Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

I saw the priest’s stunted shape above me. He peeked up through the catacomb opening. Then he came quickly back down the stairs to us.

“You must go now. Quickly.”

Palmer shouldered his rifle. Stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Padre. Until we meet again.”

“In this life or the next.” Father Miguel shook his hand.

Nicki kissed the priest’s cheek. “Thank you so much, Father.” She headed up the stairs.

“I hope your country finds peace,” Meredith said. She kissed Father Miguel too and went up into the light.

“Good luck,” said Jim, shaking the priest’s hand.

I was the last. I put my hand out and Father Miguel put his gnarled, claw-like hand into mine.

“Thanks, Padre,” I said.

“Take care of Palmer,” said the mournful-looking little priest. “He is a good man.”

“I don’t think he needs my help,” I said.

“I know you don’t think so. But you are wrong. Watch out for him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Go with God.”

I nodded—and let him go. And headed up the stairs into the light.

The stairs led up to another stone coffin. I had to reach up from the top step to grab the top of the coffin’s wall. I hauled myself up and over it into the waning daylight—and as I did, I felt Palmer and Jim grab me and pull me up quickly.

I dropped out of the grave and onto the muddy ground.

I looked around me to get my bearings. I saw my friends, all crouched low behind little house-shaped stone structures of various pastel colors. I started to stand, but Palmer gestured me down with his hand, and I remained on my knees, my head bent low. I scouted the scene.

We were in a graveyard. An acre or two of ground crowded with pastel monuments. The jungle pressed close to the cemetery border behind us, but in front of us, as the priest had said, there was a stretch of open ground—then more jungle on the other side.

I looked at Palmer. He was peering intensely over the top of a monument. I followed his gaze off to the left.

There was the road—and the checkpoint. Two pickups had been turned lengthwise across the paved two-way to block the passage. Four gun-toting rebels were posted in front of the trucks. Two of the rebels leaned against the trucks’ sides smoking cigarettes and looking off into the distance. Two others paced and chatted. They were about a football field away, but close enough to catch our movements if we crossed within sight of them.

Where was the plane? I looked to my right now and spotted it. The edge of the jungle across the field sort of curved around away from us. The little Cessna was parked on the far side of the curve, so that the trees shielded it and the soldiers couldn’t see it from the checkpoint. All we had to do was creep across the open space to the jungle, then make our way under the cover of the trees to the airplane.

That’s all we had to do.

The afternoon rains were over now, but the sky was still steel gray. It was growing darker too, as the sun set behind the clouds. The heat of the morning had passed into a dense, humid chill. I could see my breath clouding in front of me as I waited, crouched behind the monument. The place was quiet. Very quiet. The insects buzzed. Occasionally a bird laughed in the trees. No other noise.

Palmer crouched even lower now so he could whisper to us.

“All right,” he said. “The kid’ll go first so we have a gun on each side. Then the rest of you will go while I wait here…”

“No.”

Startled, we all turned toward Jim. His protruding eyes were fixed on Palmer, his thin lips pressed tightly together. “That makes no sense. You have to go first, Palmer. You’re the only one who can fly the plane. If you get hurt, we’re all finished. If you’re already over there, whoever makes it to you has a chance of getting away.”

Palmer hesitated. But then, to my surprise, he nodded. “Jim’s right.” He held the AK out to me.

But Jim reached out and wrapped his hand around the barrel. “Will’s risked enough. I’ll stay behind and cover you. I’m a better shot than he is anyway. I got a marksman medal at summer camp when I was twelve.”

Again, Palmer hesitated. And I was doubtful. I didn’t want to shoot anybody else—not ever. But I knew I would if I had to. Would Jim? Was he really willing to fight against his cherished rebels?

I looked at him. He seemed serious enough. And however annoying he might have been at times, I didn’t think he was the kind of guy who would betray his friends.

Palmer shifted the rifle toward him and handed it over.

“If they come for us, blast them,” he said.

“I will,” said Jim.

Palmer put his hand out to me. I drew the revolver out of my belt and gave it to him.

“All right,” he said. “Watch me. Then follow one at a time.”

Palmer moved. He stayed low and dodged in a crouch from one monument to the next until he was at the edge of the cemetery, at the edge of the open field. The rest of us remained where we were, watching him from around the edges of the little pastel gravestones. Our tense, rapid, nervous breaths plumed in the air.

Palmer waited, watching the guards at the checkpoint. The two who were pacing together turned their backs on us. They were a funny-looking pair, one tall and narrow, one short and squat. They walked away across the road. They passed in front of the other two, the smoking guards, blocking their vision a little.

Palmer chose that moment and broke cover.

I don’t know how far it was from the graveyard to the jungle’s edge—twenty yards? thirty?—but in those next few seconds—when Palmer was out in the open—when the guards could turn and see him at any second—it sure seemed like a long, long way. Bent over, carrying the pistol low at his side, Palmer rushed across the muddy grass without another look in the direction of the checkpoint.

But I looked. I saw the pacing rebels reach the far side of the road and start to turn. I glanced back at Palmer. He was only a few steps from reaching the protection of the trees. The pacing rebels turned around, chatting with one another. Then the skinny one glanced up—right in the direction of the open field.

By then, though, Palmer had made it across. He was crouched low within the cover of the jungle. He signaled us to follow, one at a time.

Meredith went next. She did just what Palmer had done. Stayed low. Dodged from monument to monument to the edge of the cemetery. Crouched there, watching the guards.

This time, though, the two pacing men stopped on our side of the road. They were chatting together and laughing, not particularly looking our way, but not looking anywhere else either. If Meredith moved, they would almost surely see her.

Finally, with another burst of laughter, the two guards turned around—and Meredith ran for it.

She kept low and moved fast. Before the rebel guards had taken two steps along the road, she was nearly across the open space. But she was too fast. The ground was too muddy, the grass too wet. Just before she reached the far jungle, her foot slipped. She tumbled down to one knee with a gasp.

The fall didn’t make a lot of noise, but the little splash and Meredith’s little gasp—they were different from all the other sounds of the surrounding jungle. They stood out.

The skinny guard must have heard them. He turned to glance over his shoulder. Luckily, he glanced over his left shoulder, toward the cemetery. He didn’t spot Meredith. But then he turned to glance over his right.

By then, Meredith had scrambled to her feet, and Palmer had reached out of the trees to grab her arm and yank her into the jungle cover. When the guard looked in that direction, she was already gone.

But the skinny rebel was alert now. He turned to his squat friend. He gestured at the open passage between the cemetery and the jungle. The squat guard shrugged. The skinny guard spoke to the two others leaning against the trucks. They shrugged too.