Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

“Shut up,” Mendoza said to him.

Jim looked surprised. “No, I’m just trying to say—”

“Shut up,” Mendoza said again.

He gestured. One of the gunmen stepped up to Jim. I held my breath in fear. Nicki let out another gasp.

But the gunman only pressed the butt of his machine gun into Jim’s chest and shoved him with it.

Jim staggered backward. The back of his legs hit the edge of his chair. He sat down into the chair, hard. The gunman stood over him, scowling down at him. Jim stared up at him, frightened into silence.

The exchange had turned Mendoza’s attention toward our table—and his eyes fell on Meredith again. I could see something spark in his gaze, some unfinished business, some unexpressed rage.

The rebel leader hooked his thumbs in the sides of his belt—an arrogant posture—and came swaggering toward where Meredith was sitting. He moved past me as he went, casually knocking me aside with one elbow.

“Ah, yes,” he said, looking down at Meredith. “The deaf girl. The one who cannot hear the orders that I give to her.”

Meredith lifted her face to him where she sat. “I hear you very plainly, Señor Mendoza,” she said.

“Oh? Oh yes?” said Mendoza. He looked around at his gunmen and gave them a laugh, and they laughed with him, sharing the hilarity. “You hear me but you do not obey my commands? Is that it?”

Meredith went on looking up at him, but she didn’t answer.

Mendoza reached down and put his hand under her chin— an affectionate gesture a guy might make toward his girlfriend, only she wasn’t his girlfriend and it wasn’t affectionate at all.

“I am asking you a question, señorita…”

“Please take your hands off me, Señor Mendoza,” Meredith said.

Mendoza hesitated—but he didn’t take his hand off her. Instead he shifted it from her chin to her cheek. He stroked her cheek with one finger.

“I am afraid you do not fully understand the situation you are in,” he said to her.

“I understand,” said Meredith. “Please take your hands off me.”

I held my breath as I stood there watching them. I can hardly describe what I felt. I was afraid. I don’t mind admitting it. I thought they were going to kill us and I didn’t want to die and I was afraid. But at the same time, I wanted to knock Mendoza down—I wanted to so bad, so bad. It made me sick in my heart to see him treating Meredith like this, taunting her and trying to humiliate her like this. And to just stand there, helpless to stop him—that was the worst— almost worse than the fear of dying—to stand there with all those guns around me and not be able to do anything to help her…

Mendoza went right on stroking her cheek as if he hadn’t heard what she said. He looked around at his gunmen. Laughed as if to ask them: Can you believe this woman? I could tell he had no intention of letting Meredith boss him around—certainly not while his men were watching him.

Now, he took his finger from her cheek and crouched down in front of her. He reached out to take her hand, which was lying in her lap. I saw Meredith try to pull her hand away, but Mendoza caught it in both of his hands and held it. Crouched down like that, his eyes were level with hers. He held her hand and looked into her eyes.

“Dear girl,” he said quietly—almost gently. “I have to tell this to you: you are in terrible danger here. Do you understand this?”

“Yes,” said Meredith. In the quiet cantina, her clear, ringing voice was startlingly steady and calm. “I understand completely.”

“These are very violent times in my country, very dangerous times. At times like these, life becomes very cheap. A person can disappear very easily, causing much grief to everyone who knows them. You understand?”

Meredith didn’t answer but only gazed at him, her face stony, expressionless, as he went on holding her hand in both of his.

And I watched the two of them. Everything inside me wanted to stand up for her, but I knew if I did, I would get myself badly hurt, maybe worse. I hated myself for being a coward, but I just couldn’t bring myself to speak up or move.

“On the other hand,” Mendoza went on, “there is a hope. A possibility. For a woman like yourself, an attractive woman. You might be able to make a friend, you know? A powerful friend who can protect you in times of need.” He smiled at her. “Señorita,” he said in a tone of appeal. “There is no reason for this animosity between us when instead you could improve your situation very greatly by showing me the kind of affection you—”

Meredith spit in his face.

The shock of it. Man oh man! It was as if a lightning bolt had gone through the room. It was as if a lightning bolt had gone through me —pierced me head-to-toe in a single instant like a spear hurled down from heaven. I could hardly believe what I’d seen, could hardly believe that Meredith would do it—and would do it here, now, when it was sure to bring misery and pain down on her like an avalanche.

But it was real. It really happened. She spit sharply right in Mendoza’s eye—and he was so startled, he let go of her hand and fell back out of his crouch, dropped down— bang —onto his backside on the floor.

Instantly, he scrabbled up. Leapt to his feet. His rugged face was dark with fury as he wiped the spit off it with the heel of his palm. There was this moment then—this moment captured like a snapshot in my memory—when he stood there looming over Meredith like some enormous storm and she sat looking up at him, with her eyes as clear as ever, her face as calm, as if nothing he did could have any effect on her whatsoever.

Then Mendoza barked out a word in Spanish—a word I didn’t know—some curse word, I’m sure. And with a growl of rage, he drew back his hand to slap her.

I grabbed his arm. I didn’t know I was going to do it. I didn’t even think about it. I just leapt forward and grabbed hold of his wrist with both my hands to hold him back.

It was the first time I’d ever heard a note of fear enter Meredith’s voice. “No, Will, don’t!” she cried out.

But it was too late. One of Mendoza’s gunmen smacked me in the face with the butt of his machine gun.

No one had ever hit me before, not ever. It was awful. An awful feeling. A jarring trauma through my whole body. It drove out everything, every other thought. I went stumbling backward helplessly, and the next moment the gunman—or maybe another gunman, I don’t know—hit me again, driving the machine-gun butt into my stomach, knocking the air out of me.

I tumbled sideways to the floor, another shock going through my body as I hit. Someone screamed—Nicki, I guess. A chair scraped. I heard Pastor Ron say, “No more—please!”

Clutching my stomach, groaning, I looked up and saw Mendoza. From that angle, he seemed enormous, a looming tower of pure rage. His face contorted in fury. He had already wiped the spit off himself, but he did it again and then again, as if it were stuck on him and he couldn’t get it off.

Then he let out a roar and he kicked me.

I tried to protect myself, covering myself with my arms, but the tip of his heavy boot drove into my gut and then pulled back and drove into my forehead. I felt a double explosion of pain, saw a double explosion of light and then sparkling darkness. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t think about anything except how much I hoped this would stop, how I would do anything—say anything—to make it stop.

When I managed to look again, tears blurred my vision. I saw Mendoza. I saw him pull the pistol from his holster. He was going to shoot me where I lay.

A new prayer flashed through my mind: Please be with me, God . I was pretty sure I was about to be making that request face-to-face.