Brendan DuBois - Dead of Night

I turned and saw Charlie standing by the hood of one of the Land Cruisers, his M-16 in his hands, looking down at the driveway. A black pickup truck was grinding its way up, its tires and sides muddy. Karen, who was at my side, whispered, ‘Oh, shit, this doesn’t look good, doesn’t look good at all. That’s a militia truck if I ever saw one.’

I saw what she meant. The truck had a powerful engine and fat tires with thick treads and the windshield was gone, as were the side windows, the easier to fire weapons from inside the cab. Three guys were in the front of the cab, all wearing clear-glass goggles to protect themselves from the wind while driving fast. Four other guys were in the back of the truck, leaning out to look up at us, all of them with their own goggles pushed back up on their foreheads. They seemed to be in their twenties or early thirties, they had on blue jeans and fatigue coats, and the only thing that reassured me—besides the presence of Charlie—was the fact that there were no weapons visible.

Sanjay stood behind Karen, looking over her shoulder. ‘I thought this place was pacified. What are they doing out in the open? Don’t they know Charlie could call in some helicopters, some back-up?’

I said, ‘Weather’s too bad for helicopters, and they know that. Maybe they’re just on a scouting trip. Maybe they’re—’

‘Jean-Paul,’ Charlie said, keeping his voice even and his gaze focused on the truck. ‘Get your crew behind some cover. Now. And why don’t you get on the horn and start talking to your people?’

For once, Peter didn’t argue, and for once, Jean-Paul didn’t have to repeat Charlie’s orders. We all scattered but I stayed close to Charlie, who was still keeping his gaze directed down toward the driveway. Karen was whispering something to Sanjay and I looked over to see that Jean-Paul had the satellite phone in his lap, talking low and urgently. I couldn’t see where Peter and Miriam were. There was a faint click and I wondered what the noise was. Then I clasped my hands together as I realized it was Charlie, switching off the safety on his M-16. His voice still low and casual, he said, ‘That you, Samuel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Think you can get in the rear seat of this Land Cruiser, without raising your head, and get something for me?’

‘Sure I can,’ I said, feeling reassured just a bit, like I was contributing something.

‘Good. On the floor there’s two black duffel bags. Bring me the largest of the two, all right? That’s very important. The largest of the two.’

‘You got it,’ I said, and I crab-walked back to the door and opened it up. I looked inside, at the jumble of gear and bags and equipment, and saw the two duffel bags. But which one was the largest? It was impossible to tell from where they were situated. I looked at them, trying to decipher which one was largest, when Charlie said, ‘I need that bag now, Samuel. And I’m not fooling.’

Shit. I pulled the bags out, both of them heavy, and saw instantly which one was the largest, I dragged it over to Charlie. He stepped away and said, ‘Unzip the top, will you?’

I pulled back the heavy zipper and said, ‘It’s open.’

‘Great,’ he said. I gaped in awe at how fast he moved now, plunging down, one hand holding the M-16, the other burrowing deep into the bag and coming out with a small satchel and a tubular weapon with a handle, both of which he threw on top of the hood of the Land Cruiser. His hands moved in a quick blur as he opened up the satchel, brought out a metal cylinder about the size of a small egg and slid it into the now open weapon, which I had finally recognized as a grenade launcher.

Then whatever sense of professionalism I had kicked in. This wasn’t the time to keep an eye on Charlie; it was time for something else. Keeping low, I scuttled back to where I had started and picked up my Sony camera. I went to the rear of the Land Cruiser, still staying close to the ground, and I ignored the whispers of my teammates. I got down on the cold dirt, crawled past the left rear tire and looked down the driveway. I got the viewfinder up to my face and started taking photographs of the pickup truck as it finally slowed down. The guys in the vehicle were talking to each other and I zoomed in a bit with the camera, catching all their faces. Click, click, click. I took the pictures as fast as my fingers would allow. I started out with a group shot of the truck and its passengers, focusing first on the three men in the cab and then on the four guys in the rear. Then I took close-up shots of each individual face.

I tried not to think too hard as I was taking the photos. But still, I was struck by the similarity of the faces, how they looked like they were all related and had come out of the same polluted gene pool. They all had raggedy beards or mustaches, their complexions were rough and scarred, and when they smiled I saw plenty of signs of poor dentistry. I saw them talking among themselves, some of them laughing and smiling, and it seemed like the guy in the center of the cab was in charge. He talked first to the driver and then to the guy closest to the passenger-side door. Then he turned back and said something through an opening in the rear cab window.

Voices. No, just a voice. Charlie murmuring, ‘Just a bit closer, darlin’s, and I’ll show you some serious fucking hurt.’

I pulled my face away from the camera and looked over at Charlie who was now leaning across the hood of the Land Cruiser, the grenade launcher looking tiny in his big hands. I went back to my camera work and took yet another set of group photos. Then I paused as my breath caught and my hands suddenly started shaking. The driver of the pickup truck had said something to the guy in the center, who now seemed to be looking right at me. He laughed and held up a hand, waved in my direction, then raised his middle finger in the classic gesture of insult and threat. I could not take another photo. I could not move. The only thing I could do was to understand the terror a small creature feels when faced with a snake slithering up to eat him. This man was a member of one of the local militias, no doubt about it, pacified zone or not. I knew down to the frozen marrow of my bones that only a handful of meters separated the two of us and if he got close enough he would shoot me or stab me or bludgeon me with about the same amount of emotion that I would have about swatting an irritating mosquito that had come into my tent. Death squad, I thought. This was a death squad. ‘Militia’ was just too bland a term.

I was frozen. I was terrified. My breath was coming in quick gasps and the camera was shaking in my hands so much that I had to move it away from my vulnerable eye sockets. Then the truck stopped, its engine grumbling.

Charlie murmured something and waved at the men, making sure they could see the grenade launcher. There was a quick confab among the group. I had the feeling that Charlie had just upset their plans, that in the rear of the truck, hidden under an old bedspread or a piece of canvas, were their weapons. But now they had to think. They had to gamble. And the gamble was whether they could pull out their guns fast enough to stop Charlie popping off a round from the grenade launcher.

I found that my breathing was beginning to ease. The equation had suddenly changed once the militia group had noticed Charlie. Now the camera wasn’t shaking as much in my hands and I could imagine what could happen. An ill-advised movement by the militiamen and then a loud pop from the grenade launcher and a loud bang! as the round found its target, a nice blossom of orange and red fire and black smoke. Then Charlie would probably pick up his M-16 and hose them down, shoot at them all, shoot at these militiamen who hadn’t expected to come up against a real soldier, nope, probably all the practice they’d had was shooting farmers and shopkeepers and businessmen and businesswomen and dads and wives and children.