Amanda's Story

by Brian O'Grady

  The only problem with isolation is being alone with oneself. Introspection had become Amanda’s only form of recreation, and she focused on the trace of joy that came with the Hondurans scrambling. Intellectually, she knew that these individuals were not responsible for her situation, and that they had been almost as miserable as she. Under normal circumstances, she imagined that she would probably feel sorry for them, but these were anything but normal circumstances, and she was not the same timid girl who had fretted over an open helicopter hatch less than two weeks earlier. This had been a transformative experience, and for the first time in her life the misfortunes of others prompted an emotion other than sympathy. She had already spent many of the lonely hours pondering her new emotional makeup, and had decided that on a whole she liked the new Amanda. She was more resolute, no longer afraid of making decisions. All her life she had been afraid. Afraid of guns, of violence, of taking a chance, of taking charge of her own destiny. The new Amanda would do everything it took to survive, even if it meant using guns or violence, and then follow the path that she wanted. She had grown up living her life only to meet the expectations of others. When she thought of herself, it was always through the eyes of others. When faced with a choice, she would filter the options through what she thought others would want. In fact, she found it difficult remembering a single time she ever been completely selfish. She had always been a “good girl.” A door mat.

  Of course, not every attribute of the new Amanda was as positive. She had developed a vindictiveness that was both disturbing and more than a little comfortable. Leaving Charlotte to die alone and in pain was at best morally questionable, but even days later it warmed her heart. So did the possibility of violence. In her many empty hours Amanda thought about taking out a guard or two—not in hopes of escape, more just to see what it was like. She had shot the four soldiers earlier, but that had happened so fast, and had been purely reflexive. Her sole motivation was self-defense. She idly wondered what it would be like to shoot someone just because she could. Would she feel remorse? Elation? Or would her emotions remain as silent as they had when she was forced to defend herself?

  ***

  It took less than fifteen minutes for the shower to pass and for the bright tropical sun to return. After another fifteen minutes—as the boredom was beginning to overwhelm her—she resumed her walking.

  “How you doing there, Charlotte?” she asked, passing the corpse. Charlotte didn’t answer, so she kept on walking. Two hours and a few dozen circuits later she noticed that her captors had started to pack up and that many had already disappeared back into the jungle. No weapons were visible, and most of their packs and chairs had disappeared; even the ever-present cigarette smell had faded. She moved along the path a little faster and then detoured to the east end of the big-tent. It was mostly hidden from the Hondurans’ view and was where she had collected and stored all the weapons she could find. She knew that in time a decision would have to be made; they wouldn’t watch her indefinitely, and by far the easiest solution to the “Amanda problem” was a conveniently placed bullet. Already there were thirty bodies scattered about the camp, and most of them had their own bullets. Who would even conceive that she had died under anything other than “natural” circumstances? She crawled into a small recess that she had constructed under a number of large crates and pulled her weapons and spare ammunition close. She had no misconception that she could successfully take them all on, but she would be damned if she was going to make it easy for them.

  She waited, but nothing happened. Part of the problem with being hidden so well was the fact that she had a very limited view. From her rabbit-hole she had only about a forty-five degree viewing angle that extended to the edge of the radio tent and the fence beyond. The jungle buzzed and the early afternoon air heated up under the tropical sun, and still nothing. She wished she still had her watch, but it had broken when a crate fell onto her arm as she was creating this very hiding place. She slowly started counting to a hundred, deciding that if nothing happened before then she would take a peek.

  After the first hundred she started over. By forty-three she stopped. She heard the sounds of tires crunching over branches and gravel. She twisted to try and see what was happening, but beyond twenty yards her view was blocked. She whispered a curse. If she wanted to know what they were up to she would have to move, which was probably exactly what they wanted. A door slammed and she heard distant voices and then a loud, piercing amplified squeal.

  “Hello in the camp,” said a voice that Amanda recognized immediately. “This is General Hector Regara.” He rolled his R’s almost as well as the waiter in Chicago. “Will you please show yourselves so that we can talk?” Amanda didn’t respond, and a minute passed. “We mean you no harm. I am here to inform you that a United States helicopter is on its way to take you home. For that to occur safely we must remove portions of the fence. It is imperative that you remain in our sight and within the confines of your camp until your countrymen arrive. Will you please show yourself?”

  It’s a very clever trick, Amanda thought. Off in the distance she could hear the signature thumping, but the sounds of helicopters overhead had become commonplace the last few days. “Although,” she said out loud, “they could just toss in a few grenades and be done with it. Why go to all this trouble?” She countered. And why would he be here?

  “Mrs. Flynn,” Regara’s voice boomed, and Amanda was startled at the sound of her name. “We need you to respond, now.” His last word echoed across the large field. “The helicopter you hear is from an American aircraft carrier waiting to bring you home, and it has limited fuel capacity. I can not permit it to land until I know that you will cooperate.”

  Amanda crawled out, but as a consolation to her more-cautious side she brought along a weapon. She walked out of the big-tent and down its side, still not completely convinced they had her best interest in mind. Just beyond the fence on the eastern side of the large field stood Regara, resplendent in his dark uniform and medals and ribbons. Several very stern soldiers in jungle fatigues flanked him, and each held a weapon identical to her own.

  “I assure you that your rifle is not needed.” He smiled. She wasn’t buying his relaxed, everything-is-all-right tone. His soldiers, who looked like they were ready to pounce, told a more accurate story. “All right, if it makes you feel more comfortable. All I ask is that you stay right where you are. Can you do this?”

  She looked around and found a second group of soldiers almost directly behind her, but they were armed only with bolt cutters. “You’ve already killed two of us, and one was your own soldier,” she accused Regara.

  He took several steps forward and now was only inches from the fence. His security detail was about to follow but a quick hand motion froze them in place. Amanda could see that she had touched a nerve; Regara’s face had lost all its graciousness. “His name was Fernando Oklana. He was born three miles from here, and I had to tell his mother in an evacuation center that her only son is dead.” He pointed at the dark form that had once been Sergeant Oklana; his words fired at Amanda as if she had been responsible for his death.

  His anger only fueled hers. “There are twenty-nine other bodies in here, and you and your Dr. Martinez watched them die one by one!” She screamed and pointed her weapon at one of the cameras mounted high on a metal pole.

  “My responsibility is to protect my country; I do not care if you ever understand that. I only care to know if you will comply with the instructions, or do we shoot you now and be done with it?”

  It was an intriguing offer. She was certain that she could raise her weapon and fire at least several good shots before they took her down, and at a minimum make Regara and Honduras pay a small amount of what was owed to Amanda and the rest of her team.

  “I take your silence as a willingness to be reasonable,” Regara said before Amanda had completely made up her mind. She lowered her rifle, which had somehow fo
und its way into a firing position, and then after several long moments, with nothing better to do, she sat in the tall grass. Regara turned and nodded to a figure in the shadows and a moment later she could hear the sharp snap of metal breaking, followed by a tinny sound as the fence recoiled. It took at least ten minutes to clear the west end of the large field, and then the drumming of rotors filled the air. Amanda stood and watched the largest helicopter she had ever seen clear the trees just outside of Tela. It came in deceptively fast and, after flying over the camp once, banked around, flared its nose slightly, and settled gently into the grass. Amanda could have cried when she saw the roundel of stars and stripes. A dozen armed men in white suits poured out of the front hatch of the behemoth and she started to run towards them.

  “Mrs. Flynn,” a blessedly unaccented American voice said over the helicopter’s speakers. “Stay where you are. We will come to you. Repeat. Stay where you are!” Amanda dropped the now heavy rifle and stopped just before the end of the big-tent. Men approached her and guided her back into the tent, where they quickly stripped every bit of clothing from her, doused her in a slick yellow liquid that dried almost on contact, redressed her in surgical scrubs, and then repackaged her in the same white suit they wore. They moved so quickly and efficiently that she had no time to object. What little modesty she had left was swept away by the relief that she was finally going home. Once done, they firmly guided her to the large twin-rotor aircraft. As they hurried her along she looked back and saw Regara arguing with an American in a white suit, and then they ducked her head and she was strapped to a stretcher.

  “Sorry about the rush ma’am, and about this …” The airman plucked at his own isolation suit. “We’ll get you out of it as soon as possible.” He smiled through the visor and for a moment she wondered how bad she looked. The airman was at least ten years older than her, yet he called her ma’am. “I need to get some information from you …”

  Amanda gave him a brief timeline of events, but he kept coming back to the lesions. How big were they? How fast did they appear? Where were the majority? Finally, she interrupted him.

  “The infection was bad, but it’s effect on people’s thinking and behavior, that’s what we need to focus on. The virus itself was responsible for only seven of our casualties.” He nodded patiently, waiting for her to finish so he could get back to what was truly important.

  Once he had finished his checklist of questions, Amanda felt a little frustrated that she hadn’t quite got her point across but reasoned that there would be other and more comprehensive opportunities. The airman rose quickly and disappeared. She expected the frenetic activity to continue and an immediate departure, but once she had been strapped in and interviewed things slowed to a crawl.

  After more than fifteen minutes the airman reappeared and Amanda reached for his arm. “Why aren’t we going?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but there are some things that need to get straightened out before we leave,” he said over the idling rotors, and there was that word again.

  “Where are we going?” she asked before he retreated from view.

  “That’s one of the things that need to be figured out,” he said cryptically.

  “Are you going to be closing that door?” She pointed to the large hatch.

  He looked confused. “Not until we leave, ma’am.”

  She stared at the ceiling, strapped into a stretcher she didn’t need, and waited for another hour, hoping that nothing had happened that would leave her stranded again. Even the crew was getting antsy; they kept looking out the hatch, then walking down the small ramp, and then later she watched as two of them lazily walked around the large helicopter. The “Ma’am-man” periodically checked on her, and once turned on a fan over her bunk. It was a silly but thoughtful gesture; her suit denied her any real benefit. Finally, the rear hatch opened and a half-dozen white-suited men started loading and securing box after box into metal compartments. Each box was wrapped in biohazard stickers.

  The rear hatch closed and suddenly the capacious interior was crowded with soldiers, their weapons, and isolation suits. A rush of emotion hit Amanda and she began to cry. “This isn’t me anymore,” she whispered and reflexively tried to wipe her wet eyes, but her gloved hand only banged off her visor. The helicopter began to shake and then lift. She had left Honduras, and along with it Bernice and twenty-nine others. She had no guilt, survivor’s or any other kind, just sadness—a deep enduring sadness. She closed her eyes and for the first time in days wondered what she would do once she got home.

  CHAPTER 15

  But she didn’t go home. Almost a day later, more white-suited people led her down a grey corridor, through multiple sets of double doors—each of which forced them to wait for the locks to electronically disengage—and finally into what looked like a very unfriendly and utilitarian hospital room equipped with three ceiling-mounted cameras.

  “Once you hear the door close, you may remove the isolation suit, Mrs. Flynn.” The man’s voice was all business, and he turned to leave.

  “Hey, wait a minute. I was told that once we arrived to wherever this place is someone would explain what was going on!” Her patience was long gone. They flew her to an aircraft carrier, and before she could enjoy the experience she had been bundled onto a small plane and flown from Air Force base to Air Force base until she landed here an hour ago. She assumed this was the ultimate destination, as she had been constantly warned not to try and take the now very sweaty and smelly isolation suit off. In addition, this was the first bed she had been offered.

  “The doctor is already here and will explain the procedures.” He had barely turned and acknowledged her, and his tone was one of bored disinterest. The proverbial clock watcher.

  “Asshole,” she said, waiting for the door to close and lock. She had a ceiling and three blank walls to stare at; the fourth wall was almost entirely taken up by a mirror. She had watched enough TV to know that her mirror was certainly one-way glass. She looked for a light switch but found none. There was no thermostat either. The only other feature beyond the Government Issue bed and the stainless steel sink and commode thoughtfully hidden behind a virtually see-through drape, was a recessed air duct that stretched along the bottom of all four walls. A white air dam on the ceiling completed the picture. She was in a reverse airflow room; not even air could escape.

  She pulled the drape and worked her way out of the suit, her scrubs soaked through with sweat. She tried to clean herself as well as possible and then pulled back the curtain and fell into bed.

  “Can you at least turn off the lights?” she yelled, and an instant later the overheads dimmed.

  She slept the sleep of the exhausted. She tossed and turned and woke several times wondering where she was. There was no clock on the wall, and her broken watch was last seen in the dirt of Honduras. Her mind cycled between Bernice and Lisa. They would have been instant friends and she would have loved to have seen that. She rolled over and brushed a tear from her eye. Grief hung in her chest like a ten-pound weight, but it stayed there; it didn’t pull her down into the abyss as it had so often in the past. It seemed as if she had spent most of her life in that abyss of grief, pain, and helplessness. It wasn’t yet time to think about silver linings or anything good coming from the horrific last two weeks, so she rolled over. As her mind floated freely she recalled her last interaction with Charlotte, and she finally felt a trace of guilt. Or is it that I just think I should feel bad? That actually felt closer to the truth. A part of her was manufacturing emotions that seemed to be lacking.

  “Good, I could use a lot less guilt,” she whispered as she resumed the habit of talking to herself. It dawned on her that she hadn’t had a real conversation, besides the ones she had with herself, in several days. Her body didn’t care; it was trying to decide whether to stay awake or to retreat back into the oblivion of dreams. This was the first bed she had been in for nearly two weeks, a
nd it was so comfortable. Her body relaxed into the cotton sheets, having decided that it was time for her mind to turn out the lights, and she closed her eyes and gently drifted away.

  ***

  “Mrs. Flynn,” a voice said in her dream. The voice repeated itself, only louder.