Okay, I lied. I'm not really dead, but I'm pretty damn close. The guerillas don't take too kindly to Navy Pilots, even if they are on the same team. I've been working down here for the past week—ever since the plane crash—and I think I am making some progress on breaking up the impulsive attacks on the American embankments. The only thing in my way was the language barrier. Portuguese apparently was not my forte.
The chain of command down there was completely fucked; no one knew who was in charge of anything. I had to wade through broken English and horrid translations to learn nothing, and it was seriously getting on my nerves. I hopped on a bus to the nearest city—it was hardly a village—and looked for a telephone. I needed to get my mind clear, because after a week of unwashed, untamed freedom fighters shouting constantly back and forth, anyone would be fucked up.
The bus barely stopped in front of the little town, and I hopped out onto the dry dust they called ground. My flight boots left little impressions as I walked into the middle of the busy square. Tan Brazilians shot awkward glances at my light skin as they rushed back and forth between old stone huts and larger, newer brick shops. I made my way to a local farmer's market and, eyeing some ripe melons, I asked in my best Portuguese: "How much?"
From what I could understand, he said, "Two melons for one Real."
"Do you take dollars?"
His eyes brightened and he nodded furiously. I handed him a dollar and took one of the small melons.
"More, more," the old farmer urged. I waved my hand.
"No, just one, thanks."
I looked for a shady spot and wound up sitting on a large wooden deck built right next to the forest, most probably from the trees that once stood here. I pulled out my knife and cut some deep slices into the ripe melon. Some juice trickled out between my fingers, and I quickly pressed the cut to my lips, drinking in the sweet, fresh nectar. I proceeded to cut the melon into slices and ate all but two. Those, I gave to some kids that reminded me of Callie when she was younger. They thanked me, but before they could run off, I asked, "Telephone?"
The kids looked unsure, so I opened my thumb and pinky, pressed them to my ear, and mimed dialing. They pointed to the large brick building I had spied on my way in and took off into the jungle.
The building was some sort of hostel, and the owner spoke beautiful English.
"May I help you, sir?"
"Yeah, I'm looking for a phone."
"We have one just around the corner." He pointed. "You'll need to dial 9 to get a dial-tone."
"Sure." I walked around the corner and dialed through my military access router. Four rings later, the answering machine picked up.
"Chris and Callie aren't here, so just leave a message!" I grimaced at the sound of Chris's whining voice, and started thinking of how much I would like to beat the snot out of the fuck.
I was startled by the sharp "Beeeeep," so my speech sounded broken and chipped.
"Callie? Are you there? Hello?" She had a bad habit of screening her calls, so I wasn't too worried about the machine; however, thirty seconds passed without her picking up.
"Callie, I need you to pick up." I thought it was obvious, but maybe she didn't. I thought she was still mad at me for hating Chris. My heart sunk deep in my chest, and the words that came out next shook wildly and surprised even myself.
"Ugh, I guess you aren’t there. Listen, I want you to know that I’m alright. I can’t talk about it now, but know I love you. Goodbye,
I walked out of the town. The bus had already departed for the night, so I started hiking back to the guerilla encampment. It was dark, but warm, and the stars shone brightly through the cracks in the night-blue canopy. I couldn't seem to keep the tears in, and every time I thought about my dear Callie I felt the warm sadness dripping down over my cheeks and off my chin.
I heard something move off in the distance, and I crouched. I could see figures—five of them—coordinating something. They spoke in hand signals, and with a point, point, slash, point, they all scattered. I reached into my vest, pulled out my pistol, an old SIG P226-9-NAVY, and cocked it as silently as I could. I took aim at a figure in the distance, released my breath half-way, and suddenly felt something round, metallic, and cold against my neck.
"You don't do the move," I horribly translated.
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