Refuge
Written for NYC Midnight’s #FlashFictionChallenge2018, July 2018.
Also available in audio on the podcast Story Time with Darcie: Episode 6.
by Darcie T. Kelly
The first refugee can’t be more than a teenager, stumbling over her own feet in exhaustion, probably suffering from dehydration and hunger. I see so much of my young self in this girl with torn dirty clothes. Battered but not broken. I wonder how she made it over the wall alone.
Her captor, a white man whose unearned power comes from the gun he carries and papers signed by other white men in suits nearly three-thousand miles away, shoves her into the open cage. Bars still warm with Tena’s body heat. Ground still damp with her piss, soiled with her shit. The girl collapses, cradles wrists raw from chaffing metal cuffs, unaware of, or unconcerned by animal waste.
The militia-man slams the cage closed, turns the key I left in the lock, and pockets it. Turning to me for the first time, seeing only the animal I lead, he snarls, “Careful. She’s more dangerous than your lion.” As if in protest, Tena bares her teeth in a soft snarl. The man cringes.
I linger, wanting to reach out to the girl, tend her wounds. Tena huffs in impatience. She is eager to explore the world beyond her bars, ready to leave her captivity behind. I allow the lioness to pull me away and trick her into another box for transport. I sign paperwork and watch as Tena, the last animal from this once thriving zoo, is taken away. The sting of a tear threatens my resolve as this proud, fierce animal leaves the only home she’s ever known. I wonder what she’ll find on the other side.
***
Her name is Eva. Between my primary school Spanish and her scraped together English, we can almost communicate. Enough to understand that we are no danger to each other.
As morning mist surrenders to the sun’s oppression, dozens more emaciated, injured, and angry refugees are incarcerated in the lioness’ cage. The militia-men grudgingly allow me to care for them as best I can with pilfered medicine and feed left behind when the animals were rehomed. As children nap in parent shaped shadows, I ransack the gift shop for umbrellas, visors, and sunscreen.
I’m not sure how many militia-men have come and gone – they all look the same with their sneers and scowls. The cage, intended for a single lioness, chokes with refugees. To make space for the weakest to sit or lay, others stand, proud and protective.
Perhaps the man called Warrant Officer! – I can hear the exclamation point when the others shout his name – perhaps Warrant Officer! worries that the ‘dangerous’ refugees will overpower steel strong enough to contain a lion. Or, more likely, the citizen-soldiers grow tired and lazy in the mid-day sun. Either way, the result is the same; he assigns three to guard duty and relieves the others, sending the rest home to escape the heat.
***
When he returns with yet another refugee, I timidly approach Warrant Officer!, whom I’ve secretly renamed Officer Orange. Who uses spray tan these days? my unconscious considers, taking any opportunity to avoid real horror. Must be a tourist, here for the hunt. Aloud, I stutteringly suggest he make use of a second cage. “P-p-perhaps this one is full?”
He turns to me, stands too close. I freeze before the malice and violence in his eyes. “You think they need more space?” As he shouts spittle dapples my face. “You think they deserve to be treated better than your animals?” My breath quickens. My body tenses. Instinct threatens to take over, yet I remain paralyzed, even as adrenaline courses through my veins. “They are rats!” The bars ring under the force of his voice. He spits into the cage before exaggerated strides carry his anger away.
I clutch my chest to contain lungs threatening to escape. I glance at the proud, beaten people. Take in the smell of their humanity, rats that are more dangerous than lions?, before returning to my rounds.
***
As the relative quite of afternoon drags on, I ask the guards about rations for the prisoners and am rewarded with the butt of a rifle striking my face. While shocked by the impact and distracted by the taste of copper, I’m momentarily hopeful when the cage door yawns open – perhaps there are rations after all – until I see the contorted smiles of militia-monsters as they snatch Eva. Hold her too close. Leer. Paw at her shabby clothes. As trousers tighten and buttons loosen, I flee.
***
My resolve crumbles in the manager’s office. It’s my fault. Whatever Officer Orange’s goons are doing to Eva, it’s my fault. I should have left well enough alone. Salty tears sting my raw, broken cheek. My injury. Nothing compared to what Eva is suffering. I try not to imagine myself in her place. My body, my breasts, my … With head on knees, I’m trying not to hyperventilate when something teases my attention. Something that purrs in the darkness below the desk. My sobs catch and I wipe my eyes, squint into the murk, grope in the shadows, touch a lump of animal hide and cold metal.
A handgun. Holstered and secured under the desk.
I free the weapon, test its cold heft, allow it to warm under my skin. I’m unfamiliar with firearms, hate them in fact. I always vote for stricter gun laws. Controls. Registries. I have, however, made frequent use of tranquilizer guns when treating sick animals. It takes just a few minutes to work the mechanism; two bullets in the chamber.
I grip the gun, feel the slow depth of each breath. A plan emerges.
***
I don’t see Eva until I reach the cage. Beaten, clothes all but gone, clinging to life by her fingernails, she is tended by the gentle hands of gentle people. I can’t find Officer Orange, but the guards, hot and tired though sated by their fun, have found a shady spot to play cards, paying me no mind. I casually walk the zoo, make the rounds, check the locks, prepare.
His words are lost on me as I covertly pass the first tranquilizer gun through the bars. The accusation becomes clear, however, as the man with strong arms and sad eyes levels the weapon at me. Eva calls from her fetal ball, speaks softly, too quickly for me to understand. His rage doesn’t lessen but the gun lowers.
With subtle gestures, I quickly outline Plans A through C as best I can. I mime hiding the tranq gun and promise to bring more. Promise they will escape.
***
Ice tinkles as I fail to steady my hands. “Sweet tea?” I offer the guards who, oblivious to my adrenaline, my fear, grab the cold glasses setting Plan A in motion. I force a smile and make a conscious effort to slow feet that want to flee. What is a natural way to carry an empty tray?
In fear, I’ve scurried halfway across the zoo before I stop myself, catch my breath, drop the tray, taste salt on my lips. I can’t stop now. I’ve gone too far and not nearly far enough. With a fortifying breath, I make my way back and hide in the bushes between the cage and the card game. The sad eyes of the man with strong arms find me with relief and questions. Where had I gone? Why had I left them? Thanking me for coming back. I shake my head in an embarrassed apology and direct my attention to the guards.
I finger emptied darts in my pocket as I watch the condensation drip down the side of cold glasses, two already half drained, one untouched. The laughter and teasing of two distract from the silent intensity of the third. His cards must be exceptionally bad or exceptionally mediocre. Trying to spot a bluff, what he sees instead, what we both see, is droopy confusion as tranquilizers take effect. Cards drop. Players fall.
Shit! I hoped they would all go down. Knowing things will move quickly now, I secret my way to the cage in preparation for Plan B and hope the others have better luck.
“Come quick,” the last guard snaps into his walkie before turning his attention to the search for me; the unseen complication. “Where are you, bitch?” he shouts. “Think you can pull one over on me?”
I cower at the far side of the cage, skin to skin with Eva. Dozens of battered bodies act as human shields, the stubborn protecting the weak and meek. I link fingers with Eva through the bars. If I can draw the militia-monster close enough, there’s a chance. I channel strength from Eva and her captive kin and taunt, “You’ve got to catch me first.”
“You like those rats so much?” The crush of gravel with each of his steps makes me shiver in the heat. “A mistake on some paperwork and you could be one of them.” I want to stay here, in the safety promised by gentle fingers and gentle people. Eva looks meaningfully at me, urging me on.
I leave my echo with Eva to guide the milia-monster and creep away under the cover of bushes and good luck, hoping to find keys in the fallen guards’ pockets. Behind me, the muffled thump of a dart finding a soft target gives way to a voice cursing its maker. War cries and gunfire erupt and I instinctively drop to the ground, cover my head, pray to a god I don’t believe exists.
I force myself to turn; to see. A monster gropes at a trigger before falling to the ground. Prisoners toss spent tranq guns aside. One gun remains levelled, aimed at the monster, in case he stirs. Within the cage, a shock of red brightens one shoulder. The others appear unharmed. I slump in relief.
The stillness that follows is broken only by whimpering, frightened children and the soothing of adults who love them. I linger in this moment, breathe in the dusty, post-adrenaline hush. A light breeze chills my damp cheeks stirring me, reminding me to look for the cage key.
The return of gunfire is shocking.
I cower, as Officer Orange rushes the cage, rifle firing wildly, shooting trees, detainees, his own sleeping guard. I watch, hidden, invisible, as he races past me. The air fills with the smells of copper and gun powder, the sounds of pain and fury. Familiar sounds. Animal sounds.
I step out of the shadows, horrified that we need Plan C. I draw the manager’s gun from my waist band. It shakes in my hand as I train it on Officer Orange’s back. He stops running, out of range of the one remaining tranq gun. His steady rifle ready to devour his captured prey.
“I don’t want to,” my voice shutters, as Double O pivots in surprise, “but I will shoot you.” I pray to anyone who may be listening that he doesn’t call my bluff.
“Fucking traitor,” he spits turning to face me, “protecting caged animals.” His hands and rifle reach skyward. My mind races. What next?
I sway where I stand. “Drop the gun,” I gesture with my weapon. “Kick it aside.”
He smirks. I’m uncertain, uncommitted, and he knows it. Behind hateful eyes he forms his own plan. Builds a box. A cage to trap me. What next? I beg for a different ending.
Warrant Officer steps toward me and I step back. He laughs. “Gutless,” he taunts. He lowers his arms, trains his rifle on me. I know what comes next, can see the other side. Letting instinct take over, I fire.
***
The dark pool grows. Dusted with dry red earth. Smelling of blood, piss, and shit; liberated humanity. I feel wild. Free. Eager to explore a world without bars, without walls. I growl at the corpse and raise my eyes to caged people. If this is what my country has become, I’d rather be one of them. As I approach, they press to the far corners, shock and fright shining in their eyes. I’d rather be a refugee searching for freedom. One bullet remains. I address the lock.