If We Survive

  “What’s the one thing you’ve missed most?” Pastor Ron asked us. I think he was trying to start a friendlier conversation— you know, trying to keep Jim and Nicki from getting into some kind of brawl.

  “What do I miss? I miss civilization,” said Nicki immediately. “Which I define as any place where people have more than one change of clothes.”

  “For crying out loud—” Jim started to say.

  I cut him off, saying, “I miss my Xbox. I was right in the middle of the new Gears of War when we left. And my mom wouldn’t let me bring my Zune. She said it was ‘inappropriate.’ What does that even mean?”

  “I have to admit, I do kind of miss a working cell phone,” said Pastor Ron wistfully.

  “My cell phone! Puleeze! The first thing I’m going to do when we get to Santa Maria is call every single human being I’ve ever met,” Nicki cried.

  “What about you, Meredith?” Rob asked.

  And we all turned to her—because everyone always did that when she talked. Everyone always listened to whatever she had to say.

  Meredith smiled. “That bath Nicki mentioned—that did sound good.”

  “Jim?” asked Pastor Ron.

  Everyone turned to him. And you just knew—knew— he wasn’t going to say anything that might make it sound like home was a good place. He shrugged. Knocked back his Coke so that the ice rattled. “I miss my books, I guess,” he said, as if the whole idea bored him.

  “Amigos, amigos!” This was Carlos, the waiter. He had come to our table and was standing over us, one hand resting on Pastor Ron’s shoulder and another on Meredith’s. “We are all very sorry to see you go.” He then rattled off something in Spanish that I didn’t understand. I guess it was something flattering about the girls because Meredith smiled up at him and murmured, “You’re too kind, señor.”

  Well, that was all the encouragement Carlos needed. He started rattling away again and though I couldn’t tell exactly what he was saying, I could tell it was something flowery and complimentary because first Meredith laughed and then Nicki rolled her eyes and said, “This dude is such a player!”

  Carlos smiled at her and then wagged his finger at me. “You are paying attention, señor, yes? Now you learn: this is how you talk to the ladies so you will always have many beautiful girlfriends.”

  “Thanks for the pointers,” I told him.

  He winked at me.

  Finally, giving Pastor Ron and Meredith each a friendly pat on the shoulder, Carlos asked, “Well . . . can I get you more drinks?”

  “I don’t think so, Carlos, gracias,” said Pastor Ron. “Our driver should be here any minute.”

  “Well then, my friends, I will only tell you: go with God, yes?” And with that, Carlos wandered off to another table.

  “All right,” I said. “Now someone has to explain to me what he was saying. So I can learn how to talk to the ladies and have many beautiful girlfriends.”

  Nicki said, “If you talk to the ladies like that, you’ll end up with many beautiful fat lips, believe me.”

  “Oh, now, I thought he was very chivalrous,” said Meredith with a laugh.

  “Chivalrous—that’s a good thing, right?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Meredith.

  “Whatever,” said Nicki. “Play-uh.”

  Then, with a sudden bang, the cantina door swung open—and Palmer Dunn walked in.

  That’s one more person I have to tell you about: Palmer. I didn’t like Palmer very much. I don’t think anyone did, not in our group, anyway. He was our driver—and our pilot. A week ago, he had flown us here from Santa Maria. It was a terrifying flight, all of us crammed into his tiny Cessna, thunderstorms tossing us around every five minutes. Then the landing: bouncing down onto an airfield that was nothing more than a strip of packed dirt on a flat plain of grass. And afterward, more sickening bumps as he drove us in his black van over jungle roads here to Santiago. Now he was here again to drive us to his plane and fly us back to the capital. I don’t think anyone was much looking forward to the trip.

  I’m not sure exactly what it was about the guy that bugged me so much. There was just something dark about him. He was an American, like us—older, but still young—maybe twenty-five. Tall and lean and muscular in his jeans and black T-shirt. He had sandy hair and a day’s growth of stubble on a rough-looking serious face—serious, that is, except for his eyes. He had pale green eyes that always seemed to be laughing at you, laughing at everyone.

  But let me try to clarify what it was about him that I didn’t like. I didn’t like the way he talked to us, quiet and droll and mocking, as if we were too stupid to be worth his time. I didn’t like the way he looked at Meredith and Nicki when he first saw them, his eyes going up and down them slowly, his lips curled into a smirk. I didn’t like the way he snorted laughter at Jim when the bumpy plane ride turned his face a sickly green. I didn’t like the way he swaggered when he walked, his whole air of arrogance. And, maybe more than anything, I didn’t like the fact that he frightened me. He was tough. You could tell just by looking at him. And I knew if we ever got into any kind of a fight, he would be able to pound me into the ground without even getting out of breath.

  Just look at the way he was when he walked into the cantina. He glanced over at us in our corner and lifted his chin—just a little, almost imperceptibly, at Pastor Ron—just to let us know that he saw us, that he knew we were there. Didn’t say hello. Didn’t come over to talk. Just lifted his chin and then walked right by us to the bar.

  Pastor Ron called after him in a friendly voice as he passed by. “Would you care to join us for a Coke, Palmer?”

  Palmer didn’t even answer him. Not a word. He stood at the bar. There was an old lady behind it, serving drinks. She came over to him.

  “Cerveza,” Palmer said. A beer.

  Pastor Ron was twisted around in his chair, still looking at Palmer as if he expected an answer to his invitation. I could tell he wasn’t happy with the way Palmer ignored him. He went on watching as the old woman set a bottle of beer on the bar in front of Palmer.

  “I hope you’re not going to have too many of those before you pilot your plane,” said Pastor Ron—still trying to sound more friendly than concerned.

  Palmer’s only answer: he turned to us, lifted the beer bottle in a sort of toast, watching us with his mocking eyes. Then he knocked back a slug and turned back to the bar, raising his gaze to watch the soccer game on the TV while he drank.

  Pastor Ron sat twisted around in his chair another moment, as if still hoping for a better answer. Then, finally, he turned back to us. I could tell he was put out and embarrassed by the way Palmer treated him.

  “Considering how rough the plane ride over was, I can’t help thinking a drunken pilot won’t help much,” he said.

  “No kidding,” said Jim—and I could tell he was really worried about it.

  “If he kills us before I get my bath, I will never speak to him again,” said Nicki. “Ever.”

  I laughed. “That’ll teach him.”

  “Don’t worry, Jim,” said Meredith. She reached across the table and touched Jim’s hand. She could see he was afraid of the upcoming plane flight as well as I could. “I have a feeling Palmer could fly that plane safely in his sleep.”

  Jim took a deep, unsteady breath. “Yeah, well, I hope you’re right because it looks like—”

  And that’s when it happened. Just like that, out of nowhere. The door to the cantina opened again—I didn’t see it, I only realized later I had heard it.

  And then the cantina—the world—our lives—exploded in a single gunshot—and I turned to see Mendoza holding the smoking pistol while Carlos the waiter tumbled down to the floor and died.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Then everything happened like I said before: the thundering footsteps, the armed men charging in and flooding the cantina, lining the walls, blocking the exits, blocking the stairs. A woman started to scream, then stopped. It was Nicki, her hand cover
ing her mouth, her eyes starting to glisten with tears. The people at the other tables leapt to their feet. The men at the bar froze. The whole cantina went weirdly quiet—silent, except for the faint hiss of cheering coming from the soccer game on the TV.

  And then I heard someone, a man, speak two words in a low whisper, his voice trembling with fear.

  “Los Volcanes,” he said.

  The Volcanoes.

  Then it was over. Really, it all took no more than a second. Carlos was dead on the floor and the rest of us were completely surrounded by grim-faced men with machine guns. We were totally trapped before any of us could even react.

  And then someone did react: Meredith.

  She got up out of her chair. My hand went out to stop her, but too late. She was already moving quickly across the room toward Carlos.

  Mendoza caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned to Meredith quickly, fiercely, his craggy face pulled tight in a dangerous frown.

  “Sit down, señorita!” he barked. “Don’t go near him!”

  Meredith ignored him—totally. She didn’t even look at him. She didn’t even pause. I sat there helplessly, as if nailed to my chair. My guts twisted as I watched her hurry to Carlos’s side and kneel down beside him. She put her hand on the waiter’s neck, searching for a pulse.

  “I said sit down!” Mendoza shouted. His deep, rough voice seemed to make the walls shake.

  And still, Meredith paid absolutely zero attention to him. As I watched—as all of us, even the gunmen watched—she knelt there pressing her fingers into the fallen man’s neck for what seemed like a long, long time.

  Then she looked up at Mendoza. Her face was calm and still, her eyes as clear and direct as ever.

  “You’ve killed him, señor. He’s dead.”

  Mendoza looked at her a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to answer her or to kill her too. Then, in a quick, businesslike manner, he slipped his pistol into the black holster on his belt. One corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer.

  “He was an enemy of progress,” he told her.

  Slowly, Meredith removed her hand from Carlos’s neck and lifted it to his eyes. The dead man’s eyes were still open, still staring at the ceiling with that expression of terror and sadness he’d had at the end. Gently, Meredith pushed his eyes closed.

  Slowly—as we all watched her—she rose to her feet, to her full height. She was wearing khaki slacks and a white blouse. She had a full, sturdy figure and she had never reminded me more of a statue than just then, as she faced Mendoza. She gazed at the killer for what seemed like forever. Then, quietly, she said one word:

  “Progress.”

  Well, you had to have heard the way she said it, the tone of voice; so help me, she might just as well have slapped Mendoza in the face. It would’ve been less insulting.

  At the sound of her contempt, the sneer vanished from Mendoza’s lips. His dark eyes smoldered with rage. His hand went back to his holstered pistol. I caught my breath, nearly certain he was about to shoot Meredith the same way he’d shot Carlos. But instead, he stepped forward. He stepped up to Meredith—close to her—inches away. He was about her height, maybe six feet, and they were eye to eye.

  He stared at her. And I probably don’t have to tell you that Meredith didn’t flinch, didn’t quail at all. Then, suddenly, Mendoza’s hand flashed up. He grabbed Meredith by the hair—hard, so that she gasped with pain.

  That broke the spell that held me to my chair. I leapt to my feet, ready to rush to Meredith’s defense. Pastor Ron leapt to his feet at the same moment. So did Jim.

  And on the instant, men with guns surrounded us, pointing their weapons directly into our faces.

  No one had ever pointed a gun at me before. It’s not the sort of thing that happens a lot around Spencer’s Grove. It’s an interesting experience too, if interesting is the word I want. Seeing that black barrel trained on you— knowing that sudden death could spit out the bore at any moment—it does something. It takes your will away. If this had been one of my daydreams, where I’m always the hero, I would’ve knocked the gun aside and rushed to Meredith anyway. In real life? The power to move seemed to drain right out of me. I stood there motionless, looking from the gun in my face to the place where Mendoza held Meredith by the hair, twisting his fist to make her gasp again with pain.

  He looked at us—me and Pastor Ron and Jim—standing there helplessly under the machine guns. He flashed us a smile.

  “What’s the matter, gentlemen?” he asked. “Is chivalry dead? Does America have no more men in it? No one to help a lady in distress?”

  “Let her go!” I said.

  One of the gunmen standing next to me jabbed the barrel of his rifle into my forehead. The pain rattled me, knocked me back against the table.

  “Easy, boy,” Mendoza said to me through his gritted teeth. “You want to live to be a man, don’t you?”

  “Really—Mr. Mendoza, isn’t it?” Pastor Ron said in his calm, come-let-us-reason-together voice. “There’s no need to—”

  “Shut up, priest,” Mendoza said.

  One of the gunmen emphasized the point by stepping closer to Pastor Ron, raising the barrel of his weapon to Pastor Ron’s forehead.

  Pastor Ron shut up. And I didn’t blame him.

  “What about you, Señor Dunn?” Still clutching and twisting Meredith’s hair—so hard he nearly dragged her off her feet—Mendoza raised his eyes to Palmer. I turned to Palmer too.

  And do you know what Palmer Dunn was doing? You are not going to believe this, but I swear it’s the truth. Palmer was watching the soccer game. So help me. Standing at the bar. Drinking his beer. Watching the soccer game on the TV on the wall. Just as if nothing had happened. Just as if nothing were happening now.

  When Mendoza spoke to him, Palmer glanced his way, pausing with the beer half lifted to his lips as if he’d only just noticed the other man was there.

  “You talking to me?” he asked.

  Mendoza laughed and shook Meredith in his grip, hard, the way a dog shakes a rabbit he’s caught in his teeth.

  “I asked you what you are going to do, señor?”

  Palmer considered Mendoza—and then Meredith—as if he were trying to figure out what all the fuss was about. Then he reached out along the bar. There was a wooden bowl there, full of macadamia nuts. He took a handful.

  “I think I’m gonna have some of these nuts,” he said. He popped a few into his mouth and chewed. “Mm.”

  Mendoza laughed. It killed me the way he wouldn’t let Meredith go, the way he went on gripping and twisting her hair, sort of pulling her this way and that, displaying her to his gunmen like some sort of trophy. “You surprise me, Señor Dunn,” he said—but he was talking to his soldiers as much as to Palmer. He was entertaining them. They laughed as they looked on, cradling their guns. “You are big strong American soldier, no?”

  “I was a Marine, actually,” Palmer said pleasantly through his mouthful of nuts. “But not anymore.”

  “Big strong United States Marine,” said Mendoza. “And you are not going to rush to the aid of your countrywoman in her distress?”

  Palmer shrugged. He turned back to the TV, lifting his beer. “Your country, amigo. Your revolution,” he said. “It’s none of my business.” Once again, he started to lift his bottle of beer to his mouth. But he paused. He glanced at Mendoza sideways. “Of course,” he added, “you never know how these things are going to turn out in the end. Do you?”

  With that, Palmer went back to watching the soccer game.

  Suddenly—and for no reason I could tell—the expression on Mendoza’s face changed. The white grin beneath his mustache disappeared. The light of cruel humor in his eyes went out and was replaced by something else, something that looked to me a lot like fear.

  Without another word, he let Meredith go—that is, he tossed her away from him like a toy he was bored with. She lost her footing and stumbled, fell to one knee on the cantina floor.


  I ran to her then. I forgot about the guns. Or maybe I figured, Let them go on and shoot me. Whatever: I ran to her. I stooped beside her. Took her by the arm and helped her to her feet.

  “Thank you, Will,” she said. I was shocked to hear how quiet her voice was—breathless, but still calm. She rubbed the spot on the side of her head where Mendoza had gripped her.

  Holding her arm, I walked with her back to the table. Pastor Ron pulled a chair out and we both helped her to her seat.

  I thought Mendoza might come after me next, angry at me for going to Meredith. But when I turned back to him, he was standing right where he’d been, still gazing across the room at Palmer Dunn.

  Palmer glanced away from the TV for a moment, met his gaze, and smiled. Then, calmly, he turned away. Swigged his beer. Watched the soccer game. Something had passed between the two men—something important—but I couldn’t understand what it was.

  Now Mendoza looked around the room at his gunmen. His gunmen quailed, looking frightened. Easy to understand why. Mendoza looked angry now—really angry. He looked like a man who felt humiliated and was searching for someone to punish.

  He stood there glaring a long moment. Then he made a quick, harsh gesture with his hand. “Vamanos!” he barked.

  As quickly as they had come thundering in, the gunmen started to thunder out again, storming to the cantina door and through it, out into the plaza. Mendoza continued gesturing at them, continued barking orders in Spanish. Two gunmen broke away from the pack. One grabbed Carlos by one foot and one by the other. They dragged the dead waiter to the door and out.

  More orders from Mendoza. Two more gunmen broke away from the pack as it filed out. Mendoza pointed this way and that, and one gunman took up a post at the doorway in back, while the other stood with his machine gun at the front entrance.

  The thunder of footsteps faded. Aside from the guards at the exits, the gunmen were gone. Mendoza stood alone and finally quiet in the center of the room.

  The killer looked around slowly—looked around at all of us—one, then another, then another. When his eyes passed over me, I felt dread blow over me like a chill wind. It made goose bumps rise on my flesh.