From the moment we climbed into the SUV, he has been gushing over the vehicle. Exclaiming how soft the leather is, how smooth a ride the Mercedes is compared to what he has driven before. A smile plays along my lips as I observe the yearning expression on his face, I know he would love nothing more than to press the pedal to the metal and see what his new baby can do.
But like for me with the castle, practicality wins out for him. We have no idea what might lay around the next bend. Pushing the Mercedes to its limits is not worth ending up in a fiery crash. Either by colliding with another vehicle or a deer, which we have seen plenty of.
Suddenly there is a loud bang, and the car swerves wildly to the right; Colin barely avoids hitting a tree. He curses under his breath, so colorful, it would put a sailor to shame. The telltale noise of flapping rubber against asphalt lets us know that a tire went out, but Colin doesn't stop. Not until we hear two more bangs, and the vehicle becomes undrivable. The second we stop, four people with bandanas in front of their faces, holding machine guns, step out of the bushes.
Taking my cues from Colin, who silently shakes his head, I stay frozen in my seat. He gives my hand a squeeze before opening the door to the car. Since we don't have much choice, I follow his lead. With no weapons to defend ourselves against machine guns we are greatly outgunned and outnumbered.
"Halt." One of the bandana-wearing men holds up his hand.
Colin and I make it to the front of the car before stopping. "Wo seit ihr her?"
Despite Colin's declaration of having been to Germany before, I doubt his German language skills go beyond ordering a beer. I took German for a year in high school, but I don't even remember how to say hello.
"Don't shoot," Colin says, hands raised.
The four men look at each other. "You English?" One of them asks.
"American," I answer.
A cheer goes through the group of four; again, Colin and I exchange a confused glance with each other.
"You come to rescue us?" The one asking steps forward, pulls his bandana down, and I realize he is not a he, but a woman.
"Actually, we were hoping it would be the other way around." Colin puts his charm on full force.
They exchange uncomprehending glances with each other. "Too fast, too much." I hiss at him.
"Um, sorry, can you help us?" He asks, this time speaking slowly, too slowly. I sigh.
The one I assume is the leader steps forward. He signals the others to lower their guns as well. When he pulls his bandana down, I notice he's a good-looking guy, probably in his early thirties.
"Hi, I am Jochen." He introduces himself.
"Vivian." I step forward to shake his hand. His grip is firm.
"Colin." The men exchange handshakes.
Slowly the other three emerge, and Jochen points at them, "Erika, Stephan, and Karsten."
"Nice to meet you." Colin smiles.
"Are there more of you?" Jochen asks.
Colin shakes his head. "We got stranded, we're on our way to Moscow, to talk to the Russian President. We hope he'll take us back to Alaska."
"Die Russen?" Erika's eyes grow wide. "You are going to the Russians?"
Her hands play with her machine gun as if she is unsure if she wants to lift it again.
"Easy there, sweetheart. You know how to work this thing?" Colin is all charm, and I grind my teeth.
Jochen looks cautious. "What do you want with the Russians? They are enemies."
More rustling comes from the bushes. I throw a surreptitious glance towards it and catch a glimpse of light skin. Looks like more of Jochen's men are hiding in the foliage. I realize Colin knows that already, which is why he threw on his charm full force.
"The enemy are the aliens," I state somewhat incensed that people still think of each other as enemies, when we should be a united front against another species.
"Sure, sure." Jochen rubs his chin. After a second, he gives a signal, and about twenty other people, also armed to the teeth, emerge from the bushes.
"You guys some kind of militia?" Colin asks.
"Come with us; we talk on the way." Jochen invites.
Finally, everybody seems to lower their guns; they surround and stare curiously at us; I can hear whispered words like, Americans, Military, the rest of the words are lost to me since they're spoken in German. I hate to disappoint this ragtag group, but we're not exactly here to help them.
"How many of you are there?" I ask the leader.
Jochen must have either decided to trust us, or he's going to kill us later, but for the time being, he is jovial and friendly. Eager to share. "I have almost two-hundred people in my camp, mostly kids, though."
He leads us through a dense forest; it seems like we walk for miles before reaching a small clearing. Several tents and huts have been assembled haphazardly, reminding me of the refugee camp when we first arrived in Alaska.
Just like Jochen said, there are probably close to two-hundred people here; only around forty carry guns though, the rest isn't older than thirteen. Jochen's group seems friendly enough, judging by the small talk we made on the way. And there is no reason to assume any of the occupants at the camp will react any differently to our presence. We agreed Colin, and I would tell our story once we reach Jochen's camp, while they entertained us with theirs on the way here, which is pretty much the same as everybody else's.
Darkness is quickly approaching, and the camp's inhabitants have
