If We Survive Read online

  “Is there someone else? Eh? Someone else who wishes to defy me? Do you want to see what happens? Do you want to have a conversation about it? You will have a conversation with a bullet, I tell you. Who wants to?”

  He stopped. His back was to me. He seemed to have settled on a target for his wrath.

  “What about you, Señor Dunn?” he asked. “Do you have something to say to me? Eh? What do you have to say?”

  There was a pause. I couldn’t see Palmer from where I was lying. I couldn’t really see anyone, curled up on the floor as I was with my arms wrapped around my throbbing stomach and blood dripping down from my forehead into my eye. But I heard Palmer’s voice, all right. He sounded—well, he sounded exactly the same as he sounded before. It was exasperating. He still was all cool and comical—as if he didn’t have a care in the world—definitely as if he didn’t care about what happened to me or Meredith or any of the others.

  “You’re a tough guy, Mendoza,” he drawled in that sardonic way of his. “For a minute there, I wasn’t sure you and your four gunmen were going to be able to take that teenager. But you took him, all right. You surely did. Mucho macho, amigo. I salute you.”

  I managed to lift my head up from the floor a little and got a better look at Mendoza where he was standing in the center of the cantina, facing Palmer, his back to me, his gun hand by his side. I saw his shoulders rise and fall as he breathed heavily in his rage.

  Then he looked around him. He seemed to be at a loss—not knowing whom he should scream at next. Then he waved his gun in the air and shouted orders in Spanish.

  Every time he did that, my guts turned to water: I didn’t understand the words. He could have been saying, Open fire or Kill them all. I didn’t know whether in the next moment the gunmen would spray the room with bullets.

  But no—not yet.

  Someone—one of the gunmen—grabbed the back of my collar. I felt myself choking as he pulled up on me, trying to haul me to my feet. I worked desperately to get my legs under me before he strangled me. My legs were weak and wobbly— but somehow I managed to stand.

  The gunman who had me in his grip gave me a hard push. I stumbled across the room toward the bar where Palmer was standing. I staggered into the bar and hurt, dazed, dizzy, I started to fall again. Palmer grabbed my arm roughly and steadied me on my feet.

  Breathing hard, leaning against the bar, I looked around and saw the others: Pastor Ron and Meredith and Nicki and Jim. The gunmen were standing over them, shouting at them, waving their machine guns in their faces, forcing all of them out of their chairs to their feet.

  Now they were prodding them with their gun barrels, herding them toward the bar, toward where I was standing with Palmer. My head thick with pain and my eyes still blurring with tears, I saw my friends’ faces as they hurried in front of the relentless guns. Nicki was weeping, her legs so weak under her she could barely walk. Meredith stood uncannily straight, her face uncannily still as she kept her arm around Nicki’s shoulders, holding her as steady as she could as they were both jostled forward. Pastor Ron seemed dazed, in shock, his face blank, his eyes blinking rapidly behind his glasses as he stumbled toward me. Jim had his hands up in the air like a guy being robbed. He kept saying, “Okay, okay, I get it,” as the gunmen pushed and prodded him—pushed and prodded all of them—with the barrels of their weapons.

  Finally, we were all huddled together against the bar. Again, I thought this might be it, might be the end. I stood there helpless and dazed and bent over in pain, waiting for the gunfire to begin. I prayed God would comfort my parents, but I didn’t know how much comfort they would ever find.

  Mendoza stood in the center of the cantina and looked at us—a black look, his eyes murderous.

  “Lock them up!” he shouted.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next few moments were a terrifying chaos. The gunmen rushed toward us, shouting gruffly in Spanish, prodding us in our backs with their gun barrels, striking at our heads with their fists and open hands. Our backpacks— everything we had—were left piled up in a corner of the cantina as they forced us out of the room, out the back entrance, into a dark hall. I saw Palmer Dunn up in front of me, moving at a quick but steady walk, keeping ahead of the blows. But the rest of us were all bunched together, and though I knew there were only four gunmen, they seemed to be everywhere, on every side of us. Their shouts engulfed me. My fear and pain engulfed me. I staggered along, hardly knowing where I was.

  Now there was a staircase. Now we were being chased up the stairs. I heard Nicki wailing like a lost child. I heard Jim saying, “Okay, okay, okay,” over and over again. I stumbled and went down, cracking my shin against a riser. The next moment I was struck on the side of the head—by a fist or a gun butt, I’m not sure which. Panicked, I scrabbled to my feet, leapt forward, stumbled again, nearly fell again, but finally made my way up, following the feet of Pastor Ron above me.

  Another hall. More running. More shouting. More blows. I was beginning to feel sick. My stomach, aching from Mendoza’s kicks, was churning and turning. I know it sounds funny under the circumstances—I mean, the circumstances being we were probably all about to be killed—but I had this terrible fear that I was going to throw up and humiliate myself in front of Meredith. I guess that wasn’t the way I wanted to spend my last minutes on earth.

  The next thing I knew, I saw an open door in front of me. We were being pushed through it so fast that we all sort of collided together. I remember my shoulder went into Pastor Ron and I was jostled aside and hit the wall. Then Pastor Ron went through the door and one of the gunmen shoved me through it after him.

  Through blood and tears, through the whirling confusion in my head, I saw a room—one of the rooms in the hotel above the cantina. I saw a window and a wooden bed and a bureau with a mirror on it. I saw the dim yellow light in the ceiling, a bulb protected by a frosted glass globe that was dark with the bodies of the dead insects trapped inside.

  I saw it all swirling and turning around me. And then— it was as if the world were a video and someone slowly turned down the volume, then snapped it off—everything seemed to grow dim and distant.

  Then it was gone.

  I had lost consciousness, I guess.

  I opened my eyes. The first thing I saw was Meredith. A sweet sight: her face looking down at me. Her pale eyes were so clear, her face so calm, her smile so gentle, I thought everything that had just happened must’ve been some kind of dream. Really, that’s what I thought—I thought maybe I got sick or something, had a fever, you know, and had this whole elaborate hallucination about how we were going home and suddenly people were shooting people and beating me up and . . . it couldn’t have happened that way! Meredith wouldn’t be smiling down at me like that, wouldn’t look so calm, if it had happened that way.

  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 . . .”

  He caught his breath, steadied himself. Glanced at Palmer quickly as if he were afraid the pilot would get angry and attack him. But Palmer just went on leaning against the wall and watched Jim, smiling. Jim continued speaking more quietly.

  “Look. This country has been the victim of foreign conquest and corporate greed for nearly five hundred years. All the land and wealth are in the hands of a few people. Thirty years ago, a man—a great man—named General Benitez tried to take power and change all that. But the United States claimed that it was all some kind of Soviet plot and we sent agents and soldiers down here to overthrow him. Kill him. That’s why Mendoza’s so angry at us. That’s why they’re all so angry at us and treating us the way they are. What? Don’t laugh!”

  This last part of Jim’s speech was to Palmer, who stood pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers as he shook his head and chuckled quietly to himself. After a moment, Palmer looked up, still smiling.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I’m kind of starved for entertainment.”

  Containing his anger, Jim appealed to the rest of us. “These people—they’re not just some . . . bunch of bloodthirsty savages from some primitive country, like he seems to think. These are committed men trying to bring justice to their people. If we reason with them . . . If we can explain that we understand their fight, that we . . . we sympathize . . . they’re not going to just . . . kill us. Like animals. Why would they?”

  Pastor Ron took a deep breath. He looked at Pal
mer. “He’s right, Palmer. What reason do they have to kill us? How does it benefit them? We haven’t done anything to them—we specifically, I mean.”

  Palmer only answered him with another shrug. “Hey, do what you gotta do, Padre,” he said. And with drawling sarcasm he added, “You go right on downstairs and tell Mendoza you sympathize with his great cause. And don’t forget to mention you read Cobar’s op-eds in the newspaper.”

  “We will,” said Jim defiantly. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.” But I noticed he didn’t move an inch.

  Pastor Ron nodded. “Well, it is better than just sitting here, isn’t it? Just waiting here for them all to get drunk and do something crazy.” He looked around at the rest of us—Nicki and Meredith and me. I could tell he was trying to convince himself. “I mean, Jim’s right, these people aren’t monsters. They’re human beings, right? They’ll listen to reason.”

  Palmer sighed. “That’s one theory,” he muttered.

  He came off the wall and stepped back out onto the balcony, looking down at the plaza below. We heard another shuddering round of gunfire from down there. We heard some women screaming. Another ragged round of shouts and cheering.

  Pastor Ron looked around at us. “They’re just getting drunker and drunker down there. Which means the situation is just getting more and more dangerous. I think someone has to go down and talk to them sooner rather than later, before they’re too far gone to listen.” He glanced over at Jim for support.

  “I think you’re right,” Jim said. “I’m telling you: these are principled people. The way they’ve been treated—the way our country has treated them—they have every right to be angry. But that doesn’t mean we can’t appeal to their sense of justice. It’s a hunger for justice that made them rise up in the first place.”

  Pastor Ron nodded as Jim talked, but when he turned my way I could see he was still undecided. His wavering gaze came to rest on Meredith.

  “What do you think, Meredith?” he asked her. “What do you think we should do?”