If We Survive

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Let’s go! Move it!” Palmer barked at us—because the rest of us were just standing there watching him. We seemed frozen where we stood.

Palmerwas now at the van. He was reaching inside. As I stood there watching, he brought out a machine gun and strapped it over his shoulder. Then he brought out a pistol and stuffed it into his belt. Then he brought out a knife—a great big dagger—which he put in his belt on the other side. It was almost comical: the guy was like a one-man army or something.

I was the first to come to my senses, the first to realize we had to move, we had to help him. I went to Palmer’s side.

“That’s a lot of guns,” I said. “Where’d you find them?”

“A couple of rebels tried to stop me from reaching the van,” he said.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I understood what he meant.

“Get yours,” he said to me.

“My… ?”

“The gun, the gun. Come on.”

“Oh, right.”

“And here.” He handed me something—a curved metal container that I recognized as being part of the weapon. “Spare magazine,” he said. And when I looked at him blankly, he added, “In case you run out of bullets.”

“Right,” I managed to murmur again.

The others had come up to join us now. Palmer pulled out a small backpack and tossed it to Jim. “Put that on. We’ll need it.” He turned to the girls. “Grab anything from the van that looks useful,” he told them. “The jungle’s not a fun place at night.”

I left them there to go back around the van and get my gun. My mind was a jumble of thoughts and feelings. I couldn’t sort them all out. I was thinking about the gun, I guess. My gun. And the spare magazine. Palmer was expecting more fighting, more shooting. And he was expecting me to be part of it. That meant I might have to kill someone else—maybe more than one person. The idea made something rise up into my throat, something that tasted ugly. But I swallowed it back down. I clenched my teeth. If that was the only way I could stay alive— if that was the only way I could keep my friends alive—then I was going to do it, I told myself. I had to.

I reached the back of the van. Took out the machine gun. For a second, I just held it in my hand and stared at it. I wished I was home playing video games. Make-believe violence is a lot more fun than the real kind.

I went back to join the others.

The engines were coming closer by the second. I couldn’t see the trucks yet, but they sounded really close and I thought they must already be heading down the side road. That meant they would be here any minute.

Palmer must have thought so too, because as soon as I stepped up to him, he said, “All right. Follow me.”

He started off across the airfield.

Meredith took Nicki by the arm. Nicki cried out as the thunder struck again—louder this time.

“Come on, Nicks,” Meredith said.

She struck off after Palmer, holding on to Nicki—and Nicki sort of stumbled along with her.

Jim followed them. I took a quick glance over my shoulder to see if I could spot the oncoming rebel trucks. There was still no sign of them. I hurried after the others.

The rain was falling harder now. The dirt of the field had turned to mud. It squelched up over my sneakers as I walked. I felt the cold and damp of it as it soaked into my socks. The sky was already nearly black with clouds and it seemed to grow blacker by the minute as the afternoon turned toward evening. The trees that bordered the airstrip were already growing dimmer in the fading light.

“The jungle’s not a fun place at night.”

Yeah, I was willing to bet that was true. As we neared the dense trees, I thought about all the stuff that might be hiding in there—all the creatures, I mean, ready to come out and start hunting as soon as darkness fell. As a rule, I’m not too fond of creatures. I mean, I like dogs a lot. We have a Labrador at home—Feller—getting old now, but generally a great guy. But the sort of creatures you are likely to find in a jungle— man-devouring snakes, crocodiles, and tigers immediately came to mind—don’t exactly make good pets. As I walked on, my imagination playing over the possibilities, I felt a sort of bubbling acid of fear in my stomach. Rebels who wanted to shoot me at my back, animals who wanted to eat me up ahead. But what was I going to do? What was there I could do? Nothing. So I kept walking.

Palmer reached the trees. He never hesitated. He just charged on and quickly disappeared from view into the heavy foliage. Meredith and Nicki went in next, then Jim. And finally, I reached the edge of the jungle.

From the outside—from the airstrip—it didn’t look like there was any path, but when I got close, I saw that there was. Brushing a humongous frond out of the way, I saw a narrow dirt trail that twisted between more humongous leaves and low bushes and the humped roots and outstretched branches of the surrounding trees. Palmer must’ve known the trail was there because he headed right for it and was now walking along quickly and surely. The others stumbled after him. I stumbled after them.

The thunder rolled again as we walked, and the rain hammered hard and loud against the roof of the jungle, rattling the thick covering of leaves. The water dribbled down from above in steady streams. It poured through my already dripping hair and soaked through my already soaking clothes. It was all pretty miserable.

We didn’t go far, though. Not far at all. After a few moments, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the airfield just disappearing from sight—and as soon as I looked forward again, I saw the others had stopped and were gathered right in front of me. When I reached them, I saw Palmer, holding up his hand to bring us to a halt.

He spoke softly, quickly. “Get low,” he said.

He gestured for us to get down. We all squatted. I felt the damp earth squeeze up around my ankles.

“Ew,” said Nicki.

“Ssh,” said Meredith, and Nicki was quiet.

Palmer listened—and so we all listened, crouched there, dripping and shivering in the rain.

The downpour was really loud here, thudding relentlessly on the leaf covering above us. At first, I thought it had drowned out the sounds of the engines, but then I realized, no, the engines had stopped. The next moment I made out a series of clunking noises. It was the trucks, I realized: the doors of the trucks opening and closing.

The rebels had reached the airstrip.

I heard a voice barking orders in Spanish.

Mendoza. My mouth formed the word, but I didn’t dare say it out loud.

Palmer was suddenly up and pushing past me. He didn’t say a word, just headed quickly back down the path, toward the airstrip, keeping his back bent, his head low. I hesitated for a second, uncertain. He hadn’t told me what to do. He hadn’t told anyone. But then it occurred to me, you know, that I was the only other one of us who had a gun. If Palmer got into trouble, if he had to fight, I might be able to help. That’s what I thought, anyway, so I decided to follow him.

I hurried down the path—imitating Palmer, bending over and keeping my head as low as I could. I retraced my steps until I found Palmer down on one knee, close to the edge of the jungle.

Weirdly, he seemed to be expecting me because without turning around, he held up his hand, gesturing me to stop, and then waved me down. So I went down, knelt down as he had. Instantly, the cold mud seeped through my jeans. Nicki was right: Ew.

Palmer peered through the trees and the falling rain so I did too. We were very close to the airfield. I could see it clearly through the gaps in the leaves. I could see two green trucks parked there now, one on either side of our black van. And I could see the crowd of armed rebels milling around in the storm. I counted a dozen of them and I noticed right away that one of them, just as I had thought, was Mendoza.

Unlike the others, the rebel leader was standing very still. Only his head moved as he turned it slowly to scan the edge of the jungle. He was looking off to our right but panning his eyes relentlessly in our direction.

Then he stopped—and he seemed to be looking right at us.

I caught my breath.

“Stay cool,” Palmer whispered.

Good advice. I wished I could take it. But my heart was pounding so hard I was afraid Mendoza might be able to hear it.

The rebel went on staring at us—that’s what it felt like he was doing, anyway. Then he started barking orders again.

“What’s he saying?” I whispered.

“He’s remembered this path. He knows we must’ve taken it.”

“Will they come searching for us?”

Palmer shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s gonna be dark soon. He doesn’t want to be out here in the jungle at night.”

Yeah, I know how he feels, I thought.

In answer to Mendoza’s shouts, two rebels had now gone running up to Palmer’s black van. One leaned inside the driver’s seat. A moment later the van’s hood popped open. The second rebel approached the hood. He unhooked a hand grenade from his belt.

I heard Palmer whisper a curse. “I’m still paying for that van,” he muttered.

Then Mendoza shouted something, which I’m pretty sure translated into, “Run!”

The second rebel pulled the pin of the grenade and tossed it under the van’s hood.

The rebels scattered, running off across the airfield in all directions. Mendoza, meanwhile, calmly walked away from the van, casually getting out of range just as the grenade exploded.

The noise of the blast was huge in the open field. An enormous fireball engulfed the van—a huge blossoming dome of orange flame rising into the gray rain and the black sky. If the van hadn’t been our last means of escape, it would’ve actually been kind of awesome to see. Even as it was, I knelt there mesmerized by the strange beauty of the vehicle’s fiery destruction.

It took a couple of seconds for the sound of the explosion to subside. Then Mendoza shouted again and waved his hand to get his gunmen to follow him. Toting their machine guns, they all gathered at once and started walking across the airfield. They were walking straight toward us.

Palmer was up in the next second. He pointed down the path.

“Here they come, kid,” he whispered sharply. “Time to go.”