Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

And just at that moment, there were a few bursts of static on the screen—and then the picture went out. There was nothing, not even a test pattern. Just darkness.

We all stood there—we Americans and the locals just the same. We all stood there, staring at the blank screen.

Palmer made a gesture to the old lady. She lifted the remote again. Changed the channels. Nothing. More nothing. Then the soccer game. She cycled through the channels one more time. The soccer game was the only thing playing anywhere.

She shut the TV off. The cantina was silent.

“Well… what does that mean?” I asked. “The picture just… I mean, it just went off like that. It just went dark. What does that mean?” I don’t know why I bothered to ask—I knew well enough what it meant. The rebels had overrun the station. Which meant they had gotten inside the government compound. Which meant they were winning, if they hadn’t already won. “What… what does it mean?” I asked again anyway. I guess I was just hoping someone would tell me I was wrong.

No one answered. No one had to. Pastor Ron put a hand on my shoulder and gave it what was supposed to be a reassuring squeeze. I was not reassured.

“This might be a good time to pray,” he said quietly. He went back to his chair. He sank into it slowly, his eyes cast down, his lips moving silently.

“Is it over?” asked Nicki, turning from Meredith to him and back to Meredith again. “Did the rebels win? Are they coming now? Are they going to kill us?”

“Stop, Nicki,” Meredith said. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. None of us knows.”

But the way she said it—well, it sounded like she did know.

Long, slow seconds ticked away in silence. I took Pastor Ron’s advice: I prayed. Hard.

Then—horribly—my prayer was cut short. The air in the cantina seemed to rattle as gunfire exploded—right outside now—right in the plaza beyond the cantina door.

Nicki let out a short scream at the sound of it, jumping in her chair and covering her mouth with both hands. The gunfire continued. And there was cheering too. Men cheering as they fired their machine guns. There was a small front window, but it didn’t show much. Just a rectangular section of the square. Now and then I saw a figure running by, but other than that, I couldn’t see what was happening.

I glanced over at the guard by the front door. He was looking out the door into the street. I couldn’t see what he saw, but when he turned back to the room, he was smiling. He pumped his fist at the other guard, the hamster-faced guy at the door.

Hamster Face’s hamster face lit up with a hamster-faced grin. All at once—no warning at all—he let out a highpitched whoop of his own. He raised his rifle into the air and pulled the trigger.

Nicki screamed again. The gunfire was deafening. Plaster came pouring down from the ceiling like snow. Hamster Face let out another burst. And now Nicki lost control of herself, screaming and screaming.

“Stop! Stop! Make him stop!” she shrieked, covering her ears with her hands. “Please! Make him stop!”

Meredith could only hold on to her while she screamed. Finally, the pounding explosions of the gun fell silent. The last bit of plaster pattered to the floor. And Nicki, still covering her ears, stopped screaming and bent forward against Meredith, sobbing instead.

That was the only sound in the room. Nicki sobbing. Nothing else for I don’t know how long.

I stood where I was, looking at—well, nothing really. Just sort of staring around the room, from corner to corner, from face to face. Thoughts were racing through my mind at a crazy speed:

Wait a minute… wait a minute… this is me here. The one and only me. Will… good old Will from Spencer’s Grove. I just came to this country to help out. I just came for a week. To build a wall. For my church. To be a good guy. I’m supposed to be going home today. Back to school. Back to ordinary life. They can’t just walk in here and shoot me. Can they? For no reason? Because I’m an American? Because they don’t like the way people behave in this country? I never even heard of this place before I got here. What about my mom and dad? I mean, they may be angry at each other, but they still love me… We’re a family… They’d be heartbroken if they just… I mean, they can’t just… kill me…

Can they?

That’s what I was thinking when the front door opened and Mendoza walked back in.

When I saw him—when I saw the look on his face—the light of triumph in his eyes—I felt as if a hand were closing on my throat. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t swallow. I could barely breathe.

This can’t be happening. Not to me .

Then two more gunmen entered behind him. The two already in the cantina—the ones guarding the exits—moved to join them. The four men flanked Mendoza, two on either side, holding their machine guns up at their chests at the ready. As Mendoza slowly moved his gaze over the room, over our faces, the gunmen’s eyes moved right along with his.

Is this it? I thought. Are they just going to do this? Are they just going to start shooting us? Right here? Right now?

An image flashed through my mind: a policeman coming to my house… telling my mother that I had been killed… the shock and grief on her face… It was an unbearable idea.

I could still hear shooting and shouting out in the streets beyond the cantina door. A figure running by the window sometimes. But in here, there was only stillness, silence. Mendoza seemed to study each of us—one frightened, staring face after another. Some of the villagers seemed to shrink under his gaze, as if they hoped they could disappear from in front of him.

Mendoza let out a short, sharp order. Nicki gasped and started in her chair. I felt myself stiffen too, afraid that he had just commanded the gunmen to kill us all.

But no. His next words were in English.

“Everyone out but the Americans. The Americans stay.”

He didn’t have to tell the villagers twice. Even before he translated, the cantina was loud with the scraping of their chairs and the rumble of their footsteps as they bolted from their seats and rushed to the front door. One of the gunmen held the door open for them, grinning sadistically at their fearful faces as they raced to get out of there, to get away from Mendoza. As they f led into the streets, we heard more shooting outside and more shouting. The rebels celebrating their victory and lording their power over the villagers.

Finally, all of the locals were gone from the cantina. The only people left were we Americans, Mendoza, and his four gunmen.

In the quiet, Mendoza went on studying each of our faces. I saw his mouth curl underneath his mustache as, finally, his eyes came to rest on Palmer Dunn.

“Well, Señor Dunn,” he said. “It is over, yes? The army is finished. The capital is ours. The question is settled.”

Palmer regarded the rebel coolly. He nodded. “It looks that way.”

“You hold out hope? You think your American spies will bother us now? Or your fellow Marines?”

“They’re not my fellow Marines. I told you.”

Mendoza ignored this. He went on. “That was many years ago, after all, you know. The Cold War is over now. Your country has no Soviet Union to worry about anymore. So who cares if the people of a tiny Central American country choose a government that treats them with justice?”

To my surprise, Palmer grinned. A great big grin, as if he thought this whole thing were just some kind of joke.

“Is that what’s happening?” he asked.

“Yes! Yes! It is!” This was Jim. Still on his feet. His eyes urgent. He turned to Mendoza. “He doesn’t get it, Señor Mendoza—but I do!” he said. “We talked about this earlier— out in the field—don’t you remember? I agree with you! With your cause! I support what you’re trying to do, I just—”