If We Survive

CHAPTER SIX

When I saw him—when I saw the look on his face—the light of triumph in his eyes—I felt as if a hand were closing on my throat. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t swallow. I could barely breathe.

This can’t be happening. Not to me.

Then two more gunmen entered behind him. The two already in the cantina—the ones guarding the exits—moved to join them. The four men flanked Mendoza, two on either side, holding their machine guns up at their chests at the ready. As Mendoza slowly moved his gaze over the room, over our faces, the gunmen’s eyes moved right along with his.

Is this it? I thought. Are they just going to do this? Are they just going to start shooting us? Right here? Right now?

An image flashed through my mind: a policeman coming to my house… telling my mother that I had been killed… the shock and grief on her face… It was an unbearable idea.

I could still hear shooting and shouting out in the streets beyond the cantina door. A figure running by the window sometimes. But in here, there was only stillness, silence. Mendoza seemed to study each of us—one frightened, staring face after another. Some of the villagers seemed to shrink under his gaze, as if they hoped they could disappear from in front of him.

Mendoza let out a short, sharp order. Nicki gasped and started in her chair. I felt myself stiffen too, afraid that he had just commanded the gunmen to kill us all.

But no. His next words were in English.

“Everyone out but the Americans. The Americans stay.”

He didn’t have to tell the villagers twice. Even before he translated, the cantina was loud with the scraping of their chairs and the rumble of their footsteps as they bolted from their seats and rushed to the front door. One of the gunmen held the door open for them, grinning sadistically at their fearful faces as they raced to get out of there, to get away from Mendoza. As they f led into the streets, we heard more shooting outside and more shouting. The rebels celebrating their victory and lording their power over the villagers.

Finally, all of the locals were gone from the cantina. The only people left were we Americans, Mendoza, and his four gunmen.

In the quiet, Mendoza went on studying each of our faces. I saw his mouth curl underneath his mustache as, finally, his eyes came to rest on Palmer Dunn.

“Well, Señor Dunn,” he said. “It is over, yes? The army is finished. The capital is ours. The question is settled.”

Palmer regarded the rebel coolly. He nodded. “It looks that way.”

“You hold out hope? You think your American spies will bother us now? Or your fellow Marines?”

“They’re not my fellow Marines. I told you.”

Mendoza ignored this. He went on. “That was many years ago, after all, you know. The Cold War is over now. Your country has no Soviet Union to worry about anymore. So who cares if the people of a tiny Central American country choose a government that treats them with justice?”

To my surprise, Palmer grinned. A great big grin, as if he thought this whole thing were just some kind of joke.

“Is that what’s happening?” he asked.

“Yes! Yes! It is!” This was Jim. Still on his feet. His eyes urgent. He turned to Mendoza. “He doesn’t get it, Señor Mendoza—but I do!” he said. “We talked about this earlier— out in the field—don’t you remember? I agree with you! With your cause! I support what you’re trying to do, I just—”

“Shut up,” Mendoza said to him.

Jim looked surprised. “No, I’m just trying to say—”

“Shut up,” Mendoza said again.

He gestured. One of the gunmen stepped up to Jim. I held my breath in fear. Nicki let out another gasp.

But the gunman only pressed the butt of his machine gun into Jim’s chest and shoved him with it.

Jim staggered backward. The back of his legs hit the edge of his chair. He sat down into the chair, hard. The gunman stood over him, scowling down at him. Jim stared up at him, frightened into silence.

The exchange had turned Mendoza’s attention toward our table—and his eyes fell on Meredith again. I could see something spark in his gaze, some unfinished business, some unexpressed rage.

The rebel leader hooked his thumbs in the sides of his belt—an arrogant posture—and came swaggering toward where Meredith was sitting. He moved past me as he went, casually knocking me aside with one elbow.

“Ah, yes,” he said, looking down at Meredith. “The deaf girl. The one who cannot hear the orders that I give to her.”

Meredith lifted her face to him where she sat. “I hear you very plainly, Señor Mendoza,” she said.

“Oh? Oh yes?” said Mendoza. He looked around at his gunmen and gave them a laugh, and they laughed with him, sharing the hilarity. “You hear me but you do not obey my commands? Is that it?”

Meredith went on looking up at him, but she didn’t answer.

Mendoza reached down and put his hand under her chin— an affectionate gesture a guy might make toward his girlfriend, only she wasn’t his girlfriend and it wasn’t affectionate at all.

“I am asking you a question, señorita…”

“Please take your hands off me, Señor Mendoza,” Meredith said.

Mendoza hesitated—but he didn’t take his hand off her. Instead he shifted it from her chin to her cheek. He stroked her cheek with one finger.

“I am afraid you do not fully understand the situation you are in,” he said to her.

“I understand,” said Meredith. “Please take your hands off me.”

I held my breath as I stood there watching them. I can hardly describe what I felt. I was afraid. I don’t mind admitting it. I thought they were going to kill us and I didn’t want to die and I was afraid. But at the same time, I wanted to knock Mendoza down—I wanted to so bad, so bad. It made me sick in my heart to see him treating Meredith like this, taunting her and trying to humiliate her like this. And to just stand there, helpless to stop him—that was the worst— almost worse than the fear of dying—to stand there with all those guns around me and not be able to do anything to help her…

Mendoza went right on stroking her cheek as if he hadn’t heard what she said. He looked around at his gunmen. Laughed as if to ask them: Can you believe this woman? I could tell he had no intention of letting Meredith boss him around—certainly not while his men were watching him.

Now, he took his finger from her cheek and crouched down in front of her. He reached out to take her hand, which was lying in her lap. I saw Meredith try to pull her hand away, but Mendoza caught it in both of his hands and held it. Crouched down like that, his eyes were level with hers. He held her hand and looked into her eyes.

“Dear girl,” he said quietly—almost gently. “I have to tell this to you: you are in terrible danger here. Do you understand this?”

“Yes,” said Meredith. In the quiet cantina, her clear, ringing voice was startlingly steady and calm. “I understand completely.”

“These are very violent times in my country, very dangerous times. At times like these, life becomes very cheap. A person can disappear very easily, causing much grief to everyone who knows them. You understand?”

Meredith didn’t answer but only gazed at him, her face stony, expressionless, as he went on holding her hand in both of his.

And I watched the two of them. Everything inside me wanted to stand up for her, but I knew if I did, I would get myself badly hurt, maybe worse. I hated myself for being a coward, but I just couldn’t bring myself to speak up or move.

“On the other hand,” Mendoza went on, “there is a hope. A possibility. For a woman like yourself, an attractive woman. You might be able to make a friend, you know? A powerful friend who can protect you in times of need.” He smiled at her. “Señorita,” he said in a tone of appeal. “There is no reason for this animosity between us when instead you could improve your situation very greatly by showing me the kind of affection you—”

Meredith spit in his face.

The shock of it. Man oh man! It was as if a lightning bolt had gone through the room. It was as if a lightning bolt had gone through me—pierced me head-to-toe in a single instant like a spear hurled down from heaven. I could hardly believe what I’d seen, could hardly believe that Meredith would do it—and would do it here, now, when it was sure to bring misery and pain down on her like an avalanche.

But it was real. It really happened. She spit sharply right in Mendoza’s eye—and he was so startled, he let go of her hand and fell back out of his crouch, dropped down—bang—onto his backside on the floor.

Instantly, he scrabbled up. Leapt to his feet. His rugged face was dark with fury as he wiped the spit off it with the heel of his palm. There was this moment then—this moment captured like a snapshot in my memory—when he stood there looming over Meredith like some enormous storm and she sat looking up at him, with her eyes as clear as ever, her face as calm, as if nothing he did could have any effect on her whatsoever.

Then Mendoza barked out a word in Spanish—a word I didn’t know—some curse word, I’m sure. And with a growl of rage, he drew back his hand to slap her.

I grabbed his arm. I didn’t know I was going to do it. I didn’t even think about it. I just leapt forward and grabbed hold of his wrist with both my hands to hold him back.

It was the first time I’d ever heard a note of fear enter Meredith’s voice. “No, Will, don’t!” she cried out.

But it was too late. One of Mendoza’s gunmen smacked me in the face with the butt of his machine gun.

No one had ever hit me before, not ever. It was awful. An awful feeling. A jarring trauma through my whole body. It drove out everything, every other thought. I went stumbling backward helplessly, and the next moment the gunman—or maybe another gunman, I don’t know—hit me again, driving the machine-gun butt into my stomach, knocking the air out of me.

I tumbled sideways to the floor, another shock going through my body as I hit. Someone screamed—Nicki, I guess. A chair scraped. I heard Pastor Ron say, “No more—please!”

Clutching my stomach, groaning, I looked up and saw Mendoza. From that angle, he seemed enormous, a looming tower of pure rage. His face contorted in fury. He had already wiped the spit off himself, but he did it again and then again, as if it were stuck on him and he couldn’t get it off.

Then he let out a roar and he kicked me.

I tried to protect myself, covering myself with my arms, but the tip of his heavy boot drove into my gut and then pulled back and drove into my forehead. I felt a double explosion of pain, saw a double explosion of light and then sparkling darkness. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t think about anything except how much I hoped this would stop, how I would do anything—say anything—to make it stop.

When I managed to look again, tears blurred my vision. I saw Mendoza. I saw him pull the pistol from his holster. He was going to shoot me where I lay.

A new prayer flashed through my mind: Please be with me, God. I was pretty sure I was about to be making that request face-to-face.

But just then Meredith jumped to her feet. She made a move to rush to me where I was lying on the floor. I think she was going to throw herself between me and the bullet. But she never got the chance. Instead of shooting me, Mendoza pulled his pistol back as if he were going to smack her in the head with it.

This time it was Pastor Ron who stopped him. He got between him and Meredith and grabbed Meredith by the shoulders. He pushed her away from me and away from Mendoza. He settled her back into her chair, murmuring something to her I couldn’t hear.

Breathing hard, the pistol still lifted in his hand, Mendoza turned back to me. I could see he was wild with rage. He still didn’t shoot me, though. He turned away. He started stalking around the room, stomping here and there as if he weren’t sure which way to go. He started shouting at everyone, turning from side to side.

“Is there someone else? Eh? Someone else who wishes to defy me? Do you want to see what happens? Do you want to have a conversation about it? You will have a conversation with a bullet, I tell you. Who wants to?”

He stopped. His back was to me. He seemed to have settled on a target for his wrath.

“What about you, Señor Dunn?” he asked. “Do you have something to say to me? Eh? What do you have to say?”

There was a pause. I couldn’t see Palmer from where I was lying. I couldn’t really see anyone, curled up on the floor as I was with my arms wrapped around my throbbing stomach and blood dripping down from my forehead into my eye. But I heard Palmer’s voice, all right. He sounded—well, he sounded exactly the same as he sounded before. It was exasperating. He still was all cool and comical—as if he didn’t have a care in the world—definitely as if he didn’t care about what happened to me or Meredith or any of the others.

“You’re a tough guy, Mendoza,” he drawled in that sardonic way of his. “For a minute there, I wasn’t sure you and your four gunmen were going to be able to take that teenager. But you took him, all right. You surely did. Mucho macho, amigo. I salute you.”

I managed to lift my head up from the floor a little and got a better look at Mendoza where he was standing in the center of the cantina, facing Palmer, his back to me, his gun hand by his side. I saw his shoulders rise and fall as he breathed heavily in his rage.

Then he looked around him. He seemed to be at a loss—not knowing whom he should scream at next. Then he waved his gun in the air and shouted orders in Spanish.

Every time he did that, my guts turned to water: I didn’t understand the words. He could have been saying, Open fire or Kill them all. I didn’t know whether in the next moment the gunmen would spray the room with bullets.

But no—not yet.

Someone—one of the gunmen—grabbed the back of my collar. I felt myself choking as he pulled up on me, trying to haul me to my feet. I worked desperately to get my legs under me before he strangled me. My legs were weak and wobbly— but somehow I managed to stand.

The gunman who had me in his grip gave me a hard push. I stumbled across the room toward the bar where Palmer was standing. I staggered into the bar and hurt, dazed, dizzy, I started to fall again. Palmer grabbed my arm roughly and steadied me on my feet.

Breathing hard, leaning against the bar, I looked around and saw the others: Pastor Ron and Meredith and Nicki and Jim. The gunmen were standing over them, shouting at them, waving their machine guns in their faces, forcing all of them out of their chairs to their feet.

Now they were prodding them with their gun barrels, herding them toward the bar, toward where I was standing with Palmer. My head thick with pain and my eyes still blurring with tears, I saw my friends’ faces as they hurried in front of the relentless guns. Nicki was weeping, her legs so weak under her she could barely walk. Meredith stood uncannily straight, her face uncannily still as she kept her arm around Nicki’s shoulders, holding her as steady as she could as they were both jostled forward. Pastor Ron seemed dazed, in shock, his face blank, his eyes blinking rapidly behind his glasses as he stumbled toward me. Jim had his hands up in the air like a guy being robbed. He kept saying, “Okay, okay, I get it,” as the gunmen pushed and prodded him—pushed and prodded all of them—with the barrels of their weapons.

Finally, we were all huddled together against the bar. Again, I thought this might be it, might be the end. I stood there helpless and dazed and bent over in pain, waiting for the gunfire to begin. I prayed God would comfort my parents, but I didn’t know how much comfort they would ever find.

Mendoza stood in the center of the cantina and looked at us—a black look, his eyes murderous.

“Lock them up!” he shouted.