William Weber - Turning the Tide

A tug on Brandon’s tunic startled him. He turned and nearly cried out when he saw Dixon, standing by his left shoulder.

“Keep your cool, kid,” Dixon told him. “And do like Gregory here and avert your eyes. They’re trying to get into our heads and break us from the inside out. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”

“I thought you were one of them,” Brandon whispered.

Dixon shook his head. “Nah, these poor saps musta been part of another plan. There’s probably five thousand prisoners in this hellhole. Ain’t no way we’re the only ones cooking up a plan. Speaking of cooking, were you able to get what I asked you?”

Brandon had made friends with a teenage girl named Jennifer, who worked in the kitchen. Once in a while she snuck him potato skins or food discarded from the guards’ mess hall. This time she’d managed to smuggle out the bottom halves of some muffins left behind by a finicky guard at breakfast. Many of them hated American food and longed for the kinds of meals they were used to back home, but Naung-myon noodles weren’t exactly easy to find in mid-America.

“It’s back at the barracks,” Brandon said, referring to the muffin bottoms, before Dixon slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Sometimes less is more, kid.”

Brandon understood at once. Prison guards and collaborators weren’t their only concern. If someone overheard him divulge the location of contraband food, it wouldn’t be there by the time they got back. When food was scarce, national and cultural alliances didn’t mean a thing.

Dixon leaned forward and whispered, “And don’t worry, our escape plan’s coming along nicely. I’m gonna need you to keep an eye on a couple guard shifts and maybe gather some more food from Jennifer.”

Reluctantly, Brandon nodded and then nudged his chin in the direction of the pug-faced guard standing over the last of the executed prisoners. “What’s his name?”

“The one with a face only a mother could love?”

“Yeah, is he new?”

Dixon grinned. “His name’s Lee Kun-Hee. Arrived last week and real eager to prove himself. I suggest you stay away from that one. He likes his job way too much.”

“What about her?” Brandon asked, referring to a squat female guard who always seemed to be scowling.

“That little honey blossom is Yun Ji-Su. She kicked me in the ribs yesterday when we were planting soybeans in the eastern field.”

“You weren’t going fast enough?”

The smile on Dixon’s face widened. “That’s what she said. Work faster, work faster. But I think she likes me.”

Brandon wanted to laugh but held it in. “If she bashes your skull in, you might need to start looking for a ring.”

After the last of the dead were removed, Ellis delivered the commandant’s final address. “Anyone foolish enough to think of trying to escape should know this—for everyone who escapes this camp, ten random prisoners will be put to death.”

Brandon’s guts clenched into a tight ball. It was one thing to risk your own life in a bid for freedom. If they failed they’d be tortured and executed. But if they succeeded, they’d be responsible for the deaths of dozens of innocent Americans.

Back in Oneida, Diane and Emma stood on Alberta Street before the town’s newspaper office, the Independent Herald . A two-story brick building that looked about as old as the town itself, the structure was scarred with the wounds of war. The upstairs windows had been broken by a squad of soldiers who’d used the second story as a firing position. The façade itself was dotted with pockmarks where bullets had torn away chunks of brick and concrete.

Although the newspaper had closed up shop right after the EMP, Diane and Emma were anxious to get inside to see if they could find anything that might help them print the thousands of propaganda leaflets they would need. A handful of old-timers had suggested they might find what they were looking for in the newspaper’s basement.

Getting inside wouldn’t be a problem. Soldiers preparing for the attacks had blown a hole in the wall to allow for rapid movement off the main streets.

Taking a final glance over her shoulder before she and Emma disappeared inside, Diane caught sight of a dense wall of cloud coming up from the south. The sight made her think of John and the dangerous mission he’d slipped away this morning to complete. They were well into the afternoon now and he still wasn’t back.

To say she was worried was an understatement, but if she’d learned anything in these last few weeks, it was how to look strong when your very soul was racked with anxiety and pain. Gregory was still missing, along with Brandon. They’d gone off to the front in the thoughtless way so typical of teenagers with low impulse control. For reasons she couldn’t understand, they’d felt this was the only way they could contribute to the war effort. But a long, dangerous voyage west hadn’t been necessary since the war had found Oneida just fine on its own.

Diane had also learned that staying strong was just as important for the people around her. Creating a protective bubble to keep out the nagging concerns about her son’s safety had helped a bit. Keeping busy helped more. If she was lucky, he hadn’t been killed when the Chinese had smashed through the front lines protecting the Mississippi. The hope remained strong that he’d been sent to a POW camp and would wait there until a rescue could be mounted or they reached an end to this mad war. And that was why these leaflets were so important. Hope. The very thing which told her Gregory was alive and that she’d see him again soon.

Diane opened her flashlight and stepped inside, her mind shifting for a moment to the Colt .45 in the holster on her right thigh. They were safe, she reminded herself. Outside, hundreds of townspeople and soldiers were working feverishly to clear the streets. Spearing the darkness with her light, she caught sight of a room littered with papers and debris. Lazy dust motes floated through her field of vision.

“I think this door leads to the basement,” Emma said.

Ever since her daughter had set herself the task of designing that leaflet, she’d started eating again―she had even put on some much-needed weight―which only strengthened Diane’s conviction that idle hands were the devil’s workshop.

“Let me go first,” Diane said, waving the flashlight beam.

The stairs creaked as they descended one step at a time.

Emma fell in behind her as they weaved past bundles of old newspapers, some dating back fifty years. They turned a corner and both saw it at once, a monster looming out of the shadows. A hand-cranked printing press. Stenciled on the side was ‘SP-15 Vandercook’ and below that ‘Trademark 1965.’

“It’s huge,” Emma said. “We’ll never get it upstairs.”

She was right. In fact, it was a mystery how they’d even managed to get it down here in the first place.

Emma took hold of the crank and tried to move it without success. “Must be stuck.”

Diane tried with the same result. “This beast’s been sitting down here for decades, honey. A bit of oil should do the trick.”

Two levels of shelving beneath the press contained ink, paper and tools for maintaining the machine.

Emma stepped around it to check the cylinder when she shrieked and stumbled back, slamming her shoulders against the wall with a boom. Startled, Diane rushed to her side.

“What is it?”

Emma raised a finger, pointing it at the Chinese soldier on the floor, his back against the side of the press. A dried pool of blood ringed his dead body. The front of his uniform had been pulled open to expose a gaping wound in his belly. She’d seen similar sights many times before in old Civil War photographs John had showed her of soldiers rifling through their own clothing searching for a wound. Back then, finding a gut shot was usually a death sentence.