paid for a week's worth of food in his village.
“Really? A big city like New York? Ever lived in a big city?”
“I've always lived in a tiny village or small town. And I've always hated it.”
Tarik was quiet for a while. Finally he said, “I think a lot about the south of Europe. Somewhere warm. A medium sized city. Porto. Grenada. Marseille.”
“Sounds nice. You should go, when the war's over. You're going to survive.”
“And you're not?”
Luka shrugged.
After their mid-day rest, they picked up the same rigorous pace, Luka struggling to keep up. But an hour or so later, Tarik eased up a little. He seemed watchful. Uncertain. And Tarik's uncertainty gave Luka a stomachache. Another hour passed, and from the fringe of the woods, in the distance Luka could make out the gray roofs of a small village. Tarik kept moving forward, cautiously picking his way between the trees, halting and gesturing for Luka to stop every few minutes, as if he were listening for movement. Finally Tarik gestured, and Luka shrugged off the rucksack and slumped it against the trunk of a tree. Already feeling the evening chill seeping through his sweat-damp clothes, Luka started gathering wood for a fire.
“No fire. We're not making camp here. We'll get going again after it's dark.”
What the hell had Tarik so wound up? There were no signs of any troops—Eršban or Bokan. Probably the only people left in that pathetic little village that didn't look so different from his own, were mothers with little children, and the few who were too old or too broken to fight.
What were they fighting over, anyway? Here he was, probably three hundred kilometers into enemy territory, and now that they were out of the strange barrenness of the stony plain, it looked exactly like home. When he'd seen a few of the pirated broadcasts from Eršba, the Bokan rebel leader, Kadryov, sounded exactly like President Zivković . Just change the names, and it would be the same stupid speech. And here they all were, ready to kill each other. Ready to die, trying to kill each other.
Tarik split the last of the cured beef with him. They sat there another hour, waiting for it to get dark. Then Tarik rummaged around in his rucksack, and got to his feet. “Come here.”
A cold weight dropped in Luka's gut. He hadn't realized, he'd almost stopped being afraid of Tarik. But there was something not right about the tone of Tarik's voice, and the fear was back, icy adrenaline pumping into his veins with every heartbeat.
“Luka.” Tarik's voice was cold and hard.
Light-headed, Luka stood up and took a step toward Tarik.
In the dark, Luka could barely make out what Tarik was holding in his hand. The coil of cord. “Don't be scared. I won't let anything happen to you. But I have to tie your hands. I'm sorry. Once we're in, I'll untie you. I promise.”
When Tarik took hold of his arm, a jolt of terror shot through his body. He took off running. Away from Tarik. Away from that village that made Tarik afraid, and looked too much like where Luka'd grown up, where he'd learned how quickly and haphazardly love could turn to fear and sadness and distance.
Grasping claws raking his back. Like a bear. But it was Tarik. Tarik yanking him off his feet. Tarik on top of him. Tarik wrenching his arm back.
“I'll tie the cord over your sleeves so it doesn't cut into your wrists.”
Liar. Faker. Giving him food. Talking about portals that go to nice places from pictures in magazines. All that just so he could turn him over to his Lieutenant and get a slap on the back for bringing them a POW? And he'd been a gullible moron, thinking just because Tarik fed him and talked to him, that he wouldn't hurt him.
A murky, sickening shadow slid over the POW theory. That's not what this was. This was something stranger. Uglier. Scarier. Something that had nothing to do with the rules of war. Maybe the village was starving. Maybe Tarik was going to sell him.
Tarik finished tying his arms
“Really? A big city like New York? Ever lived in a big city?”
“I've always lived in a tiny village or small town. And I've always hated it.”
Tarik was quiet for a while. Finally he said, “I think a lot about the south of Europe. Somewhere warm. A medium sized city. Porto. Grenada. Marseille.”
“Sounds nice. You should go, when the war's over. You're going to survive.”
“And you're not?”
Luka shrugged.
After their mid-day rest, they picked up the same rigorous pace, Luka struggling to keep up. But an hour or so later, Tarik eased up a little. He seemed watchful. Uncertain. And Tarik's uncertainty gave Luka a stomachache. Another hour passed, and from the fringe of the woods, in the distance Luka could make out the gray roofs of a small village. Tarik kept moving forward, cautiously picking his way between the trees, halting and gesturing for Luka to stop every few minutes, as if he were listening for movement. Finally Tarik gestured, and Luka shrugged off the rucksack and slumped it against the trunk of a tree. Already feeling the evening chill seeping through his sweat-damp clothes, Luka started gathering wood for a fire.
“No fire. We're not making camp here. We'll get going again after it's dark.”
What the hell had Tarik so wound up? There were no signs of any troops—Eršban or Bokan. Probably the only people left in that pathetic little village that didn't look so different from his own, were mothers with little children, and the few who were too old or too broken to fight.
What were they fighting over, anyway? Here he was, probably three hundred kilometers into enemy territory, and now that they were out of the strange barrenness of the stony plain, it looked exactly like home. When he'd seen a few of the pirated broadcasts from Eršba, the Bokan rebel leader, Kadryov, sounded exactly like President Zivković . Just change the names, and it would be the same stupid speech. And here they all were, ready to kill each other. Ready to die, trying to kill each other.
Tarik split the last of the cured beef with him. They sat there another hour, waiting for it to get dark. Then Tarik rummaged around in his rucksack, and got to his feet. “Come here.”
A cold weight dropped in Luka's gut. He hadn't realized, he'd almost stopped being afraid of Tarik. But there was something not right about the tone of Tarik's voice, and the fear was back, icy adrenaline pumping into his veins with every heartbeat.
“Luka.” Tarik's voice was cold and hard.
Light-headed, Luka stood up and took a step toward Tarik.
In the dark, Luka could barely make out what Tarik was holding in his hand. The coil of cord. “Don't be scared. I won't let anything happen to you. But I have to tie your hands. I'm sorry. Once we're in, I'll untie you. I promise.”
When Tarik took hold of his arm, a jolt of terror shot through his body. He took off running. Away from Tarik. Away from that village that made Tarik afraid, and looked too much like where Luka'd grown up, where he'd learned how quickly and haphazardly love could turn to fear and sadness and distance.
Grasping claws raking his back. Like a bear. But it was Tarik. Tarik yanking him off his feet. Tarik on top of him. Tarik wrenching his arm back.
“I'll tie the cord over your sleeves so it doesn't cut into your wrists.”
Liar. Faker. Giving him food. Talking about portals that go to nice places from pictures in magazines. All that just so he could turn him over to his Lieutenant and get a slap on the back for bringing them a POW? And he'd been a gullible moron, thinking just because Tarik fed him and talked to him, that he wouldn't hurt him.
A murky, sickening shadow slid over the POW theory. That's not what this was. This was something stranger. Uglier. Scarier. Something that had nothing to do with the rules of war. Maybe the village was starving. Maybe Tarik was going to sell him.
Tarik finished tying his arms
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