by Kirk Adams
“We’ll make peace in the morning,” the long-haired man said as he stared at John, “and no one breaks the truce tonight. I propose we make sedition a capital offense. Anyone who starts fighting dies like Jason. We’ve already made a truce. Why should we all be killed for old-fashioned notions of honor?”
The assembly enacted his proposal, with even Ryan and Olivia breaking from their home village in showing willingness to give Donovan a chance to prove his intentions were peaceful. The majority also thought a few days without fighting might allow time to bolster defenses and gather provisions for a long siege. Guards were posted on the perimeter and reserve troops lay down to rest. For the first time in two days, there was no immediate fear of battle.
42
Detente and Death
Rain fell at dawn. Winds picked up first and showers followed a few minutes later, falling so fast that fires were extinguished and wood soaked before coverings could be raised. Consequently, breakfast brought only cold coffee served with a spoonful of sugar and a few drops of goat milk, along with withered fruit and shriveled vegetables. After eating, the refugees squeezed themselves into their tents, seven or eight people pressed into dwellings designed for four. Only sentries remained at their posts—without tarp, poncho, or raincoat. Suffering was great and many parents went hungry to provide extra food to famished children. Even so, work started midmorning amidst rain and mud: trees were knocked down to clear the perimeter, logs set into the bermed wall, and water jugs were filled to capacity with rainwater.
It was noon when Father Donovan’s emissary arrived. The man brought a scribbled note and met with refugee leaders in a nylon tent from which everyone else was excluded—most of them sent into the rain. Demanding an immediate cessation of hostilities, the northsman required Viet and John to make a separate peace and promised that any man or woman (even those singled out for special treatment) who swore allegiance and proved loyalty would be spared since every available fighter was needed to hunt cannibals. Furthermore, the emissary threatened anyone who continued to fight with death and also warned that their families would be denied protection from the heathen. The messenger smirked when told Steve was dead.
After several westerners insisted on proof of Donovan’s trustworthiness by removal of the firing pin of the pistol or the surrendering of bullets, the emissary made a counterproposal—suggesting an exchange of hostages as a better way of securing peace. He argued that removal of the gun alone wouldn’t reduce tensions if evil motives and sharp sticks remained. Though Viet and John were appalled by the proposal, their compatriots weren’t. Many even applauded the suggestion, claiming that mutual vulnerability was the safest course of action. The northern messenger claimed the idea of a hostage exchange was his own and requested permission to confirm the plan with Father Donovan and the northern war council. Despite objections from several westerners that they didn’t trust the northern emissary, the majority of refugees voted to send the ambassador back to his own people for further guidance while the allied villages voted whether to proceed.
Soon after the northerner left, the refugees gathered to consider the exchange of hostages, assembling atop Mount Zion under dark skies as Ryan called the General Will of the People into session. Though the rain drove hard and everyone soon was drenched—shivering from the cold and embittered by the situation—no one objected to the meeting.
“We have to vote yea or nay on exchanging hostages,” Ryan said, “and decide how to choose them. I need a motion.”
“I propose,” the long-haired southerner stood as he spoke, “we exchange hostages with the north camp to make peace.”
Ryan asked for a motion to second the proposal and received one before calling for discussion.
“If we fight,” a southern woman said, “they win. Every one of us knows we can’t beat them as long as they have that gun. One effective attack and we’re dead and our families and friends left to their mercy.”
“If we exchange hostages,” John objected, “our loved ones still are at their mercy. Our only chance is to fight to get that gun. We still outnumber them and they know it. A few traps and a good ambush and that gun won’t mean anything. Donovan will find himself at our disposal. Alone.”
Dr. Graves lowered his umbrella and raised a hand. “How many of us,” he asked, “would live to see such a victory? A pyrrhic victory is a total loss, medically speaking.”
Several voices agreed.
Viet raised his voice over the chorus of assent.
“We’re not,” Viet shouted, his tone angry and agitated, “just talking about survival. This island is finished. Our camps are burned and our people dead. A yacht is sunk in our harbor and innocent people murdered—four according to Ryan, two of them women. There’ll be an investigation and the deaths of cannibals will come out. Father Donovan is a veteran of the Nicaraguan wars and knows it—and so should we. The criminals want to separate those of us who saw the atrocities from those who didn’t and we’ll either go along with the evil or be liquidated. Their own representative said everyone has to help hunt cannibals. What do you think he meant? He meant we all kill so every hand is stained and every mouth silenced. That will insure friendly witnesses at The Hague.”
Viet was catcalled.
“He didn’t say that.”
“You just want to save yourself.”
“What did happen on Roanoke Island?”
“I don’t really care,” the long-haired southerner said, “what happens to the savages. What I do care about is my own child. Only God knows what will happen to her out here if I’m killed and, since there isn’t a God, a truce is our … is her … only chance.”
“I’ve got two daughters,” Viet said, “and my worry is twice yours. But I won’t become a liar or a butcher in front of them to save my skin. Nor to save theirs.”
“I love my daughter enough to do anything for her.”
Viet stared at the man. “Anything?”
The man nodded.
“Will you murder a native child?” Viet asked.
“If it’s my child or a cannibal,” the man replied, “I would. Those children chewed our people. They’re not so innocent.”
“Murdering children is plain evil.”
“Not,” the gray-haired man declared, “as evil as sending your own child to the butcher when you have it in your power to save her. Would you leave your daughters without help in a foreign land? So they’re eaten alive by pagans or abused by Donovan’s thugs? That’s child abuse.”
“Don’t you see?” Viet cried out. “That’s why we fight.”
“You’re both right,” Ryan now joined the discussion. “If we fight and lose, we’re lost and so are our loved ones. On the other hand, if we surrender, we’re at their mercy and I don’t trust them any more than Viet does.”
Everyone waited for Ryan to split the difference of opinion.
“That’s why we have to exchange hostages,” Ryan said. “If they hurt our loved ones, we’ll take an eye for an eye. Mutually assured destruction does have its advantages. I don’t like the idea, but there’ll be less killing than war and hopefully none at all. Besides, have any of you stopped to realize it raises our odds to get some of their people off the battlefield? We can set terms so they lose a couple fighting men.”
“It’s mad,” Viet said. “Our odds may increase, but our ability to conduct operations doesn’t. Every spare man will be stuck with guard duty. And it makes the gun all the more lethal.”
“How’s that?” the southern man with long hair asked.
“Because they’ll have more bullets per fighter and can afford to miss more often. And because we won’t be able to overwhelm them with a concentration of forces. That’s the one thing they fear: that one of our people can break through and take the gun from them. It’s the one risk they can’t take.”
“But,” the southern man said, “if they surrender two or three prisoners, they’ll have fewer men to post guard, to flank us, or to protect Donovan whi
le he reloads.”
“Check and mate!” someone shouted and several islanders clapped.
“Everyone knows the issues,” the southern man said as he panned the crowd. “I move we vote.”
The call for a vote was seconded and, a few minutes later, the poll was tabulated. Subsequently, it was decided by a two to one margin to exchange hostages. After the vote, Ryan stood before the rump of a people he had brought to the new world.
“All right,” Ryan asked, “any volunteers?”
No one volunteered.
“Then how do we draft—by vote or lottery?”
Viet moved that they choose hostages by lottery and his proposal was seconded. The poll was close, but a single vote determined the lottery would be used rather than nominations. After discussion, it also was decided every neighborhood should surrender a citizen as a hostage. Several southerners objected that this method put each of them at greater individual risk given their low numbers, but the westerners pointed out that they too had suffered massive casualties and blocked a revote. The various neighborhoods assembled in the rain and selected hostages. The gray-haired man was picked from the south and a muscular youth from the east. Ilyana drew the short stick from the west and Nurse Fallows was taken from New Plymouth village. Hostages were told to pack their personal effects and prepare to move.
Two hours later, the envoy returned. He brought with him four people: a tall northerner named Jake with a bandaged face, Father Donovan’s half-dressed girlfriend, a disconsolate Sally McNeal, and a terrified Bryan Murphy. The islanders confirmed they’d exchange two women and two men, but when their hostages were summoned, Ilyana was missing. So was her mother. Leaders immediately decided to draft another westerner and this time Maria drew the short stick. Within minutes, the northern envoy—assisted by the eastern and southern hostages—dragged her screaming from the camp.
The departing southerner begged everyone to keep the peace or he himself might die and the northern emissary warned the islanders to be sure they heeded the man’s advice. After the enemy left, the two northern men were bound with ropes at the center of the camp and their women placed under armed guard several feet away.
Rain continued to fall.
Thirty minutes after she was brought to camp, Sally told her guard she needed to use the latrine. She was escorted to the edge of the woods by Viet and did her business while the latter stood guard (careful to keep the woman within reach even as he respected her privacy). Afterwards, Sally asked to speak with her captor.
“It’s Viet, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I need to tell you something, but you must swear to be discreet.”
“What is it?”
“Swear.”
“I can’t promise until you tell me why.”
“Because,” Sally explained, “they’ll kill my daughter if I betray them and they’ll kill you if I don’t.”
“I’ll be discreet,” Viet said with a frown.
The woman stared into his face. “You’re a father?” she asked, her voice cracking as she spoke.
“I have two daughters.”
“I have to trust you,” Sally said after a long pause.
“Go ahead.”
“I don’t know how, but this a trap. For sure. Don’t trust the other two northerners. Only me and Bryan.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Donovan’s girlfriend volunteered to come and so did the guy. And they told us—I mean, me and Bryan—they’d feed our kids to cannibals if we resisted.”
“The northerners have cannibals?”
“A couple are tied up like animals.”
Viet looked bewildered as Sally continued.
“They let the beasts eat Andrea alive,” Sally said as she began to sob. “They tied her up and made Bryan watch his own wife die. It was horrible. Those women ate her like wild dogs. She screamed for hours while the northsmen smoked dope and laughed. Bryan broke free and pushed a cannibal into the fire, but Donovan tied him again and slit Andrea’s throat while they held Bryan’s eyes open. It was horrible.”
Sally’s voice cracked as she finished.
“Andrea,” she said with a tremor to her voice, “was the best friend I ever had.”
“What else do you know?”
“Only,” Sally said, “that they told me and Bryan to cooperate or they’d feed our children to the other one. They’re going to get all of us. Don’t tell them I said anything. Please, I beg you.”
Viet hugged the distraught woman, then dried her tears before leading her back to the other prisoners—where he ordered both Sally and Donovan’s blond girlfriend tied with cords before he called his fellow refugees to emergency session at the edge of camp. Only there did he repeat what he’d learned.
“We’ve traded four fighters,” Viet said after relaying facts, “for a warrior, a woman, and two prisoners. Plus we lost Ilyana and Olivia.”
“Exactly,” John said, “they’ve flanked us in the truce.”
Dr. Erikson stepped forward.
“This can’t be true,” the psychologist said with a tone both exasperated and anxious. “Donovan gave us his own lover.”
“Are you crazy?” John snapped. “He doesn’t love anyone or anything. He uses. He lies. He hates.”
“No one only hates,” the psychologist replied. “That’s pure abstraction. And I don’t believe it anyway. I’ve seen them together; he loves her.”
“You better hope so,” Viet said, “because you’ve staked your life on it.”
The blood drained from Dr. Erikson’s face.
“Sally spoke of a trap,” Viet continued, “so I had both women tied up. That way it won’t be so evident she clued us in. Plus it’ll keep that other woman under wraps.”
“So,” a woman’s trembling voice came from the back of the group, “what do we do?”
“To begin with,” John said, “we need to interrogate the prisoners.”
“What if they won’t talk?”
“We’ll see that they do.”
“How?”
“We’ll find a way,” John said with a grim look.
“Do you mean torture them?” the woman asked.
“I didn’t say that,” John growled. “We need to question them—to elicit information from them. We especially need to find out how many bullets they really have left. We can count shots and make them waste ammunition with hit and run attacks. Hurried shots miss more often.”
“You’re talking about another war.”
“Do we have a choice?”
“We need to keep our word,” Dr. Erikson said.
“We all know it’s a trap,” John said. “Why walk into it?”
“How do we really know it?”
“Sally told us.”
“How could she know? Did they tell someone who hates them?”
“She endangered her own child to warn us.”
“It’s all spying and sneaking and I don’t trust her.”
“It’s like the Cold War,” Doctor Graves now spoke. “You have to expect even your enemy to be rational.”
“We trusted the Soviets,” Viet said, “only as far as our tanks in Germany could shoot and our spies could report.”
“You were a Cold Warrior?”
“I was,” Viet said, “still in college when the Berlin Wall fell.”
“You sound like Ronald Reagan.”
“Then Reagan,” Viet said, “had more sense than I gave him credit for. I’m not going to allow these people to kill us one by one with subterfuge and traps. We have to rescue our hostages immediately. If we move quick, we’ll hit them completely unprepared. Probably stoned and celebrating.”
“You’re not going to make war,” Dr. Graves turned red as he spoke, “on your own authority. It’s illegal. We’ve made our peace with the north. Now we must let it stand. Every day we can go without fighting creates momentum to end this crisis.”
“We’re gullible fools,” Viet said to John, “letting th
e enemy bide his time to crush us. Your name is on their list too. Get these people to listen.”
“So that’s what this is all about,” Dr. Erikson said, “your own fears and phobias.”
“Damned right,” Viet said, “I’m afraid of those people. They’re evil.”
“There’s no reason to use pejorative terms ...”
“Tell it to the Marines. I haven’t got the time.”
Dr. Erikson looked perplexed, but before she could ask Viet what he meant, a shriek sounded across the camp—the pained scream of a woman.
Viet and John raced to the noise as the others followed at their heels. When they arrived at the center of the makeshift refugee camp, they found an eastern guard lying on his back, gasping for breath as blood seeped from the corners of his mouth and a gaping wound on his shirtless chest spewed blood just below the ribs. He had been stabbed in a lung.
Several yards away, Bryan Murphy was slumped over from the tree to which he was tied, blood seeping from the severed aorta where his throat was cut. His opened eyes didn’t blink as they stared ahead at nothing in particular. Sally kicked in the mud, not far from the dead hostage: her face bloodless, her lips blue, and her eyes yellow. Blood and bile flowed from her lower back—behind a kidney. Viet unfastened buttons and bindings as she turned the woman on her stomach while Dr. Graves tore strips from his shirt and stuffed them into the wound.
As the injured woman stopped thrashing, Viet stroked her hair and otherwise spoke to Sally with soothing words.
“Sally, what happened?” Viet asked.
Sally’s legs quivered and her eyes were wild from pain as she choked out her reply through terrible anguish. “Save my daughter.”
“What happened?”
“Swear it.”
“What happened?”
“Swear.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Viet said, “I promise.”
“Take her ... to my sister ... in Michigan.”
Viet said he would try.
“God have mercy ... on my little girl,” Sally whispered with a hoarse and weak voice, “and forgive us ... this foolishness.”