Finding Jack

by Gareth Crocker

  In the distance, a group of five soldiers headed toward them. Their rifles gleamed in the morning sun.

  Matthew strained his eyes. “Fuck … this doesn’t look good.”

  The soldier on the left began shouting something in Vietnamese, to which the other men joined in. They were all highly animated. As they came closer, yelling and gesturing with their hands, the man in front raised his rifle and pointed it at Matthew.

  “Wait. Wait! You can’t d-do this,” Matthew began, stuttering, backing into the corner of their keep. “Your government has signed a treaty. This is not—”

  But his words were cut short by a single bullet that tore through his face and blew a hole out the back of his head.

  A thick, wet blood cloud filled the cage.

  Fletcher closed his eyes and waited for his bullet. The thoughts that ghosted into his mind were no different from the ones that kept him from his sleep.

  His girls and Jack.

  Sixty-four

  The shot never came. In its place was a callous, almost caustic laughter.

  By the time Fletcher wiped the blood from his face, the soldiers had already opened the cage and were removing Matthew’s body. Their tactics were clear: The Australian’s murder had been punishment for Fletcher’s silence, a final reminder that death was closing in on him. One of the men made a comment, and the others laughed again. Fletcher felt like lunging at them and clawing out their throats, but had little strength to draw on. He was not at all concerned about being overpowered and killed, but rather of appearing weak in front of them. He decided that when they finally decided to shoot him, he would take the bullet with a smile.

  It would prove a hollow victory, he knew, but it would surely stick in their throats.

  The shooter tapped the barrel of his rifle and blew a kiss at Fletcher. Then, one by one, the soldiers filed away, dragging Matthew’s bloodied body behind them. Fletcher felt cold, despite the blistering morning sun on his back.

  Although they had known each other only a short while, Fletcher had grown fond of Matthew. He was a kind and warm man and had managed to remain upbeat despite their circumstances. He had a young son back home in Perth of whom he spoke sometimes for hours on end. In letters to him before his capture, Matthew had planned a month-long camping trip with the boy. The prospect of which, Fletcher knew, had kept him going.

  And now he was gone, his child forever lost to him.

  Fletcher leaned forward and, using his hand like a spade, dug briefly into the sand in front of him. Moments later, he pulled out a compass Matthew had managed to stow away after his capture. He had planned to use it after they escaped—another ambition that would remain unfulfilled. Fletcher turned it over and stared at the name carved onto its casing: BRIAN. The etching was so deep, Fletcher imagined Matthew had spent days following the curvature of his son’s name. He realized then, just as he had with Craig Fallow, that if he somehow managed to find his way home, he would have another letter to write. The chances of that, though, were almost nothing.

  As the morning progressed, Matthew Summers quickly assumed his position in Fletcher’s psyche as the latest inhabitant to pry at his sanity. It was becoming a crowded space.

  * * *

  Fletcher stared out through the bars and noticed Lee Tao heading toward him. He was carrying something in his arms, but it was hidden under a dark cloth. Despite his frame of mind, he was relieved the young man was still alive.

  As Lee approached the cage, he bowed his head as a mark of respect at Matthew’s death. “I sorry about your friend, Mr. Fletcher,” he offered quietly. His eyes traced the bamboo frame, which was now coated dark brown from the dried blood. “He should not have died. This is wrong. You no hurt?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “I bring soup and special food.”

  He removed the cloth and presented another bowl of rice, marginally smaller than the one before, and a large cup of soup.

  “Lee … I’m very grateful for this, but they’ll kill you if they find out what you’re doing.”

  “I don’t care. I hate this life. I rather … be dead.” His optimism from the previous day had all but evaporated.

  “Listen to me,” Fletcher said, shifting closer to him. “The war is over. You could return to your village now. They wouldn’t go after you. You can find your wife and start over.”

  “No more village left. My wife gone. I saw in your eyes.”

  “You saw nothing in my eyes! I really don’t know about the village. It could still be there. Your wife might still be alive.”

  “Soldiers say it … burned.”

  “They’re probably lying! Go see for yourself.”

  Lee ignored his comments, refusing to allow himself hope. “Must eat, Fletcher, please.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this? They’re going to kill me anyway!”

  Lee shook his head. “No. I help you.”

  “Help me what?”

  Lee searched for the correct words. “To … go away.”

  Fletcher again marveled at how this relative stranger was willing to risk so much for him. “No escape, Lee. This is the end.”

  “No, you still have far to live.”

  “It’s all right, Lee. I should’ve died a long time ago.”

  “No, you must live.”

  “Why? What makes you say that?”

  “I was part of patrol when we find you sleeping. I watched. I saw.”

  Fletcher hadn’t seen any of the men’s faces at the time of his capture. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have remembered. “I don’t understand—”

  “You must escape. He need you.”

  “Who needs me?”

  “He hurt badly … but is still alive.”

  Fletcher felt his face go numb.

  “Yellow dog. I saw him last night at river. He been following you.”

  Sixty-five

  Fletcher couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Could it be possible? Was Jack really still alive? “Are you sure, Lee? How do you know it was my dog?”

  “Yellow,” Lee replied, pinching the skin on his arm. “It’s your dog.”

  “But he was shot!”

  “No, soldier tried to shoot him, but missed. Your dog run away.”

  “Jesus Christ! He’s okay?”

  “His legs hurt, but he still able to walk little, little.” Lee illustrated with his arms, then smiled warmly. “He walks for you, Mr. Fletcher.”

  Suddenly a voice called out from the distance, and Lee leapt to his feet. A brief but intense look washed over his face. “I wish I live in your country. In America, you are free.”

  Fletcher didn’t know how to respond.

  “No hope here, just death,” Lee said, then spun away. “Please … must eat. Food save you.”

  And then he was gone, running toward the voice that had summoned him, every inch a prisoner himself.

  Fletcher’s hands were trembling. His skin tingled with energy.

  Jack was alive.

  It was a miracle he wasn’t killed.

  When he had calmed down sufficiently, he looked down at the food. What had been a lingering, almost distant hunger was now a ravenous appetite. Alternating with the soup, he grabbed handfuls of rice and forced it into his mouth. The food tasted heavenly. He was nearing the bottom of the bowl when he felt something cold and hard push against his fingers. He quickly fished out the foreign object.

  He stared at it disbelievingly and then slowly heard himself laugh. Was he losing his mind? Was it all a dream?

  The food will save you …

  It was a long, thin strip of metal.

  It was a blade.

  Sixty-six

  That night, Fletcher used the thin blade to painstakingly saw through a dozen of the thick bamboo bars to within a few centimeters of removing them completely. It was a far more difficult task than he had envisaged. He was tempted to try to escape right there and then, but knew it was too risky. It would soon be daylight. He would have t
o wait until the following evening to break out. He only hoped Jack could survive another day without him. It took every inch of his resolve to remain in the cage; his instincts told him that he should leave immediately and take his chances, but he knew that if he could wait it out until nightfall, they would have a far better chance of making a clean break.

  He was massaging his hand to try to relieve some of the cramp, when he heard movement at the back of the cage.

  It was Lee, his face etched with concern. “You must go now, Mr. Fletcher!” he urged, his chest heaving. He was struggling to catch his breath.

  Fletcher scrambled toward him. “Lee … what’re you doing here? What the hell’s going on?”

  “They going to shoot you! I heard … I heard.”

  “Jesus—”

  “Did you use knife?”

  Fletcher nodded. “They’re going to know you gave it to me.”

  “No. I put handle in other soldier pocket. They think he guilty. He is bad man; I don’t care about him.”

  “I still don’t understand, Lee—”

  “No more time for talk! Must go now!”

  “But—”

  “Hurry … hurry.”

  “All right, Lee, all right! But first answer one question for me.”

  “What?”

  “Do you want to leave this place? Do you really want a life in America?”

  Lee’s eyes widened, and a glimmer of hope flickered across his face. “Must … hurry.” Fletcher had his answer.

  He reached through the cage and grabbed Lee’s shoulder. “I’ll come back for you, Lee. I’ll take you to America. You have my word. Just stay alive, and I’ll find you.”

  Lee bowed his head and pulled out a thick brown sack from under his shirt. “All food I could get for you. Now go … go!”

  Fletcher crawled across to the far side of the cage, where he had sawed through the bamboo struts and kicked them out. He squeezed through the gap and replaced the bars behind him. If he was lucky, they wouldn’t come for him for another hour or so.

  As he turned around, Lee was standing in front of him. Instinctively, Fletcher embraced the young man.

  “Your dog under trees over there,” Lee said, pointing to an area across the river, away from the main bungalows. “He waiting for you.”

  Sixty-seven

  Despite the approaching dawn, the sky was still a rich black. Running hard, Fletcher hunched over as he approached the trees. “Jack … Jack … Jack,” he whispered loudly.

  There was no sign of him. Fletcher scrambled from tree to tree, trying to discern shapes between the different layers of shadow, but it was almost impossible. The foliage above him was blocking out what little light there was.

  “Jack!”

  Still nothing.

  Had he died during the night? A feeling of dread gnawed at him. He called out again, louder this time.

  Finally, a faint whimpering sound issued from somewhere behind him.

  He spun around. “Jack! Where are you?” he pleaded, almost hysterical. About twenty yards to his left, the Labrador emerged from between two trees. His back legs were buckled uselessly under his body, and he was using his front legs to drag himself into a patch of moonlight.

  Fletcher dropped down next to him and scooped him up in his arms. He buried his face into the fur around his neck, partly to drown out the sound of his own crying and partly because he needed to feel Jack, to make sure he was real. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  After holding him for a few moments, Fletcher pulled out of the embrace. Beyond Jack’s pain, he could see the happiness in his eyes. It all seemed unreal, an impossible scene. “You tracked me, buddy. I’m so proud of you! Well done.”

  Jack lifted his head and licked the side of Fletcher’s neck.

  “What’s wrong with your legs?” he then asked, as if expecting a reply.

  Jack’s back paw, still bandaged, had swollen up like a baseball, but his other hind leg looked all right. Why wasn’t he able to walk at all? Fletcher wondered. As his eyes followed the curve of Jack’s legs, he suddenly realized what the problem was. Since their separation, his right hip had somehow dislocated. Knowing precious little of how to restore a dislocated joint, but having no choice, Fletcher took hold of his dog’s leg and gritted his teeth. He kissed Jack on the head and then twisted the leg and forced it into the joint.

  Jack bucked at the sudden explosion of pain and then collapsed onto his side.

  “Sorry, sorry, boy. It’s over. I think it’s back in. Just rest for a minute,” he said, gently stroking his head.

  As he allowed Jack some time to recover from the shock, he weighed their options. The night sky was now beginning to peel away from the horizon. They had the little bit of food Lee gave them and Matthew’s compass, but still had at least fifty miles to travel just to reach Thailand. They had no map, no medicine, and would soon be hunted by their captors. That, and Jack couldn’t walk.

  Fletcher knew that if they were to stand any chance of surviving, they would have to run. He rose to his feet and lifted Jack in his arms. Taking a deep breath, he looked up at the sky. “You’ve taken everything from me. Just help me this once … please.”

  Sixty-eight

  By the time the sun had risen above the mountains, Fletcher estimated they had made at least six or even seven miles. At first, he had been surprised by his stamina, particularly since he hadn’t eaten properly in weeks, but now he was beginning to tire. Jack had felt light initially, but now weighed heavily in his arms. It didn’t help that the sack of food Lee had given him, which he had tied around his right shoulder, was pounding against his rib cage. The worst headache of his life wasn’t making matters any easier either. On a positive note, his feet had healed well over the past few days, far better than he had expected. All that remained now was a distant ache as his boots fought for purchase on the slippery ground. His immediate concern now was water—or more accurately, the lack thereof. Although he was desperately thirsty, he was far more concerned about Jack. It was unlikely he’d had anything to drink since they were separated. To make matters worse, the sky overhead was clear. There were no immediate signs of rain, and they had not yet encountered a single water source.

  By running, he knew he was taking a massive risk of crossing a wire or falling headlong into a trap, but prudence was simply not an option anymore. The clock was ticking. He had to put as much distance between himself and his captors as possible. To further compound matters, the infection in Jack’s paw had clearly spread to the rest of his body and was slowly poisoning him.

  He needed urgent medical help if he was to survive.

  Despite this, however, Fletcher simply had to stop to rest for a while. His back was aching, and his throat was burning from the exertion. He still felt feverish. He lay Jack down and took a moment to catch his breath. The food sack had rubbed his skin raw under his arm, and he took the opportunity to swap it onto his left shoulder. As he untied the knot, it occurred to him that the sack was unnaturally heavy.

  Maybe Lee had packed in some soup, he suddenly thought.

  He quickly unfolded the cloth. Inside were two loaves of bread, a jar of rice, and a canister of water. The discovery took his breath away. He felt close to tears again. He knew that if by some miracle they made it to safety, he would owe much of it to Lee. Unscrewing the lid off the canister, he tilted Jack’s head back and carefully funneled the precious water into his mouth. He could not afford to spill even a single drop. Jack battled to swallow at first, but then took in the water comfortably. Fletcher watched as his eyes came alive.

  “That’s it, Jack. Drink.”

  After Jack had accounted for a third of the canister, Fletcher took two long sips of his own and replaced the lid. He wished they could have more, but knew they could afford to drink only enough to stay alive.

  Survival was now a race.

  Sixty-nine

  The afternoon sailed by like a small boat adrift at sea.

  All that Fle
tcher remembered was putting one foot ahead of the other and trying his utmost to remain upright—a feat he managed most of the time. His arms had become ungainly leaden weights, and his back ached as if his spine had been supplanted with a column of burning lava. He kept peering over his shoulder, expecting to see soldiers charging up behind him, but each time there was nothing in his wake.

  Did it mean they weren’t coming after him? The war was over. Why should they care about one escaped prisoner? Given the terrain, they would have to pursue him on foot. How far would they go before they lost interest? Not too far, he hoped.

  As the sun dipped over the trees ahead of him, he began to search for a place to spend the night. Initially he had planned to keep going, but now knew it wasn’t possible. He needed to give his body at least a few hours to rest. Besides, in his current state, he would have no chance against a trip wire or trap at night. It wasn’t worth the risk.

  He noticed a slight vale under some heavy foliage some fifty yards to his left. If his head hadn’t felt so heavy and cumbersome, he probably would’ve missed it.

  It looked perfect. The only way someone would find them was if they literally fell into the chasm themselves. He carefully stepped down, parting the roots and branches ahead of him. The hollow was just wide enough for both of them. He lowered Jack down gently onto his side and stretched out his arms. His biceps felt thick and swollen.

  Looking down at Jack, he could see he was hurting from all the jarring—clearly in a world of pain. Fresh blood seeped through the bandage on his paw. Fletcher sat down, removed the sack from his shoulder, and fished out one of the loaves of bread. He broke off a piece for Jack and fed it to him. The dough was still soft. Jack took a while to swallow it, but eventually got it down. He had three more small pieces, but then refused to eat any more. Fletcher tried to give him some more water, but he turned his head away. Fletcher took a few small sips himself and then quickly ate more than half the loaf. His stomach swelled up like a football. He was relying on the carbohydrates to give him the energy he needed for tomorrow—for one final push.