Santiago took a knee next to me and we looked at the map, retracing the path we took to the stadium and then trying to recreate our path from there to the hotel. The city looked so small on the map.
“It’s what, fifteen minutes east to west by car,” I said. “We could be back at the place where we picked up the van tonight.”
“Yeah,” Santiago said. “But they’re probably setting up roadblocks as we speak. They’ve probably blocked all the routes into and out of the city. We can’t move right now.” He looked at Cooper again. “We can’t even speak the language.”
Still watching from the door, Zeller asked, “How long will they wait there?”
“Two days,” Santiago said. “Maybe more.” He stood back up and resumed pacing the room.
I stood to stretch and to gather myself. All the windows were open, but still, it was absolutely stifling in the room. I found the rules of engagement printed on a notecard inside my Kevlar. I wanted to read them again, to see what it said about shooting children.
I’d heard of gangrene. I’d heard you could follow the path of an infection from the wound to the heart by looking at the veins, which turned a dark, horror-movie purple. I thought I could smell the wound as well, though it was hard to tell over the stench of the city. Poor Cooper just wasn’t responding.
“I don’t know,” I said, “it doesn’t look good.”
Santiago was looking at Cooper’s fingers. They were swollen and purple.
The room was unbearably hot. I longed for a breeze, to smell the ocean in the distance. The wind was coming in from the desert, but it brought no relief. There were dozens of flies in the room as well, and they weren’t shy. Dogs barked endlessly in the distance.
I looked at my compass briefly, then stood and walked to a window to see if I could make out the ocean. There was nothing but city as far as I could see, and it all looked to be covered by a film of yellow dirt. I went back to my corner.
Santiago tried the radio again, but to no avail. He pulled the batteries out and looked them over. They were brand new. He put them back in and clubbed the radio on its side.
“Sometimes that works,” he said, hitting it again. He stood and lifted the radio above his head for a moment, but then lowered it to the floor next to his gear.
The bolt in my M-16 was filthy with sand. I broke the weapon down and took out my cleaning kit. I thought of how the weapon had locked up, just when I needed it most. “I’m going to go ask the owner about a car,” Santiago said. “We’ve got to get out of the city. It’ll get worse before it gets better, and I don’t think Cooper can wait. You two stay here.”
When Santiago left, Zeller spoke up. “Where will we go?”
“Anywhere but here,” I said.
“At least he listens to you,” he replied.
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Do you believe him?” he asked.
“Believe what?”
“That we need to wait. Cooper’s going to die if we don’t move.”
“Santiago’s right,” I said.
Zeller let it go. “How far away do you think the Army is right now, or at least those who are looking for us?”
“I don’t know, a couple hours,” I said. “I haven’t heard any helicopters.”
I went back to my weapon, looking up every now and then at Zeller. He was staring at the ceiling. I wondered if he had a better chance of making it alone in the city because he was black. I was white, Santiago was Hispanic, and Cooper was dying.
I finished cleaning my M-16 and put a light coat of oil on the bolt and assembly before closing it up. When I locked it back together, I made sure the safety was on before chambering a round.
Zeller was still staring at the ceiling. I wondered if he was as tired as me. “You can sleep for a while,” I said. “I’ll watch the door.”
“Too tired to sleep,” he said. Zeller was from Tupelo, Mississippi. He’d been recruited to play football at a number of schools in the south, but Zeller had the misfortune of being from a family that valued military service over college. Serving in the military was an obligation in his family. In fact, he needed an honorable discharge from the Army in order to stay in his grandfather’s will.
Zeller was almost as tall as Santiago, and he probably weighed about as much, but unlike Santiago, Zeller hated work. And he loved smoking cigarettes. When we were still at Fort Drum in New York, I would often hear him wake up in the middle of the night, and I’d turn to see him sit straight up in bed, light a cigarette and smoke it, his eyes still closed in sleep.
Santiago had been gone for more than half an hour when I started to worry. I hadn’t heard anything suspicious or troubling, which led me to think that maybe he’d left us behind. It would be dark soon. Sunday night.
“I heard they hate us here,” Zeller said. “Black Americans.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s what James at HQ told me.” He took out a cigarette and lit it. “I kind of wanted to ask one of them when I got the chance.”
“Well, this is your chance,” I said.
He smiled and tossed me a cigarette.
“Probably just a rumor,” I said. “Besides, what does James know?” He was quiet for a long time, and then I said, “Do you think they’d like me?”
Zeller smiled. “The motherland,” he said. “That’s what Coop said when we left for this place. He said Africa’s the motherland and we’re going back home.” He stared at his boots and picked at one of
