Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

“What do you think they’re gonna do now?” I asked him.

He glanced up at me as if he had forgotten I was there. He shook his head—he didn’t know the answer. He looked at the door again.

“They took over the city fast,” he said. “Very fast. They have the prison. Helicopters. The army must’ve run for it— or joined them. Cobar must’ve had this well planned. He must have had a lot of support from within the government.”

“I heard shooting in the city as we were coming in,” I said. “I thought maybe there was still some resistance.”

But Palmer shook his head again. “That wasn’t battle. Those were executions. It’s a different sound.”

“That’s not good,” I said, licking my dry lips. “Executions.”

“No,” said Palmer. “It’s not.”

“They’re not just going to execute us,” said Jim, pacing back and forth. “Why would they execute us? It’s like we told them: we’re tourists. We just want to go home.”

Anger flared in me. “They don’t need a reason!” I nearly shouted at him. He was really starting to get on my nerves. How could somebody be so blind to what was right in front of him? “They almost executed us once already, Jim. We were just as innocent then.”

“Ach.” Jim waved off the idea. “That was Mendoza—a provincial idiot. Fernandez Cobar’s a sophisticated man…”

“Right,” I said bitterly. “He wrote a book. Maybe he’ll beat us to death with it and save bullets!”

Jim went on pacing. I turned my back on him.

“You think they believe us about being tourists?” I asked Palmer nervously. “You think they’ll eventually let us go or… ?”

Palmer lifted his eyes to mine, and if my heart could have sunk any lower, it would have.

“They’ve got the city, they’ve got the army, they’ve got the country,” Palmer said. “There’s nothing to stand in their way. They can pretty much do what they want now. And there are a lot of people who’ll cheer them for executing Americans.”

“Well, yeah,” Jim muttered—as if he thought executing Americans sounded like a great idea, as if he thought they could execute Americans without bothering him at all.

I shook my head. “I don’t see how this can get any worse,” I said.

And the moment I said that, we heard the bolt slide back. The dungeon door swung open.

And Mendoza walked in.

So much for our story about being tourists. Mendoza knew exactly who we were. He had ordered our executions once, and I saw no reason he wouldn’t do it again. I thought about that—and then I thought about Meredith. Meredith, who had spit in Mendoza’s eye; Meredith, who had defied him. She was somewhere in this dungeon now, the same as us, helpless like us. And I knew Mendoza would not have forgotten how she’d insulted and humiliated him in front of his men.

As the rebel stepped into the little cell, I saw that he had changed since we had seen him in Santiago only a few days before. His lean, broad-shouldered body had a new easy swagger to it. His rough features were relaxed, and the cruelty in his black eyes was almost gleeful. He was more sure of himself. More sure of his power. Well, of course, why not? The entire country belonged to Cobar now. Mendoza could do whatever he liked.

Two men with machine guns stepped into the cell behind him. The last one in shut the heavy cell door.

Jim stopped pacing. I stood still as well.

Palmer, sitting relaxed against the wall, looked up—and smiled broadly, as if some old buddy of his had dropped by for a visit.

“Well, well, well,” said Palmer. “If it isn’t Señor Mendoza.” He gestured at the cell. “Welcome to my extremely humble abode.”

Mendoza grinned back at him, just as friendly a grin as Palmer’s. His hand rested lightly on the butt of the pistol strapped into the holster on his belt. “If you don’t get on your feet in the next second and show respect for me, I will have you shot dead right here,” he said.

Palmer laughed out loud—as if Mendoza had made some pleasant remark, the kind of joke you might make at a party or something. He got his feet under him and pushed himself up the wall, saying, “Well, then I will definitely stand up right away to show my deep respect for your power to kill me.”

Mendoza, still smiling, looked at him. Then at Jim. Then at me—a look that made the strength go out of me. He came forward casually until he was standing in front of Palmer, up close. The two men were eye to eye, smiling, but not really smiling, if you know what I mean. I was barely breathing, just waiting for Mendoza to strike Palmer down. Who was there to stop him now?

Mendoza turned and looked over his shoulder at the rest of us—then at Palmer again. “By direct order of the president, I have been assigned to question you about your suspected counterrevolutionary activities. You—and your lady friends.”

I had to swallow down the words that came up into my throat. I knew enough not to start making empty threats.

Jim said, “That’s ridiculous. We’re not counterrevolutionaries. If you’d just let us explain…”

One of Mendoza’s two gunmen stepped toward Jim and lifted his rifle, ready to drive the butt into Jim’s head. Jim shut up and, cowering, covered his face with his hands—as if that would have stopped the rifle.

Luckily, though, Mendoza made a small gesture and the gunman lowered the weapon. Sure. Mendoza didn’t need to bully us now. He had all the power—and all the time in the world to do whatever he wanted. He could torture us at will and at his own chosen speed.

He turned away from Palmer. Looked at Jim.

“You tell me you are not counterrevolutionaries…”

Jim slowly lowered his arms. “No. We’re not. I have great respect for President Cobar. I’m familiar with his work.”

“Ah. Well. I am glad to hear this.” He took a step across the little cell and stood in front of Jim as he’d stood in front of Palmer—too close—smiling too much—dangerous. “But then, if you have such respect for our president, perhaps you could explain to me…” He gestured toward Palmer. “What are you doing in the company of a man who supplies guns to our enemies?”

Jim’s eyes went wide, his mouth came open. He stared from Mendoza to Palmer. He said, “I… I mean, we didn’t… We never… We didn’t know anything about that…”

“And this young man,” said Mendoza, gesturing at me so that I stiffened, my heart thundering in my chest. “We have witnesses who saw him murder a revolutionary guard in cold blood.”

I swallowed hard at that. And Jim licked his lips, still gaping. “But he didn’t… They were… We were just trying to…”

“Well, well, well, never mind,” said Mendoza in a friendly voice. He held up his hands as if all were forgiven. “We will straighten it all out in the interrogation room, no? In the interrogation room, all the confusion will end, all the lies will stop, and only the truth will remain.”

“But you don’t understand!” said Jim. “Really, if I could just explain…”

“Oh, believe me, you will explain. You will explain everything. There is not a single thing you will not tell me in the end.”

Yeah, well, I was pretty sure that was true. By the time they were finished with us, we’d probably tell them the moon was made of marmalade if that’s what they wanted to hear. For my part, if they wanted me to confess I’d shot that guy with the grenade just for the pleasure of it, I knew that’s exactly what I would say eventually. I didn’t think I was the sort who’d be able to stand up to torture like some kind of hero. Torture? Man, I don’t even like going to the dentist.