New Dawn

by Attila Orosz

  ***

  The images of his burning village and dead family floated in his numb consciousness. He saw himself struggling with the soldiers again, then narrowly escaping the white slavers, finding his way to the shelter of the woods. He had lost count of the days he spent in the jungle, struggling to stay alive. He had met no man, but kept pressing on towards some distant goal he had only heard rumours about. They said there was a place where people could have a chance of getting away from danger. He never knew how to reach it, or where it was, but there was nothing else he could do. He kept struggling through forests and grasslands, eating whatever he found, and sleeping without shelter.

  When he finally reached the camp, he saw more men and women there than he could have imagined living in the whole of Africa. They were all cramped into tents and tumbling huts, waiting for the ships that took them to safety. Some were ill or dying, others wounded. Some said they had lived there for many years and given up hope to ever be able to sail; most of them were simply unable to pay. Jumaane never saw so much pain. The children were skin on bone, old people had limbs missing and open sores covered their bodies. Food was scarce, and so was fresh water.

  But he was told the boats would take them to Europe. He never used to believe Europe even existed, but now he longed to be there too. It was a dream, a faraway hope to get away from the misery of the camp, the starving, the death all around him. He had nothing left, he had nowhere to go, nothing to live for, but he did not give up trying to get out of there alive. He could not produce the payment they asked for the next boat, but he took the place of a man who died in the camp. Nobody noticed, or they just didn’t care, so he boarded the next ship without any trouble.

  The ship was bigger than any building he had ever seen. It must have once been a trading vessel of sorts, but now the cargo hold was filled with people. Inside the light was scarce, and most of them travelled in deep darkness. They had to stay under decks. The people smugglers said it would be safer that way. After a few days the smell of unwashed skin and human excrement filled everything. After a few more days he did not even notice it any more.

  Those smugglers were worse than the militia. They often went below decks to rape the women, or just beat people by way of discipline. If anyone protested they threw them overboard. They were all armed and the people tried to stay out of their way. There was no sense in trying to resist.

  It was a long journey, and they all had lost sense of time. Jumaane could not know for sure how long, but he had slept more than thirty times that he could count, and many more that he could not. There was little food available, they lived in their own filth, and people soon started to drop off. First the older ones, then the sick. The smugglers refused to dispose of the dead, saying it was too risky, so they travelled with decomposing bodies piling up in one corner. The stench was nearly unbearable. There was so little food available, Jumaane feared he would starve to death before long. He did not want to know what the others ate, he would rather stay hungry.

  When they finally reached the shore, it was night. They were left alone in the wild lands of what they were told was Europe. The smugglers said, if they wanted to reach safety, they would go north and keep out of sight. They started walking, only twenty of them, the strongest, mostly the younger ones; nobody else survived the journey. They agreed that they would stay together until they reach Europe, where they hoped their suffering would end. Jumaane did not trust his companions, yet he knew he needed them if he wanted to stay alive. So they had travelled across the hostile land until they had found the wall and started climbing…

  ***

  Jumaane gasped for air. The hand on his mouth eased off and he felt sharp pain in his cheek. His vision slowly cleared and he saw the face of the other captive. A human face with a finger on his mouth, and his other hand raised, ready to slap Jumaane again. It was the light haired man who was now making hushing gestures at him. He wants me to stay silent, but why? He looked around, there was no demon now, only the other man. Probably he managed to scare it off. He turned his eyes sideways. The soldier was there, still lying flat, unmoving.

  Jumaane wanted to ask what was happening, and assure the other man that he was fine now, and that together they could capture the soldier’s weapon. He wanted to tell him all this, but as he started to talk the hand on his mouth tightened again. Jumaane did not fight this time.

  He saw the light haired man go over to the soldier and try to wake him. As he watched him shake their unconscious captor, Jumaane’s hand slipped onto something long and cold. It was the metal stick he had seen hanging from the soldier’s belt. It must have fallen off. He grabbed it by its handle and felt its weight. It was heavy. Sufficiently heavy. The others were not looking, so he tried his balance but could not get up from the ground. Not now then. There might not be another opportunity, but it was worth taking a risk later. He took the heavy stick and pushed it into his trousers on the side of his injured leg.

  ***

  It took a few minutes before Alex could slap and shake the guard back into consciousness. He had tried all he could, and when Peter finally came to, Alex felt it was despite his own effort and he would have regained consciousness anyway, like somebody who was used to being knocked out.

  Peter recollected his senses amazingly fast and began fixing himself up quickly. When he finished with the inspection, to Alex’s amazement, he turned to the African and started checking his wounded shoulder. The shrapnel was cleared, the wound dressed from a small first-aid box integrated into Peter’s vest.

  “This looks like it was not intended for what you’re doing with it,” said Alex after a while.

  “Yeah, it was meant for me. We kill the illegals, no reason to stitch them up,” replied Peter.

  Alex watched him. The young guard did not look up from his work, his hands moving quickly with expert precision. He was stitching up another deep wound after having cleaned it with some brown liquid.

  “You need to know the body, in order to kill effectively, right?” Alex grinned, feeling a warm sensation of satisfaction.

  “Nope,” said Peter without as much as looking up, “guns do the job, really. Shoot ‘em right, they all die. This we learn for ourselves. Getting an infection from wounds is expensive business. We cannot stay off duty for stupid mistakes.”

  “Where did you learn to do this then?” Alex was quick to change the subject.

  “In the NC Officer, school. We all learn how to care for ourselves and our men. See, I told you, I got great education. The army provides.”

  “Not for you. Not anymore.”

  “Will you stop reminding me of that?” snapped Peter, now really looking up. “I know, I know it just fine…”

  Alex got it finally, that verbal blow he tried in vain to place before, but he was not the least happy about it. He felt strangely sorry for the guard. He was still so young. His life was over, at least the way he knew it, and Alex could not tell what might happen to him when he would finally be left behind. Because Alex knew he had to leave the guard behind. Surely, he would be executed.

  “But now… See, I’m not that sure anymore…” continued Peter after a brief pause. “I mean… It’s not like it was, is it? This… man here. He’s bleeding. Red blood, just like mine. I saw their blood before, but not from this close. He is bleeding and scared. He feels the pain, I can see it, with every stitch. Just as human as I am…”

  Peter paused again, then continued with somewhat more thought, “I was always told they are not really human. These reckless savages, they said, are nothing like we are. They said, the illegals don’t feel pain. That they are drugged or something. So when we shoot them, it is nothing for them. I always thought it was no life these… they had anyway, so killing them was not much like taking a life away. But this… he… this man, he’s different, you see, I can see his pain!”

  Peter shut up and turned away. His confusion looked genuine, and Alex began to believe that the boy was going through some real life-changing exp
erience. He watched him gaze onto the ground before him, then go back to his duty. He dressed the other wound, flashed a faint half-smile of sorts towards the African, then turned away to fiddle with his weapon.

  Alex watched and said nothing. He did not know what to say, and felt that it would probably be so much better for Peter just to stay silent for a while. Maybe there would be a place for him in the HUM. Alex realised that with his knowledge of all the army movements, Peter could become one of the best agents. He turned his attention towards the African, who was now gazing at him, then at Peter and back at him again with bewildered eyes. But why bother, Alex mused. For them? These people would not know how to fend for themselves if you put everything right in their hands.

  He remembered delivering dozens of Africans, but none of those had ever looked so lost and hapless,and generally good for nothing, as this one here. Just now the African had been making such a noise that Alex was afraid somebody would find them by catching the shouts and violent screams. It took him minutes to shut the man up, and he even put up a fight! Would you really turn on those who helped you? The African was obviously one of the more stupid ones, and Alex was quickly losing his faith that delivering the man would make any difference after all.

  But it would, for him. Without a successful delivery, he could not expect his special fee to be paid. His personal fee was of much greater value than the food, accommodation or alcohol, most of the agents usually received. It gave him a chance to forget his pain, if only for just a short while. A dose lasted a little under twenty-four hours, throughout which he was not aware, just generally not aware of anything. This was his oblivion and the only thing he craved for the past several years. And he needed to make a delivery to get paid.

  “There is a minefield ahead,” he heard Peter say.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “I said there’s a minefield ahead. He has stepped on a landmine. That caused the explosion.”

  Alex quickly came back to reality.

  “Yeah, but I also saw something jump quite high—”

  “That’s how they work. You set off a landmine by stepping on it. Instead of exploding, it waits for you to take a few more steps, then throws itself up, explodes in the air, and sends shrapnel in every direction. It was designed against groups, you see. The first one sets the mine off, but the rest would be in the vicinity when it finally explodes. It is super-efficient.”

  Alex found this utterly disgusting. Killing innocent people, sometimes even children, by sending shrapnel into their backs was not warfare. It was slaughter.

  “How come you are not hurt?” he asked the guard.

  “See this vest?” Peter knocked on his own chest. It sounded hollow.

  “So that’s why you’re so heavy.”

  “Yes. We need protection,” said Peter, nodding.

  “From what? Unarmed blacks?”

  “No. From landmines. You see, nobody really knows where the minefields are. They were planted decades ago. People just know not to go into the forest.” Peter stopped talking. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued, “How did you not know they were here?”

  “What?” Alex knew exactly what he was driving at, but he was trying to buy some time.

  “The landmines,” said Peter. “You use this route to rescue illegals. You must of been doing it for years. You can only be in one piece now if you know where not to step. So how come you let him tread on a mine?”

  “Why did you save him?” Alex’s voice was desperate now. “When he stepped on the mine, why did you jump on him?”

  “I don’t know, s’pose I just reacted. A man who walks beside you is a man walking with you. But I want you to answer my question!” said the guard in a sharp tone.

  Peter looked at him suspiciously, Alex felt it. He could not put it off any longer.

  “Look, there is something I need to tell you,” he said.

  Chapter Ten

  As they headed back, retracing their own steps, Peter’s mind was racing. The fucking bastard wanted to fuck with me. What the fuck did I trust him for? The American was now leading them back to the very same tunnels they came from. He had just admitted that the HUM had been using the tunnels, even as the army occupied them. That of course meant that he knew the tunnels as much as any of his comrades.

  What the American told him was insane. How could they avoid detection? There was never anyone caught, or seen. Or even suspected to be seen! And the fucker was making a fool of him even now! A man who could go under the radar so efficiently does not get caught by drones or lead others into a minefield, not without purpose anyway. Staying together for the time being seemed to be his only chance to get out of this mess alive, Peter knew this much, but he also knew not to trust the American any longer. He felt bad for throwing away his monitoring equipment, which could have come in quite handy now. Surely, there was no way the American would help him. In the end he was on his own. If he could somehow indicate their position, or he could lead a unit onto their trail, he could probably claim that he did it all for the right reasons. He would probably avoid execution and could maybe even continue to serve. Or maybe not. The punishment could still be severe, but anything was preferable to death. There was, of course, no way he could pull any of this off now.

  He had to be on his guard, the American was cunning. He must have been, otherwise he would not have survived for so long behind enemy lines without so much as being seen. Something would eventually present itself, something he could use to regain control over the situation, but for now he still needed the American.

  He watched the two men walk before him. He had developed a slight sympathy for the black guy. Yes, he would even consider him a man now. He had seen him from close enough. He bled, he feared, and he breathed like a human being. It would be a pity to give him up after all this, but there would be enough time to feel sorry about that later. Now he had to figure out how to get out of this mess, and do it good.

  He could not just leave a trail to lead a unit to their location, there was nothing he could use; besides, it would be suspicious. A guy like that American must have made a serious plan, and he would have covered his flank. Hell, the way he’d jumped in front of my weapon was a tell-tale in itself! I was just too shocked at the time to realise. He had to admit, under different circumstances, and with the right sort of training, the American would have made an admirable soldier. But he had to focus on the problem at hand now. What would the American do in his place? Probably take his chances. Peter realised he had not much to lose as he would die anyway, either by execution or by the American’s hand, eventually. But he would not give in so easy.

  He watched the American and the black man for a while. They never turned around. The American was apparently busy trying to find the way back. Now would be the right time. Peter grabbed his truncheon—but the stick was not there. He cursed silently. He must have dropped it on the minefield. Damn it! He focused on the back of the head in front of him. I could just shoot him, he thought. He raised his rifle and tried to keep the head in its sight.

  It was the same situation again, shooting a man from close range. It was not an easy move but now his life depended on it, so he had a much greater incentive than before. He would have to go through with it, only this once, then forget about it. He aimed, and put his finger on the trigger. Shoot-ing someone from behind was worse than executing a kneeling man. Peter took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. He tried to empty his mind. He tried not to think about it, not to feel. His finger tightened around the trigger.

  “Would you mind keeping that light on the ground?” said the American suddenly as he turned around, surprising Peter, who lost his courage in an instant.

  “Get that thing out of my face, will you? Wait where is he?” said the American, with a surprised expression.

  “Who?” asked Peter, who still kept the weapon aimed at the American’s head.

  “The African!”

  Peter looked around. The illegal was missing
.

  ***

  “You stay here, I’ll go get the bastard,” said Alex.

  He was quite angry. Peter was still shining his torch into his face. What the hell is he doing with that?

  “Will you please get that shit out of my face?” he said to the guard.

  The torch lowered. Alex knew that there was no time to discuss his purpose, he had to act, before they lost the African for good.

  “Listen, you stay here and don’t move an inch! I’ll be back!”

  “Wait, what?” Peter looked like he was just regaining consciousness.

  “Just do as I say!”

  Alex did not have time for the slow wit. He would explain it all later.

  “No fucking way, you just lost a man! And stop giving commands, I’m in charge here!” said Peter in an angry voice.

  “Yeah, right. Sorry, but you’ve lost him. You were behind us, could have seen him go!”

  Peter said nothing.

  “Anyway,” continued Alex, realising that he could not avoid the explanation. “He must have gone to the left.”

  “East, you mean?”

  “Whatever.”

  “How can you tell which way he went?

  “He did not pass in front of me. And if he’d passed behind me, even you would have seen him.”

  “Fuck off!”

  “I will, and you will stay and illuminate my path as long as you can. When I find him, I can follow the beacon of your light back here, and we continue down the path.”

  Peter seemed to consider this and nodded in the end.

  “All right,” he said, looking uncertain.

  Of course it’s all right, thought Alex. And by the time I make you understand, that bastard will be miles away!

  “I’ll be back,” he shouted as he disappeared into the shadows.

  ***

  Jumaane was running through the black night. Shrubs tore at his shirt and his ankle ached, yet he was no longer limping despite the pain. He did not have to force that limp now to conceal the weapon still hidden in his trousers; he was holding it in place with his hand now, so that he could move easier.