Chapter 48
I forced myself to refocus on scheming to escape this place.
There seemed four direct ways out of the valley: under the fence, over the fence, through the front gate, or down the river. The front gate was guarded all the time. No matter the time of day, I always saw at least one armed guard there. Stealing a vehicle to crash through the gate was impossible. There was not time enough to find a key or hot-wire a vehicle before that guard would shoot me.
Alternatively, I could hide somewhere in the truck, say in the undercarriage. Then when it left to deliver opium to their buyer or to pick up supplies, I would simply go along for the ride. But there did not seem to be a regular schedule for any of the vehicles to leave the camp. If I had to hide for any significant time period, I would be missed at the next head-count, which was taken several times a day. And being Caucasian among the dark-skinned Afghans, my absence would be noted immediately.
Down the river was appealing since I could float right past much of the compound and be far from where I should be working in the field. But there was the problem of the double line of fencing that went right to the bottom of the streambed. That meant I would have to climb up and down the first fence and then up and down the second fence once I reached the barrier. It was very near the guarded gates. That route was too visible in the day, and too noisy regardless of time of day. The reverberating echo of each handhold and each foothold on the fence would send metallic vibrations a long distance along the fence. It would be enough noise to alert any guard, regardless of the time of day.
That left the fence surrounding the fields. Simply getting to the fence was challenging, considering the steepness of the slopes of this valley. But there were spots where the grade was gentler.
Could I go under the fence? On my first encounter with its chain links, I had started digging a hole under it. The digging was difficult since the fencing extended below the ground surface, and the ground was rocky under the thin soil. And I would have to dig two holes, one for each fence. That would take quite some time. Would I have that long before being discovered by a guard? Probably not. And what was I going to use as a digging tool?
So going over the top seemed the remaining option. Avoiding serious cuts on the razor wire would require some careful footwork or maybe some padding to make it over. I remembered the slices in the clothing of the body on Monarch Trail. They were most likely from the razor wire. That guy apparently did make it over the fence safely. But he didn’t have shackles on his legs. How did he get rid of them?
I looked down at my ankles. I had not paid particular attention to the shackles before, but now I scrutinized them closely. The metal clasps around my ankles and the chain between them looked new, not scratched, dirty, or tarnished from long use. Perhaps they were a new precaution because of that previous escape. So maybe he did not have shackles on at all. That just made my escape even more difficult. Unless I could find something to pick the lock, I was stuck with the shackles, which made climbing up the slope and over the fence near impossible. At best, my running pace would be slow and awkward.
Then there was the question of when to escape. During the night would give me plenty of time, but how would I escape from the locked hut? The hut had a dirt floor. I would only have to tunnel vertically through the floor, under the wall, and outside. Just a short distance, a few yards total, to simply get out of the hut. Then I could easily get to the inner fence. Then what? A climb over the inner fence surrounding the huts, a climb up the slope, and then another climb over the perimeter fences. And with the damn shackles on my ankles.
But I had to get out of this valley or die trying. If not, I would probably die here anyway, so I might as well go out on my terms, trying to escape. The clock was ticking. Probably only a couple of weeks until the poppy harvesting was done. Then I would be sacrificed along with all the Afghans.
If I did get out of this valley, where would I go? I had no car, no money, no phone, nothing. Who could I trust? And why would anyone trust me? I was a fugitive, accused of killing a cop. I hoped with all my mind and body that at least Allison would not believe me a killer. Yet why should she believe in me? We’d only known each other a week. Wouldn’t she believe others, those who had been life-long neighbors and acquaintances in Willow Run, those accusing me of the crime? Then she would think the worst of me, that I am a criminal, one who is responsible for bringing death to her hometown. In the end, if escape from the valley happened, I would have to put my fate in the hands of whoever I could find. Escape meant at least a chance at life.
I peered intently again up the slope toward the top of the ridge, imagining the fence line not far from the top. I pictured in my mind scrambling up the slope, still shackled, dodging behind bushes and rocks to avoid detection. I fantasized digging my fingers into the chain links of the fence and clawing my way upward. I saw myself lithely squeezing between parallel rows of the razor wire to stand on top of the fence before I jumped into the space between. Then I could see myself repeating the process on the second fence, landing in the darkness of the forest and hobbling away. It didn’t feel as satisfying as last night’s dream of escape, but it was still a beautiful vision.
My view was blocked by the shadow of one of the guards as he passed between the ridge and me. He stared in my direction with an angry glare in his eyes and started walking my way.
Oh, shit, I thought to myself. I had been staring upward, forgetting that guards were watching me. My thoughts of escape must have been obvious. I was going to get another beating. I turned from his gaze and busily went back to work. He got closer. I could see out of my peripheral vision that he was swinging his weapon out in front of him. He was going to use it as a club on me. I wanted to curl up into a protective ball on the ground to cover my head and stomach. He was so close now. I held my breath and tensed my muscles in preparation for the blow.
But the guard just kicked my legs out from under me, toppling me over, and stormed right on past. As I scrambled to get back on my feet, I turned my head to glance in the direction he went. He rushed right up to an Afghan a few yards farther away. The Afghan had stopped working and was simply standing there with his arms outstretched shoulder high and chanting softly. The guard rammed the barrel of his weapon into the Afghan’s stomach, doubling him over where he stood. A kick to the back of the legs sent the Afghan tumbling onto the ground. The guard bellowed something in Arabic to the man and then turned back in my direction. “Back to work.”
The guard turned his back on the Afghan and stormed up the slope. The man fixed his eyes, dark and unblinking, on me. His blazing stare silently screamed, That was to protect you, and now you owe me.
Why would he put himself in jeopardy to help me? I could imagine one explanation that made sense to me. Maybe I did have an ally, perhaps a reluctant ally, in this hell hole. In spite of our inherent distrust of each other and our inability to communicate with each other, perhaps there was middle ground for cooperation.