21.
Two mornings later, the two soldiers were roughly pulled to their feet and shoved down the hall in line amidst a dozen others from the long basement. The line moved slowly, Deustch shivering wordlessly when they stood in front of the closed door of the torturer's room for what seemed like forever. Pendergast watched both the group and the soldiers; two worlds that never crossed except to deliver pain. There was a leaden deadness in the air, his fellow prisoners in their final hours moving like silent zombies. Perhaps, like Deustch, they were simply ready for it to end.
Pendergast could not find it in himself to give up yet. It tempted; he hurt in ways that could never have been fully prepared for. Ribs felt as if they nearly rubbed against each other in the early stages of real starvation and if he had seen a mirror, he would not have liked the look in his eyes. But he was still alive, and until the finality of real hopelessness settled in, he was going to try to stay that way. They were out of the cells. That was something.
He held onto that idea like a rope, and he would drag Deustch along it with him any way he could.
. . .
They were sealed into trucks, a dozen guards to each and now the crowd to be executed swelled to perhaps a hundred, all from different floors of the facility. There was no discrimination; men were piled in with women, and some women held tiny, fragile children as best as they could. Other children walked into the trucks by themselves, defiant in their remaining strength. The trucks were fully enclosed, swaddled in metal and dark fabric and all Pendergast knew was that the journey was far, far too short. Perhaps two kilometers, maybe not even that. He supposed there was something to be thankful for, in that they were not marched. He held onto the last vestiges of his energy, watching for any chance.
The trucks emptied out along the edge of a vast field peppered here and there with healthy, thick trees with stained trunks. The field itself was already disturbed; old piles of dirt covered long troughs and mounds and new, open trenches waited for their final deliveries. Like the prison's courtyard, it held a monstrous, serene beauty and the air was thick with fruit and the ever-coiling smell of the green jungle that flowed all around the edges of the field.
The Khmer Rouge soldiers lined them up, confident in their exhaustion. An order went out – children first – and some of the soldiers shouldered their weapons. They roamed the line, tore the smallest children away from their withered families and took them towards the trees.
"Don't look," muttered Pendergast to Deustch, who complied with the order with a soft, defeated whimper. He himself watched every one. And the soldiers laughed – some of it forced, afraid as much of each other as perhaps some of their prisoners. He held no sympathy for that.
Pendergast had long since come to a perfect hate for the soldiers, and now it burned again as the broken children were dumped into the trenches. He fed on it, a glimmer lighting in his face. He could turn and fight, perhaps kill one or two of them. Not enough to make a difference, just enough to say he went down struggling. It would be better to get out, to say that he'd seen what the Khmer did to its people. He looked around, stared at treelines and thought about the chances. Thought about how he'd probably have to carry Deustch somehow, that he didn't know how close any ghostly, unmapped villages were to try for a handful of supplies. That it was very likely he'd simply die from exposure and exhaustion, kilometers away from the Vietnam border.
There was still an achingly-slim chance; the first since the firefight at the edge of a minefield. A chance that, at the very damned least, they could die free.
When a man, down at the very far end of the killing field gave in to mortal terror and began to utter a high, spiraling scream, Pendergast took that chance.
. . .
As the three closest soldiers turned towards the far end of the line, Pendergast snaked out an arm with as much iron power as he could manage and dragged a hobbling, stunned Deustch after him as he broke and fled for the nearest treeline.
The act of open defiance bought him an extra precious few seconds as the soldiers loitered, confused as to orders and openly stunned as to how anyone had energy left to flee. He refused to pause, even as Deustch stumbled and slammed his side hard into a tree. He redoubled his grasp on the other man's arm, pulling him back upright and used as much pure adrenaline as he could to stretch the gap between them and the edge of the field. Behind them, he heard the shouts finally begin in earnest. A handful would be sent after them, he figured; what could be spared while allowing enough men remaining to keep control of the execution.
Gunfire tore the sky instead, a ceaseless rattle that echoed against the trees. When it faded, shouts replaced the chaos.
"Oh my God," moaned Deustch, his voice hollow. He was trying to resist Pendergast's grip. "They just shot them all. They're all going to come for us."
"Keep moving." Pendergast was stuck in relentless drive. "Don't think. Just move."
"We can't make it. Please, just let us die." His voice broke on the last word.
Pendergast whirled on him, taking less than a second to grab into Deustch's thinning arms with two clawed, furious hands. "Never!" he snarled into the man's face. His eyes were full of terrifying, unstoppable silver fire and Deustch openly stared, more afraid now of the gaunt horror that held him than the soldiers that were about to give chase.
The hands lessened their grip slightly, even as the tugging continued, merciless. Deustch moved, robotic, trying to keep pace.