kid?”
“The Smurfs?”
“Smurfs.” Bronson stuck a forkful of steaming meat into his mouth. “Shit.”
After dinner they returned to the barracks. No one had to tell them to do so. Jason found his bunk and decided he’d sleep on the top-most mattress.
“Yo, Jay,” Bronson came over and settled into the bunk beneath him. “I’m a sleep down here.”
“Would either of you mind if I spent the night in this bunk?”
“Be my guest, A-Rod,” said Bronson. He’d come up with his nickname for Ahmed. Jason was just glad the man had stopped calling him Buford .
“Help yourself,” Jason affirmed. Ahmed sat down on a mattress across from them and began untying his sneakers.
One by one the others entered: the woman with the Israeli military tattoo; the quiet, pretty woman who’d been the object of Snork’s harassment earlier in the day; the man with what Bronson called crazy eyes; the unapproachable, stone-faced woman. Much as they had in the cavernous mess hall, they spread out in the same general area. The Israeli soldier settled closest to Jason and his two new friends, in a bunk directly across the aisle.
Bronson and Ahmed spoke quietly to one another while Jason lay on his mattress. He was waiting to hear the four men but they did not come in while he was awake.
Jason wondered about them. He’d known some special operators in Iraq, spooks. They never dressed like other soldiers. They were never armed like other soldiers. And they never acted like other soldiers. They seemed to follow their own rules and a lot of mystery and resentment surrounded them for it. Envy too, Jason had to admit. Those guys were considered the black-ops motherfuckers who got shit done.
Jason wondered if the four were spook types. He couldn’t imagine. The one called Snork seemed more a common thug than a highly trained special operative. They apparently all knew each other from outside this place. Jason figured it was best to have as little to do with them as possible.
After awhile, the lights in the ceiling dimmed and Jason lay listening to the gentle hum of the ventilation system. He turned over on his mattress and looked out across the barracks. The Israeli woman was under her blanket with her pillow over her head. The guy with the eyes was sitting up on his mattress several bunks away, his back to the support. Jason wondered if the man was going to sleep, if he was even tired. Maybe Bronson was right. Maybe the guy was crazy.
Bronson and Ahmed had both stopped talking beneath him. Jason didn’t need to look to know both were asleep.
Ahmed was probably correct about them being underground. Jason wondered if they were in the United States. Wherever here was, he was just glad to be here, away from that other place, away from…Best not to think about him, Jason told himself. He wanted to avoid nightmares.
He thought about his students. He’d taught for fifteen years. High School. High school was a cool age. They had one foot in adolescence and the other in adulthood. By the time they graduated they had hair on their faces, they had boobs, but they were still kids. He always thought about them that way too, kids . Fifteen years was long enough for a kid he’d taught when the kid was a senior to be in her thirties now. Jeez. Sometimes they stopped by to visit the school and see him. He was always surprised. He remembered them the way they looked in ninth or twelfth grade.
They always thanked him. Told him how much they’d learned from him. That he made history come alive, his passion for the subject. A few of them had gone on to become teachers themselves, one a PhD in History teaching in a university. That was cool. They’d rallied on his behalf when the school district moved to dismiss him, arguing that not everything could be quantified and not everything that could meant anything. They’d done what they could: letters, emails, showing up at board meetings. In the end, it hadn’t helped.
And then he thought about
Rachael Keogh
A. J. Cronin
Ronin Winters
Melanie Schuster
Tracy Wolff
T.A. Chase
John Fowles
Loki Renard
Allison Rios
Lorhainne Eckhart