William Weber - Turning the Tide

The five-gallon pails of water were growing heavier in Brandon’s hands with every step. When he wasn’t in the fields planting seeds or tilling soil, he’d been ordered to bring water to the prisoners who worked in the camp kitchens. It was a sweet job, a step up from the other most sought-after occupation in the camp: bathroom attendant. Before the EMP and the invasion, any work that involved cleaning a row of open-pit toilets would have been considered inhumane. No question, the stench was hard to bear, but the payoff was hard to beat. Four walls and relative privacy from sadistic guards. The North Koreans rarely went near the place on account of the overwhelming reek and so whoever was charged with sweeping and keeping the building clean could also save themselves from a beating or two.

Brandon’s part-time job bringing water to the kitchen staff put him in a unique position. If he was careful, he could trade information or items he scavenged around camp for food. Most often that meant whatever ended up as trash, but once in a while―the muffin bottoms being a prime example―he managed to score something he didn’t need to scrub the dirt off of. This time he’d brought a small travel toothbrush he’d traded for a handful of apple skins.

Brandon arrived at the kitchen’s back entrance. A dark brown wooden structure, it still smelled of fresh paint, another indication of how new this nightmare really was. He knocked and after a small wait, the cook, Sammy Stevens, answered the door. Dressed in a dirty white uniform, Sammy wore a small white hat and sported a thick New Jersey accent.

Over Sammy’s shoulder, Brandon spotted two guards inside the kitchen, chatting to one another. This was another cushy job, maybe the cushiest, and for the guards as well since they would constantly pick at the food under the guise of taste-testing.

“Is Jennifer here?” Brandon asked, handing over the first bucket of water. Weevils coated the surface, but the prisoners had learned quickly enough to skim them off with the tips of their fingers.

Sammy pulled his hat off his head, revealing a short-cropped and greying head of hair. “You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

Sammy looked around to ensure they weren’t being overheard. The two guards near the kitchen line were still busy chatting. “That group that got executed the other day. She was one of them.”

The weight of the terrible news hit Brandon like a body blow. For a moment he wasn’t able to speak.

“I know,” Sammy said, reading Brandon’s shock. “We all felt the same way. She musta got caught up with the wrong crowd. I mean, who’s dumb enough to think you can escape from this place?”

Brandon nodded absently, the numbness creeping down his neck, into his chest and his legs.

A prisoner crossed the doorway behind Sammy, looking like a ghost. Brandon’s eyes followed him, compelling Sammy to look as well.

“Oh, that’s Brice. He’s been here about a month. Just got back from a stint in the re-education program.”

“Brainwashing?”

Sammy snorted discreetly. “At the very least, my friend. Most of the poor schmucks who make it back look like they ain’t got no one home. Some wise guys joke he’s haunting the place, but it ain’t too far from the truth.” Sammy glanced over his shoulder and then took the second bucket of water. “You didn’t bring anything with you today, did you?”

Brandon felt for the toothbrush he’d put in his waistband and pulled part of it out so Sammy could see. He was still reeling from the news that Jennifer had been killed. She’d been one of the few new friends he’d made in camp. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen.

“Toothbrush, eh? Well, those fools behind me are supposed to be doing an inspection, so I got nothing to give you right now, except some information.”

“What about?” Brandon asked. In here, information was power and could be purchased along with just about anything else.

“News from the front. A town called Oneida.”

Brandon’s ears perked up. “Really? I’m from there.”

Sammy smiled, pulling his cap forward. “Toothbrush first.”

Sighing, Brandon handed it over. “I wanna hear everything.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what I know, let’s start with that. Way I heard it, when he was on the outside, one of the new guys used to listen to the radio. That was before a Chinese patrol caught him hiding in the basement of some house and sent him over here. Anyway, he told me that after the Chinese army busted through the Mississippi, they pushed all the way to the Appalachians. All except for two places. A junction east of Knoxville and this tiny, one-street nothing town in northern Tennessee called Oneida.”

Brandon’s jaw slackened as his mouth fell open.

“That’s right, they kept attacking the place until dead Chinese soldiers were stacked on the streets like cord wood. Can you imagine?” Sammy’s voice rose for a moment in jubilation before he caught himself, checking behind him to be sure the guards hadn’t overheard. After that, the smile on his face returned. He bent down on one knee, skimming the weevils off the top of the water. “They’re calling your home town the new Bastogne.”

Now Brandon was also smiling, but his newfound joy was simultaneously fraught with concern over whether anyone he knew had been hurt or killed. His mother and sister, John… Emma.

Brandon left after that, a whole slew of emotions swirling around. He passed by the front gate to observe who was on duty and see if he could find out how long they’d been there for.

By now he knew all the guards’ names and a little something about them. Even North Koreans, cruel as they could be, sometimes couldn’t help divulging little bits and pieces. Information that could come in handy as he, Dixon and others laid the foundations for their escape.

Marching outside along the fence line were two male guards: Lee Kun-Hee, who Brandon called Pug Face, and a thin older man named Shin Chang-Jae. Lee’s tendency for cruelty was well known, but Brandon had learned that Shin had a weakness for white women and often stood glaring at the girls in camp as they went to and from the fields. The rumor floated around that Shin was even responsible for some of the pregnancies Brandon and the others had seen. Vile as it was, these were the sorts of details Dixon had ordered him to gather and so he had, as faithfully as possible.

With his discreet observations complete, Brandon was preparing to head back to the barracks when the sound of a plane caught his ear. He planted his feet for a moment, watching as the noise became louder and louder. This wasn’t a jet, nor was it a helicopter. It sounded like a single-engine Cessna and it was coming straight for them.

A number of the guards had also heard it and were scanning the skies, but they were searching too high. Whoever was flying this thing was coming in low. Then he spotted the plane as it cleared a clump of trees in the distance and closed on the camp. Those around him stood transfixed at it approached, all probably wondering the same thing. Were they about to be bombed or was this poor guy lost?

Now the prison guards had their AKs poised and ready to fire, but as the plane came within a hundred yards they all saw the colors of the Chinese air force painted on its wings and body. This was one of theirs, which made its strange behavior even more puzzling. Thirty yards from the gate, it pulled up and flew directly over the camp. The door on the side of the plane opened up as someone began pushing what looked like blocks of paper out through the narrow opening. The blocks of paper broke into thousands of tiny pieces, each of them fluttering to the ground. The Cessna flew the length of the rectangular prison camp, releasing its payload, before tipping its wings and veering off.