The Unwanted (26 page)
I searched Mrs. Dang's face for guidance, but she turned away. I stood up. All eyes were on me as I spoke. “I don't want to surrender. Just like all of you, I got stuck here because I was searching for freedom. Let freedom guide us out of here.”
Someone cried out from behind me, “Well put, child. Let's fight for a ride home.”
There were whimpers of disagreement among the women, but most of them finally agreed that we should seize control of a boat. Can Senior looked at me and asked, “What is your name, son?”
“Kien.”
“And you?” He turned toward the boy with slanted eyes, who stood next to his sister under a tree.
“Van,” the boy answered.
The old man then said, “My son and I will attack the loggers from behind. Can you two back us up?”
“No,” Mrs. Dang and the boy's sister cried simultaneously.
“Sorry, ladies,” he said. “I need them to balance the fight.”
“What do we have to do?” I asked him.
“Take me instead,” Mrs. Dang said, holding on to my arm tightly. “I can fight if I have to. Leave my boy out of this.”
“Not a possibility,” he told her. “In the old days, whenever I tangoed with Death, I needed my men. Death is here right now, and your son will do just fine.”
I
n a single line, Can Senior, his son, Van, and I moved deeper into the jungle, leaving the women and children behind. Far away, a thunderstorm growled like a hungry stomach. Lightning flashed against the reeds, turning the purple branches of the trees around us into monsters out of a horror story. Can Senior held the gun in a tight grip. We hung on to each other and crawled on the slippery ground like a giant earthworm in the eerie blue light of an early afternoon.
Can Senior suddenly stopped. He signaled for us to duck further down on the sloppy ground. “Don't anybody move! Stay where you are,” he whispered.
From my position, I could see a shadow chopping at a tree thirty meters away. The logger was not alone. I could hear other voices blending with the rumble of the thunderstorm and the scream of the winds. Can Senior gestured for us to crawl closer to him.
“Here is the plan,” he whispered. “There are four of them. Two men are having lunch. You can't see them, but they are behind that tree. You see the other two, don't you? Kien and Van,” he said, pointing at the two loggers, who were within a few meters of each other, “can you two take care of them? My son and I will stand guard right here to cover you. Take a rock like this one and sneak behind them. Make sure you knock them unconscious. Do not worry if they see you. If it happens, just try to distract them as long as possible. We'll come out and rescue you. Easy enough?”
He handed me a rock that was slightly bigger than my fist. Van chose his own weapon, another rock that had a similar size and shape.
“How can we sneak up to them while they are facing us?” I asked the old man. The thought of wounding someone made me sick with fear.
“I have a way to do it,” Van said.
“Tell us,” Can Senior ordered.
“We can attack the targets from above the ground.” He pointed at the branches that shot out like dark spears over the two men. “Kien and I can pussyfoot from branch to branch and get close to them. Then when the time is right,
ssssssfurt”
—he made a dropping sound—“right on the skulls.”
“Excellent idea, son,” Can Senior said. “Now, go, both of you.”
Van got up and shoved the tail of his shirt inside his pants. Like a kangaroo protecting its young, he stashed the rock inside his shirt and tightened the belt around his waist. With his hands free, he climbed up a tree. I copied his every move and followed. From the branch of one tree, he hopped to another like a squirrel, making little sound. I trailed after him shakily, finding it hard to keep myself steady on the slippery bark. The strong winds screeched between the lush green leaves. Gravity pulled heavily at the rock in my shirt. Far ahead, Van reached his destination. He perched in the tree above his enemy, waiting impatiently for me.
As I moved closer to my target, the branches grew smaller and farther apart. I prayed silently, looking deep inside myself for new strength. Finally, through a thick curtain of leaves, I saw the lumberjack's dark hair and a section of his red flannel shirt. Another branch and I would be directly above him.
Across from me, Van held the rock in his hands. I followed his lead, reaching out to steady myself with one hand so I could pull out my weapon with the other. But instead of the hard surface of the branch, my hand brushed across a soft, cold, slippery, and moist foreign object. I looked down at a python, larger than my leg. Its body was twisted around the branch right underneath me. It cocked its diamond-shaped head to stare at my face.
I shrieked and jumped backward. The branch under me snapped in half. I fell onto a bed of dead leaves below, a few steps away from where the logger stood. At that moment, Van dropped the rock on top of his victim, knocking him to his knees like a chopped tree. He fell facedown on the muddy soil.
The ground had enough of a leafy cushion to break my fall; however, my blood-curdling scream and my unexpected appearance alarmed the other loggers. They dropped their lunches and ran out from behind a bush, their axes gleaming in their hands. The enemy closest to me also lifted his ax. His face was dark and deadly. I pushed myself away from him, but fear paralyzed my limbs. I froze and blinked at him, waiting for doom.
“Stop, or I'll shoot.” From the hidden path, Can Senior and his son stormed out. His gun pointed at the lumberjacks.
The logger in the red-striped flannel shirt screamed at us, “You damned spirits, you killed my brother.”
“He didn't die. Just passed out,” Van answered matter-of-factly. He had gotten down from the tree and was examining the body on the ground.
“Who are you people? What do you want from us?” one of the woodsmen asked. His face was dotted with chickenpox scars, which kept his expression somewhat emotionless. It was difficult to tell whether he was surprised or angry.
“We need to borrow your boat to go back to Nhatrang,” Can replied.
T
he scar-faced man glared at the gun in Can Senior's hand. “You wouldn't dare. The police will be here as soon as you fire that gun.”
Can Senior spat on the ground. “I wouldn't bet on it if I were you. In this rain, who could hear anything? Do you want me to prove it?”
“No,” the logger said. “Please, trust us! We'd like to take you to shore, since we are the only ones who know how to make that cranky motorboat of ours run.”
“Why should I trust you?” Can Senior asked.
“You've got a gun. Just tell us what to do, and don't hurt me or my men.”
Can Senior nodded. “In that case, I'll take two of your men with me. The other two can stay on this island. Once we get to Nhatrang safely, the ones who take us can rejoin their friends.”
The scar-faced man pointed at himself and the man in the red flannel shirt. “Take us then. We know the route.”
Can Senior turned to Van and me and ordered, “Look in their stuff for ropes, and tie those two up against each other. Make sure you gag them.”
With Can Junior's help, we positioned the two prisoners on the ground with their backs to each other. One man was still unconscious as we moved them closer together. Blood from the man's head wound left a trail of red dots on the jungle floor. We made tight knots around their ankles and wrists. Some of the blood dripped on my fingers, and I fearfully wiped it away.
With his hands high above his head, the scar-faced man said, “Just tell me, how many of you are there?”
Can Senior ignored him.
BY THE TIME
we got down to the sandy beach, it was early evening. The sky was dark with heavy clouds, and the rain fell harder. Thunder again boomed through the trees, which flashed with lightning. Along the coast and concealed under stacks of coconut leaves was the boat. Thirty feet in length, it was made out of plywood and tin plates and painted a rusty orange, though most of the paint had peeled off. The engine, composed of a generator and a jumper wire, sat between the bilges in the stern. An iron shaft connected the engine to the propeller through a hole in the aft bulkhead. Along each side of the deck was a row of benches that could accommodate six to ten people. The boat had been loaded with about a dozen freshly cut logs, all the same length. Can Senior ordered us to toss the stolen lumber back on the beach to make more room for the passengers.
We pushed the boat out to sea. The loggers' axes lay together on deck under a sheet of plastic. We huddled in each other's arms on the benches, while the smaller children lay on the floor. Can Junior and Can Senior settled themselves at the bow. Their gun aimed at the boat owners, who sat at the far end.
With Can Senior's permission, the man in the red shirt pulled the jumper cord to start the engine. His partner held the control bar connected to the generator and steered a steady course. The boat shrieked loudly. Its sharp keel rode the water like a sea horse. Soon, the island was left behind. Before us, the sea opened up its immense embrace, rocking the vessel in all directions. The rain was falling hard, making visibility impossible. Soon we were all drenched. Seeing that I was shivering, Mrs. Dang held me closer.
At the stern of the boat, the scar-faced man pulled another plastic sheet from under his seat and handed it to Van's sister, urging her to cover herself against the rain. She took it from him shyly.
In the tense atmosphere we rode for almost an hour. Finally the clouds parted and the moon, once again, showed its sallow face over the turbulent sea.
The scar-faced man shouted to Can Senior, “Listen to me and don't shoot! I need to feed the engine some fuel. She is getting empty. The gas can is over there.” He pointed to a large tin-coated iron container lying next to the axes.
“No,” Can Senior replied.
“Please, listen to the engine's sound. She will stop in a few minutes if we don't feed her.”
Can Senior warned him, “Fine, but do it slowly so I can see you. Stay away from the hatchets. If you do anything suspicious, I will not hesitate to shoot.”
The prisoner nodded and reached for the container. The tank seemed heavy; he had to use both arms to lift it up and drag it across the desk. He turned his back to Can Senior as he moved slowly toward his seat. Suddenly, he tripped on a piece of wood on the floor and fell forward. Still holding the container, he swung his arms a hundred and eighty degrees, whirling to face Can Senior. The tank of fuel in his hands flew through the air like a flash of lightning.
“Be careful!” Can Senior screamed out.
To our shock, the scar-faced man burst out laughing and looked at us triumphantly. The fuel container was locked in his fingers and dangling over the edge of the plywood gunwale above the dark sea. He winked at Can Senior, waving the tank back and forth. “Shoot me, if you dare. This can will end up in the bottom of the ocean, and so will you when the boat's out of gas.”
“What in hell are you doing? I thought we had a deal,” Can Junior blurted, standing up with clenched fists.
“What deal? You wounded one of my men, abandoned two of them in the jungle, and then kidnapped us. What kind of deal is this?” He ordered the man in the red shirt, “Stop the engine.”
“No,” Can Senior yelled.
His partner pulled a switch. The boat shrieked one last time before it came to a halt. Alone in the ocean, it rocked from side to side.
Can Senior raised his pistol. “I guess I have no choice but to shoot you and take control of the boat.”
“Proceed if you will. I am not lying about the gasoline.”
“We'll take our chances.”
The scar-faced man pointed his finger upward. Somewhere beyond the clouds, the sky glittered faintly with stars. “Follow that star,” he said. “Do you know its name? The fishermen call it the North Star. We were supposed to go west to reach Nhatrang.”
He waited for the effect of his words to sink in, then continued. “But we didn't. We have been traveling north all along. You asked us for a ride, Mr. Leader. So we are taking you on one. And now, we are running out of gas. So either you drop the gun or pull the trigger. Just do us all a favor and make up your mind, before I make up mine.”
Some of the women moaned with fear. The children began to cry. Can Senior stood up. The tip of the gun shook slightly in his hands. “Shut up!” he screamed at them.
“Drop the gun, please,” a woman urged him.
Ignoring her, Can Senior said to the scar-faced man, “Surely we could agree to settle this in peace. I have a proposal.”
“My ears are open,” came the reply.
“Let's drop all of the weapons in the ocean, the gun and the axes. You take us to Nhatrang, and we'll pay you.”
“Pay us? With what?”
“Jewelry.”
The scar-faced man cocked his head. “Interesting proposition. Show me what you've got.”
Can Senior looked straight ahead, one hand clutching the gun while the other unhooked the watch from his wrist. “This is an Omega. It's worth a lot of money. I'll trade it for my son's life.”
“Father,” Can Junior whispered. “You can't give that away. It's mother's gift.”
“Shut up,” he snapped. Turning to us, he ordered, “Take out your possessions. Show the men that we want to make peace.”
The runaways fumbled in their clothes and pulled out their hidden treasures. A pile of watches, diamond rings, gold necklaces, and bars of gold and silver collected at the feet of the logger. His partner scooped them up and shoved them into his pockets.
The scar-faced man said to Can Senior, “I am not yet agreeing to this deal. Without the weapons, you still outnumber us. We won't stand a chance.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Send that buck-toothed guy over here.” He indicated Can Junior. “We'll hold him hostage. If you don't behave, we'll kill him.”
Can Senior swallowed. “Take me as your prisoner instead. Leave my son out of this.”
“It doesn't matter which one. Just drop the gun and come over here.”
Can Senior laid down the gun and said to his shaking son, “Make sure you throw away the axes first, then the gun.”