower?”

Lily stared in confused silence, her mind groping for a response. When it didn’t find one, she simply shook her head in futility. “You’ve got what you came for. You have me. Please, just let the rest of them live. Please. ”

The colonel seemed to consider her request for a long moment, and Lily felt a tiny spark of hope.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” The colonel held out his hand, palm up, and Lily watched in despair as a second man stepped forward to hand over a large black pistol. The colonel hefted it in his hand as he smiled down at her. “But don’t worry. Those you came to help won’t be without you for long.”

He extended the pistol at arm’s length, and Lily closed her eyes, found herself counting down. She didn’t know why, maybe just to give herself something to focus on besides the pounding of her heart.