Then Santiago called out from the darkness. “Zeller?”
“It’s Stantz,” I called back.
He found us and took a knee next to Zeller. “What the fuck?” he said. He too reached to take Zeller’s hands away from the wound, but he still resisted.
“Someone shot me,” Zeller said, turning to Santiago. “Stantz got him though.”
Santiago looked at me. “Where is he?”
I pointed in the direction of the compound, then told Santiago about the advancing Army and how we could meet them and find a medic if we just took the Humvee and found the road again.
“What happened to you back there?” asked Zeller. “We couldn’t find you.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I looked for you for a long time.”
“Let’s get him in the Humvee,” said Santiago. There were heat blisters from the blast all over Santiago’s face and hands, and his skin had been darkened by the smoke and soot.
We lifted Zeller together and carried him a few feet before we stumbled and fell. There was lots of blood, and he was too heavy for even the two of us. He wouldn’t let go of his wound, so we each reached under one of his arms and dragged him to the Humvee. We put him in the backseat.
“You drive,” said Santiago, and climbed into the back with Zeller to try and work on the wound.
I left the headlights off because I didn’t want any trouble. We needed to find help for Zeller. In the light of the stars and the moon, I tore off, heading in what I thought was the direction of the road.
As we drove, Santiago asked Zeller what he would do first when we got back to America.
Zeller said he wanted to sit in his shower for a few hours.
“That sounds good,” said Santiago.
We were lost in no time. It was our curse. All I could see in any direction was sand dunes and darkness. I followed flat stretches of the desert until encountering trees or gullies or dunes. When I felt sure that we were not in imminent danger, I turned on the headlights. As we drove, I imagined the Army tearing across the desert.
We bounced along violently for an hour or so, searching for the road. Each jolt brought a low moan from Zeller. The Humvee’s engine started smoking and the oil pressure dropped.
“You stupid fuck,” I said, cursing him under my breath. Why had he shot at me, and what was he doing with an AK-47? Once when I turned to look over my shoulder at the two of them, I saw Santiago whispering into Zeller’s ear. When Santiago saw me looking he paused.
After what seemed like hours, we drove over a small rise and I saw the dark of the ocean before us. The horizon was just beginning to show the first light of dawn.
“Turn right,” said Santiago from the back. “Just drive along the ocean toward the city. There has to be an advance party out here somewhere with a medic that can help him.”
I quickly found the road we’d been walking along before. I flew down it, hitting potholes without fear of land mines. Refugees heading north appeared at intervals and watched us as we sped past. One man waved his cap to us.
The Humvee’s engine finally cut off and the vehicle slowed until we rolled to a stop.
“He’s dead,” said Santiago.
“I know.” I stepped out of the Humvee.
I saw two adults and a child approaching us in the distance. It must have been a family.
I tossed my helmet into the driver’s seat and picked up my 9mm. Sand was blowing in off the desert. I stood there leaning against the hood of the Humvee, the 9mm at my side.
Then Santiago said softly, “I told him. I told him everything.”
“Told him what?”
“That you killed him,” he said. He was still sitting beside Zeller in the backseat.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.
“He didn’t know it was you,” Santiago said. “I heard him fire that AK, then it was a 9mm. I knew he’d lost his, which meant it had to be you.”
“You could have left it alone,” I said. “He didn’t need to know.”
“But I knew it was you,” he said, looking off into the distance.
“Why didn’t you just let him blame it on this place?” I said. “He fired at me with an AK-47. How was I supposed to know it was Zeller? And what was he doing out there anyway?” I leaned against the warm hood of the Humvee. “Where the fuck did he get an AK-47?”
“We stripped it from the dead,” Santiago said. “From those we killed on the road.”
“He could have called out before he fired,” I said. “He could have killed me. You didn’t have to tell him. He would have just blamed it on this place.”
“We made a mess of this whole thing,” said Santiago. “And I’m sick with it.”
The family walked by, eyeing us carefully. The man smiled, but the other two were more wary, and all three of them made a wide circle around us. Their bright clothes stood out against the dull tones of the desert.
Santiago wiped the blood on his hands on Zeller’s pants, and stepped out of the Humvee. I still had the 9mm in my hand. Santiago took his M-16 and slung it over his back. He felt to make sure that his 9mm was still in its holster. He was covered in dirt from head to toe. He was so far gone I didn’t even recognize him anymore.
Whitecaps spotted the ocean before us. I couldn’t feel a thing. It was almost as if I were watching the moment from above. I could see Zeller in the backseat, his head to the side as if he were waiting for another secret.
Santiago stepped in front of me. “There’s no forgiveness for something like that,” he said. There was something menacing in his voice.
“I’m going home,” I said, too tired to move anymore.
“We’ll never get
