Children of Paranoia (36 page)

“No. No. That's all right,” the kid spoke up in my defense. “I'm just trying to help a couple people out.” This time, he returned my gaze. He gave me a cold, hard stare, or as much of one as he could muster. As he stared at me, I saw in him something that I recognized. I recognized that fearlessness, that unbridled anger. “It's friendly country around here,” he continued. I don't know what the kid was thinking. Did he think he could outdraw me? Did he think this was the Old West? “Sometimes the hospitality just takes a while to get used to.” He turned to you and gave you a big smile. You returned his smile—that made me hate him even more.

“Well, I guess we can't pass up on hospitality like that,” I said. You turned around in your stool and gave me a quick hug. I hoped it wasn't the last. The kid didn't scare me. You scared me. I didn't know how you were going to react. Still, I tried. I gave the kid his out. He didn't take it. His loss. It was nearing nine o'clock in the evening. You and I had been sitting at that counter for nearly two hours. “I guess we'll settle up and go.” I looked down at the plate in front of you. You had burned through my burger and the rest of my fries. “You done with your meal, Eric?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “I just have to get the check.”

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “You found us a place to stay. The least we could do is buy you dinner.” I motioned for the cook to bring me our check and Eric's too. You seemed proud that I had suddenly recovered my manners. I didn't have the heart to tell you that none of it mattered. I wasn't being generous. I just figured that we'd have all of Eric's money by the time the night was through anyway. Robbing generally wasn't my style, but we needed the money. If I was going to have to take the kid out, there was no sense in letting his money go to waste.

“Thanks a lot, Joe,” the kid said. “I appreciate it.” I took both checks, left a couple of bucks on the counter, and paid at the cash register. I nodded at the kid again. This time I avoided eye contact. I didn't want to remember his face later. I wanted to forget what I was about to do even before I did it. It was time to venture back out into the storm.

We rushed out into the rain. I made sure that the kid ran to his car before we did. I didn't dare let either of us turn our backs to him. The kid had conveniently parked right next to us. Right out front. He was driving a little beat-up red car. The fenders were rusting. The car was probably only about seven years old, but someone had beaten the hell out of it. The kid probably bought it for a couple hundred bucks. The car had Ohio plates. Ohio plates was a good sign. Maybe he'd lucked upon us. Maybe he wasn't actually chasing us. Even so, if he'd found us, then other people, people with more experience, could definitely find us too.

Before he ducked his head into his car, the kid stood up and yelled back to us, “It's just a couple of turns. I'll drive slow so that you can keep up.” I waved in response as we stood under the awning of the little tin-roofed restaurant. What was he trying to do? Was he trying to lead us into an ambush? Or was he simply trying to take us out into a field where he thought he could get the jump on us? I couldn't figure out his angle. Maybe he didn't have an angle. Maybe he was just winging it. It didn't matter. He was all but dead anyway. Under different circumstances, I might have liked this kid. He had more heart than brains.

It took the kid three tries before his engine turned over. Once he had his engine running and had turned his headlights on, we ran to our car. You jumped in the passenger side and I slid in behind the wheel. I turned the keys in the ignition, flared on the lights, and pulled behind the kid as he drove out of the parking lot. I didn't say anything to you as we eased out into the rain-soaked road. The kid, good to his word, drove slowly so that we could follow him. I didn't even look at you as we made our first turn, right behind the kid. Every second, the world around us became more desolate. I could feel your eyes burning on me as I drove. I didn't dare turn toward you. I wasn't ready to face you yet.

“What's wrong, Joe?” you finally asked.

“You're not suspicious?” You should have been suspicious. If we were going to survive another two weeks, you needed to be suspicious.

“Suspicious of what?” you asked, incredulous.

“You're not the least bit suspicious?” I repeated, this time with more force.

“Of him? Of Eric? He's a kid, Joe. He's like nineteen.” You fought my anger with your own.

“Well, that would make him two years older than you.”

“Fuck you, Joe,” you answered. I tried to keep my cool.

“It's not an insult. I was about his age when I made my first kill. He's one of them. The kid is one of them.”

“What the fuck does that mean? He's trying to help us out, Joe.” I just shook my head. “How do you know that he's one of them?”

“I just know it. He didn't want to shake my hand. He hesitated.”

“I don't believe it.” You stared out through the rain. You didn't want to believe it.

“Yeah, well, watch.” I suddenly cut the wheel to the left, veering off the road onto a small dirt path. “If he didn't have any angle, do you think he'd follow us?”

“What are you doing, Joe?” you yelled. You turned in your seat to look back at the road, to watch the kid's headlights, to see if the kid was going to turn around and follow us.

“Are you going to believe me if he follows us?”

“Stop it, Joe!” you shouted. I drove up the path about five hundred yards and pulled the car off to the side of the dirt path.

“Are you going to believe me if he follows us?” I turned and asked again, staring at you. “Why would he follow us if he wasn't one of them?” You stared back at the road, watching the kid's headlights. He had stopped his car on the road. The car wasn't moving. He was assessing the situation. I looked at you. Your lips began to move. Even though no sound came out of your mouth, I could read your lips. You were saying over and over again, “Don't come. Don't come. Don't come.” I knew that it was useless. I reached into the backseat of the car and grabbed my duffel bag. I took the gun out of the duffel bag.

“What are you doing, Joe? What are you going to do?”

“He's one of them, Maria. He's one of them and he knows where we are. If we don't get rid of him, then the whole world is going to be all over us. He's got his out. If he doesn't follow us he's free. If he follows us, we don't have much choice.” Your eyes kept darting between the gun and the kid's car. Suddenly the kid jerked his car into reverse. He was coming to get us.

“There's always a choice, Joe,” you said. It was a last-ditch effort.

“That's a cliché, Maria. Sometimes other people make your choices for you. Sometimes you never get a chance.” I looked at you. I wanted you to know that this wasn't something I wanted to do. It was something I had to do. You weren't buying it.

“What if you're wrong? What if he's just being nice?” you asked. The kid slowly pulled his car up the little dirt path on which we'd parked. He stopped his car about fifteen feet behind us. Once he stopped his car, he flicked on his brights. The light was blinding. It was his first professional move. He could see us now and we couldn't see him.

“Buckle your seat belt,” I ordered.

“What?”

“Buckle your seat belt,” I replied. I buckled mine as if to show you how to do it, keeping the gun in my right hand as I did so. When you saw me do it, I think you realized I was serious, so you quickly buckled yours too. As soon as I heard your seat belt click into place, I put the car in reverse. Fifteen feet. In the mud. I had to hope it was enough room. Once locked into reverse, I slammed on the gas. The wheels turned in the mud a few times before catching a grip. Then, suddenly, the car jerked backward. I steered it straight into the light. We were moving at a pretty good clip by the time we rammed into the front of the kid's car. I hoped it was fast enough. The kid's car skidded backward in the mud. The front end of the car smashed in like a soda can. One of the headlights cracked and went out. The other simply dimmed, now shining crookedly off to the side, sending a glimmer of light across the rain-swept field.

I opened my car door and stepped out into the rain. I walked right over to the kid's car and pulled open the driver's side door. The impact was enough. His air bag had deployed. The kid was sitting in the front seat, still dazed from the impact of the air bag. A small trickle of blood leaked out of his lower lip. He didn't have his seat belt on. His backpack sat on the seat next to him, partially unzipped. He had been reaching for the backpack prior to the crash. He looked at me when I pulled the door open. His eyes looked lost. He wasn't able to focus them yet. I wasted no time. I grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him out of his car. I dragged him into the light radiating from his car's one working headlight and threw him down in the mud. Then I went back to his car. I didn't take my eyes off him. I pulled his backpack out and threw it down in the mud next to him. I stood over him, the light from the one working headlight shining on us like a spotlight. The rain cut through the light, throwing off shadows like a million tiny daggers. I pointed the gun down at the kid. He climbed to his knees and stared at me. He was finally coming to. His eyes refocused. He finally realized what was about to happen.

At first he didn't look at me. He just stared at the barrel of the gun. I knew his face but I couldn't figure out why. Then he looked up at me. He didn't flinch. He looked right into my eyes. I couldn't see fear; not yet, anyway. All I could see was hate and pain. The look on his face was the same as the looks on the faces of every sixteen-year-old kid I had ever taught about the War. It was the same face those kids wore when we first showed them that slide show of death and destruction. The fact that he was staring at his own death didn't change a thing.

I heard a car door slam. I knew that you'd gotten out of the car. I didn't know if you were running away or coming toward us. I didn't look up. I didn't take my eyes off the kid. I didn't want to face you, not until I had done what I had to do. I knew that if you ran away, you'd come back. I didn't know how you'd react if you stayed.

“Who are you?” I asked. It was killing me. Why did I recognize this kid?

“Fuck you,” he responded, staring at the gun as he spoke. I had no problem with that response. I respected it. Still, it wasn't helpful. I planted my left leg in the mud and kicked the kid as hard as I could in the gut. I heard a gasp when I did so but it didn't come from the kid. You'd stayed. I would have rather done this without you, but you were going to have to be introduced to violence sometime.

The kid had keeled over in the mud after I kicked him. He gasped for air, swallowing rain as he did so. That started a coughing fit. I waited from him to finish. When he did, he climbed back onto his knees defiantly.

“Who are you?” I asked again, leaning toward the kid, speaking more softly this time. He just glared at me. His eyes repeated his earlier words, but this time he saved his breath. “What? You think you're some sort of cowboy?” I yelled at him. “You thought you could lead us out here and you and I would have some sort of duel? Twelve paces at midnight? Is that what you thought? You're a fool, kid. You're going to die a fool.” The kid looked ashamed but he still didn't look scared. I stood up straight again and pointed the gun at the kid's head. I'd make it quick. “It didn't have to be this way, kid. You could have just left us alone. You could have run away. You could have kept driving. I wish you had.” I tensed my trigger finger, and started to pull. As if he'd rehearsed for this moment, the kid turned his head to the side so that the bullet wouldn't enter through his face.

“What are you doing, Joe?” Your voice suddenly cut through the sound of the beating rain. You thought that I'd been posturing. You thought it was a bluff, that I was acting. You didn't know that I didn't bluff. I wasn't planning on gambling with our lives. I eased up on the trigger. The kid looked up at you, through the falling rain. I didn't dare look at you. I kept my eyes on the kid. “What are you doing?”

“He's one of them, Maria.” I aimed the gun again. I didn't want you to talk me out of it. Killing him was the smart play.

“He's just a kid, Joe!” You were shouting. Your voice was laced with panic.

“No, he's not,” I replied. I looked at the kid again as I spoke. “He's a soldier. And he's a liability.” The kid glared up at me through the corner of his eyes as I spoke. Finally, there was something in his face besides hate. It was pride.

You suddenly turned to the kid and shouted, “Tell him! Tell him you don't know what he's talking about!” You were now pleading with both of us to simply stop it. Stop the madness. It was beyond us. The kid and I were in it together.

“Go ahead, kid. Tell me you don't know what I'm talking about,” I said to the kid. He shot me the glare again. I kept the gun pointed at his head and walked over to his backpack, lying in the mud, sopping up the rain. I picked up the backpack and reached inside. Just as I'd expected, the backpack was full of papers. Under the papers was a gun. I took the gun out and threw it away. I simply tossed it off the side. It quickly disappeared into the blackness. I couldn't even hear it land over the sound of the rain. It was as if nothing existed in the world outside of this small triangle of light given off by the car's smashed-in headlights. Like the gun, the rest of the world had disappeared.

I threw the backpack, now free of weapons, down on the ground next to the kid. “Show her what's in the backpack, Eric.” He looked up at me. He didn't move. I mustered up my meanest voice. “I know you're a proud kid and you ain't afraid of dying, but I'm not above killing you slowly. So show her what's in the fucking backpack.” Finally, the kid reached over to the backpack. He unzipped it, reached inside, took out a large stack of papers, and flipped them into the mud. There were pages and pages of printed material. Paragraph after paragraph full of details. From where we were standing, we couldn't read the words. I didn't need to. I knew what they said. I had seen this before. Along with the printed pages were pictures. Even from where you and I were standing, the pictures were clear. There were five or six pictures of me. Pictures with a goatee, pictures clean shaven, older pictures, and one picture that had to have been taken within the past three months. There was a picture of our car. The one we were standing behind. The picture clearly showed the Massachusetts license plates that we had ditched back in Pennsylvania. Then, to round it off, there were two pictures of you. The first appeared to be a blow-up of the picture from your college ID. You couldn't have been more than fifteen years old. You looked fifteen. You had grown up a lot in two years. The second was a more recent picture of you, standing in front of a lake next to an older man. The older man's arm was wrapped around your shoulders. It must have been your father. Whoever had gotten that picture got it from your family. They had been to your parents' home. I could hear the pace of your breathing increase as you stared at the pictures as they crinkled in the rain.