Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

Then I looked around me and realized: no, it had not been a dream. It was a nightmare—and it was all true.

We were in the hotel room above the cantina, like I said. I was lying on the bed, still in my clothes, still wearing my sneakers. Meredith was sitting next to me, hovering over me. I heard Nicki sniffling and crying somewhere. Guys talking in low voices—Pastor Ron and Jim, I thought.

Meredith lifted a washcloth. Put it to my face. It was wet with warm water. She pressed it against the place above my eyebrow where Mendoza had kicked me. It hurt when she touched it—a lot. I flinched with the pain.

“All right,” Meredith murmured. “Just let me clean it out so it doesn’t get infected.”

I let her. I tried to keep still and not show how much it hurt. I watched her face. She looked so pretty and so kind, I wanted to just lie there and look at her forever.

“What happened?” I managed to ask her after a while. “Did I faint or something?”

“Mm-hm.” She went on wiping my forehead. I could feel the crusts of blood coming away. “Mendoza kicked you in the head pretty hard.”

“Yeah.” The whole thing was coming back to me. “I remember.”

“That was a silly thing for you to do,” Meredith told me. “Grabbing him like that. I don’t want you to do anything like that again. Do you understand?”

I looked up at her. I wondered what color her eyes were. Kind of brown, but so pale they were nearly colorless, nearly clear. “I had to,” I told her.

“No,” she said. “You didn’t.”

“He was going to hit you.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“You can’t beat up Mendoza.”

“Neither can you,” she said. She turned away to dip the washcloth in a basin on the bedside table. I saw the blood come off the cloth and stain the basin water brownish red.

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “Didn’t you see the way I pounded his boot with my head? The guy’s gonna be limping for days.”

She gave a short little snuff of laughter. Turned back and set the washcloth to my head again. “Ha-ha. Very funny. All right, I’m almost done,” she added as I flinched again. “It was very brave of you, I know. And I’m grateful. But I’m serious: don’t do anything like that again, Will. I’ll be all right.”

I didn’t answer. I just lay there looking up at her as she cleaned my face. On the one hand, I wanted to do anything she asked me to do, everything she asked me to do. On the other hand, I knew if Mendoza or anyone else lifted a hand to her again, I’d do just the same as I did before. And the time after that. And the time after that. They’d have to kill me to stop me.

For now, though, I wanted to just go on lying there, just go on looking up at her, up at those pale eyes, feeling the warm cloth on my face. But after another second or two, I forced myself to push my feet off the bed and sit up.

The room tilted and turned a little as a fresh wave of dizziness washed over me.

“Lie back down,” said Meredith, touching my shoulder.

“I’ll be all right,” I told her.

Finally, the room grew still. I looked around me.

I saw Nicki. She was sitting in a cushioned chair in one corner. Slouched there with her head dropped back on the rest, her eyes closed. Her body was still heaving every now and again with sobs and she was trembling weakly, but she seemed barely aware of where she was.

Pastor Ron and Jim were standing by a window, the bright sunlight slanting in on them, turning their figures to hazy silhouettes. They were both looking outside, conferring with each other in low voices.

What about Palmer? I wondered. Where was he? I saw him. Just outside the window, there was a narrow balcony. Palmer was standing on it, his hands on the wooden railing. I could see the white wall of the plaza church just beyond him.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

Pastor Ron glanced over at me. “They’ve locked us in here. Put guards outside the door and outside. They’re deciding what they’re going to do with us, I guess.”

I started as a round of gunfire went off in the streets. There was cheering and shouting out there too.

“What will they do with us, do you think?” I asked.

Pastor Ron didn’t answer, only shook his head. He turned to the window, to the balcony, to Palmer.

“What do you think, Palmer?” he asked. “You’ve spent more time in this country than any of us. You seem to know the way things are. What do you think the rebels are planning to do?”

Palmer glanced over his shoulder at the pastor, looking back into the room as if he’d only just now remembered the rest of us were here. He came off the balcony, stepped inside, gestured toward the street with his thumb.

“Right now, it looks like their plan is to get drunk and shoot the place up,” he said. “By way of celebrating the victory of justice over oppression.”

“Yes, well, no doubt. But I meant, what do you think Mendoza is planning to do with us?” Pastor Ron asked.

Palmer leaned his back against the wall, his hands behind him. He seemed to give the question some consideration. “It’s not really up to Mendoza. That’s my guess, anyway. My guess is if it were up to Mendoza, we’d all be dead right now.” He lifted his chin in an ironic gesture at Meredith. “Especially after Lady Liberty over there spit in his eye like that.”

“I’m sorry if I made the situation worse,” Meredith said.

Palmer shrugged. Shook his head. “If I was you, lady, I’d’ve done the same.”

We all jumped a little as another round of shooting and drunken laughter rose to us from the plaza below.

“Well, if the decision isn’t up to Mendoza, who is it up to?” Pastor Ron asked.

Palmer thought some more. “Mendoza’s right about the United States. Now that the Cold War’s over, which group of thugs runs Costa Verdes doesn’t mean a whole lot to us. We’ve got enough on our hands fighting the Islamos. I kind of doubt we’ll get involved in any serious way down here. Still… a bunch of dead American missionaries, or whatever you guys are—that’s gonna make headlines, make things uncomfortable for the rebels as they’re trying to set up their new government. I don’t think Mendoza wants to start that firestorm without an official go-ahead from Cobar.”

“Cobar?” asked Pastor Ron.

“Fernandez Cobar. He’s the leader of the whole business. He’s the guy who’ll make the speech from the balcony after they’ve chased President Morales out of the country.”

“Wait,” said Jim, suddenly perking up. “Fernandez Cobar? The Fernandez Cobar?”

“Only one I know,” said Palmer.

“But he’s terrific!” Jim said. He looked around at all of us, a new hope glowing in his eyes. “No, really. I read his book. Soldier of Justice . He’s a great man. A genuine freedom fighter.”

Palmer chuckled. “Well… I guess. If by ‘genuine freedom fighter’ you mean soulless psycho killer.”

“Soulless… ? No!” said Jim. “No. That’s not right. Not Fernandez Cobar. The man is brilliant. He writes op-eds for all the big newspapers!”

“Okay,” Palmer drawled. “I’ll split the difference with you. Let’s say he’s a soulless op-ed-writing psycho killer. He wouldn’t be the first. And Mendoza’s not much better. They pretend they’re killing for the great cause, but it’s the killing they love.”

“So our fate is in the hands of a bunch of crazy murderers,” I said.

“That’s ridiculous!” said Jim fiercely. He gestured angrily at Palmer. “He’s just… he’s talking nonsense. Racist nonsense. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m telling you: I’ve read Cobar’s book…”