Refugee Highway by Ken Wetherington

Traffic had been stalled for hours when an explosion up ahead sent a fireball high into the night sky. Shock waves rocked the earth. Bits of metal fell like rain, thunking on the roof of our SUV and putting a couple of chips in the windshield.

In the back seat, our sixteen-year-old daughter, Dana, stirred. “What’s happening, Mom?”

“I don’t know, darling. Go back to sleep.” Dana laid down and pulled the blanket over her. “Frank,” I whispered, “what are we going to do?”

He stroked the steering wheel and blew out a deep sigh. “Can’t go anywhere. Traffic hasn’t moved in more than twenty-four hours. It’s lined up for miles behind us. That explosion probably put a huge crater in the highway. We’re stuck, and the cell phone network is down.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “Get some rest. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

Flames burned through the night. By morning, a smudge of gray smoke had settled over the landscape. Frank cracked his window. Hot, acrid air assaulted our nostrils. “I’ll walk up there and check out the situation,” he said.

“Be careful.”

“It’ll be okay. I think it was a stray missile. Neither side is targeting civilians.”

“I’m not so sure…”

“There’s nothing to be gained by it.” He peeked over his shoulder. “Dana’s asleep. I’ll be back before she wakes.”

I watched him for as long as I could. A few other refugees had gotten out of their vehicles and stood along the shoulders. None seemed to have a plan.

Frank’s brother and his family lived in Hankston, a remote village to the north. Normally, a day’s drive would have gotten us there. After the fighting broke out, we expected a two-day trip but had stalled on the third day, not yet halfway to our destination.

When Dana awoke, I made a peanut butter sandwich for her. Only enough bread for a few more sandwiches. Damn this delay.

Dana took a tiny bite of her sandwich. “I’m not really hungry. When’s Dad coming back?”

“Soon, I hope.” On the side of the road, a youth turned up the volume of his absurdly large radio. What a waste of batteries.

“Mom, they’re playing that song.”

“Oh? What’s it called?”

“The Beat of Peace. Listen.”

War is for the old,

If the truth be told.

Peace is for the young,

Their life just begun.

“Everyone knows it, Mom.”

“That kid should be saving his batteries.”

“Oh, come on, Mom. Let’s get out of the car. I’m tired of being cooped up.”

The heat of the day forced dozens of others to emerge from their cars and trucks. Families loitered in the median, clustered in apprehensive groups. I stood on my toes and peered ahead. Frank should have been back.

Dana made her way over to the boy with the radio. Together, they ascended a short slope along the shoulder and surveyed the endless line of traffic. He cranked up the music. Dana swayed gently to the tunes and chatted easily with him. A pang of regret stung me. The war had robbed the young of their youth. I got into the SUV and dozed.

The rays of afternoon sun sliding into the west roused me. Frank had not returned. I wanted to look for him but needed to hold a safe place for Dana. She and the boy sat in the same spot, though now her head rested on his shoulder.

When the sun touched the horizon, I began to fear the worst. What had happened to Frank? I could do nothing but wait. Dana finally left the boy, and I made sandwiches with the last of our bread.

Dana took a bite and stared ahead. “Where’s Dad? Why hasn’t he returned?”

“He’s working on a plan for us. This traffic is never going to move. I’m sure he’ll be back before morning.” It was a lie. Something had gone wrong. “Let’s get some sleep so we’ll be ready for whatever we need to do.”

Shortly after dark, the thrumming of helicopters flying low woke me. A violent whoosh rocked the SUV as they passed. Then, an explosion. And another.

“Dana, get up!”

“Mom! What’s happening?”

Up ahead, flames consumed several cars.

“Get out, Dana. Run!”

We scrambled up the slope and into a field. Another shock, close at hand, knocked me off my feet. “Dana, where are you?” I yelled.

Helicopters roared overhead, obliterating my shout. A nearby blast deafened me. Debris fell in chunks, large and small. An object struck my arm, and I stumbled into a shallow depression. Hot metal scorched my hand. I screamed though I could not hear it. I crawled upward and lay sprawled in the grass.

“Mom!” The cry came faintly through the surreal darkness.

I struggled to my feet and clung to Dana’s arm. We careened blindly for what seemed an eternity. Then, trees surrounded us. I dropped to the ground with Dana next to me. Together, we endured the night, punctuated by the periodic flashes and thunder of war.

I awoke weary and sore. A large blister on my right hand burned like fire. An eerie quiet lay on the land. Dana stood in the predawn light, leaning against a tree trunk.

Without looking at me, she asked, “What about Dad?”

I raised up on an elbow. “I don’t know.”

“What about our SUV? Our food’s there… and our clothes…”

“I’ll check. Stay here.”

The field we had trudged through during the attack had felt like acres, but daylight revealed it to be only a hundred yards or so. Grim destruction greeted me at the top of the little slope. Cars had been melted into slag. Craters dotted the terrain. Among the dead, the youth’s body lay next to his shattered radio. Could Frank have survived? It didn’t seem possible.

I sank to my knees and sobbed. After a few minutes, I fought back the tears. No time to grieve. I had to think of Dana. What should we do? No food. No spare clothes, just the blouses and jeans we wore. Dammit, why didn’t I think to prepare a backpack for such a situation? At least the temperature was mild. We had to go somewhere. But where? And how? I wished for a map.

Returning to the stand of trees, I found Dana talking with a bearded man in camo. An assault rifle hung over his shoulder. Was he a soldier? Was he a bandit? Was he with the rebels?

“Hello,” he said. “You were lucky. Not many got away. You okay? What happened to your hand?”

“A burn.” His manner seemed friendly enough, but could we trust him? “Uh… Can you help us? We’re hungry.”

Dana tugged my sleeve. “Where’s Dad?”

“I don’t know, sweetie. We agreed to meet at Hankston if we got separated.”

“How will we get there?”

“I’m not sure, yet.” I turned to the man. “Can you spare some food?”

He shrugged. “I guess. You’ll need something for that burn. Follow me.”

The vague promise of food outweighed my caution, and for the better part of an hour, we hiked through hill country along slender paths, edging around thickets and across shallow streams.

The arduous trek made speech impossible. How could I tell Dana that her father was gone? Did she suspect? She forged along in silence. What was she thinking?

Eventually, we came to a small encampment in a secluded valley. Nine or ten armed men and a handful of women busied themselves around the remnants of a campfire bracketed by three tents.

Our guide gestured toward a large pot. “Take only one bowlful. We’re on rations.”

A sour-faced woman shoved a half-full bowl and a spoon into my hands. “Share,” she groused.

Dana steered me to a space between two tents where we sat and ate. A young woman brought a tube of salve for my burn. “Keep it,” she said. “We’ve got more.” She smiled and squeezed my arm before withdrawing.

“Which side are they on, Mom? What will we do?”

I hid my despair. “We’ll try to get to Hankston.”

“Do you know the way?”

I shook my head. “We have to find the highway again and follow it. We’ll have to walk.”

“Maybe I’ll see that boy with the radio. I liked him.”

My heart broke. “There’ll be other boys.” Teenage years were tough enough without the goddamn war. I gave her a tight hug.

Most of the men gathered around the campfire. An argument broke out. Voices rose, and curses exploded. Finally, they appeared to reach a compromise, though an undercurrent of discontent continued. No one spoke to us. As darkness descended, a woman led us to a tent where we crowded in with five men and two women. We slept despite the cacophony of snoring.

After a meager breakfast in the morning, a tall, thin man approached. “We’re moving on. You can’t come. Where are you headed?”

“Hankston. It’s a village to the north.”

“We’re going south, except Collins. He has a mission to the north.”

“Just take us back to—”

“No time for that.”

“Okay. Can we go with that guy, uh… Collins? At least he’s heading in the right direction. Will he help us find the highway again?”

The man snorted. “You can ask. It’s up to him.”

The troupe began to disassemble the campsite and pack up. A short, heavyset man with a scar along one cheek motioned. He carried an assault rifle and wore a holstered handgun at his waist.

“You going with me?” His dark, beady eyes surveyed us with apprehension. “Gotta move fast. You up to it? Gotta carry your own food.”

Having no other choice, I nodded. Someone brought a canteen and a backpack with a couple of loaves of stale bread. No one spared a blanket.

“Let’s go, woman.” Collins indicated the direction with a tilt of his head.

We struggled to keep up with him. He moved with a quickness and agility that belied his girth. More than once, we lagged behind and lost sight of him, though we always found him waiting around the curve of a path or just over a low rise in the land. Throughout the day, the distant rumble of artillery provided a constant reminder of war.

Shortly before twilight darkened the sky, we set up camp among a stand of pines. Collins gave each of us a strand of jerky. That and the stale bread made for an unsatisfactory supper. Despite the warm day, the evening brought a touch of coolness.

When Collins rolled out his sleeping bag, I asked, “Do you have a blanket we could use?”

“Naw. Not much room in my sleeping bag, but your daughter wouldn’t take up much space. I’ll share with her.”

His offer horrified me. I glanced at Dana. Did she hear him? She stared into the night sky, seemingly lost in her thoughts. “That’s okay. We’ll manage.” He shrugged and turned away, mumbling under his breath.

Dana and I gathered a pile of pine needles to serve as our bed and settled down. I thought about grabbing Collins’s backpack and running. If we managed to escape him, perhaps we would have enough food for a few days. But fleeing in the dark, unfamiliar landscape with no sense of direction felt hopeless. If he shot me, Dana would be at his mercy. I decided to bide my time and keep alert for a better opportunity. Wrapping my arms around Dana, I held her as if she were once again my little girl.

“Mom?”

“Yes.”

“What about Dad? How can he find us?”

I couldn’t find the words to tell her the truth. “He’ll go to Hankston. We’ll wait for him if we get there first.”

She fell silent. What was she thinking? I thought she had dropped off when she whispered, “I hope we’ll see that boy again. I’d like to hear his radio.”

“Shh… get some rest.”

Sleep eluded me. My hand still burned, though the salve lessened the pain. I alternated between the fading hope that Frank had survived and the near certainty that he had not. I saw no path to reaching his brother’s home. And now, Collins seemed more of a threat than a savior. If only we could find a way to link up with other refugees.

Collins roused us at dawn, and we set out, forgoing breakfast. The temperature climbed. Sweat soaked our clothes. My muscles ached with every step. Dana fared better. I envied her youth. As the day wore on, even Collins slowed and took an occasional rest. He didn’t bother to speak, and that was fine with me. We slogged through two more days. I questioned the choices I had made, but what else could I have done?

In the late afternoon of the third day, we emerged from a forest and found ourselves on a high bluff. Far below, perhaps a mile away, a highway sliced through the countryside and across a bridge spanning a wide river. A slow-moving line of traffic clogged the artery. Collins plopped down, pulled out a map, and studied it.

“Mom,” Dana whispered. “Those cars… those people… they’re like us. Are they going in the right direction? Can we join them? Maybe Dad’s down there.”

“It’s pretty steep here, but over there,” I pointed, “might be better.”

Collins cut his eyes toward us. “Stay here, woman.”

“Uh… thank you, uh, Mr. Collins, for bringing us here. I think we’ll catch a ride.” I gestured toward the highway.

“They’ll shoot you.”

“But they’re civilians.”

“So what? They’re armed just like everybody else. The enemy uses that bridge. I’m fixin’ to blow it up. They won’t be going anywhere after that. You women stay put.” He touched his handgun. “You’re safer here.”

Would he shoot us if we tried to get away? I couldn’t read him. Escape seemed tantalizingly close as I gazed down at the highway.

He spent the next hour assembling a bomb. With his knife, he spliced wires and attached a timer. His eyes flitted from his work over to us, down to the bridge, and back again.

The afternoon slipped into evening. A cloud-covered night sky blackened the landscape. Distant headlights below continued to creep along, unaware of their impending peril. Dana and I sat huddled together, barely able to see each other’s faces in the darkness.

Collins produced a lantern from his backpack. A circle of light sprang up. “No one down there will be alarmed by a little bit of light way up here. It’s time for you to pay for my guidance. Your daughter will do.” He grabbed Dana’s wrist and dragged her up.

“Wait!” I yelled, scrambling to my feet. “Take me, instead. I know what you want.” He gave a quick glance at me then returned his attention to Dana. I motioned for him. “Come on, big man. I’m willing.”

“Mom!” Dana bit the man’s hand and jerked free. Collins yelped and sucked at his wound.

“Run, Dana. It’s okay. Go.”

Collins reached for her, but she eluded him with a quick step.

“Get away, Dana.”

She backed off and faded into the darkness.

“It’s just me, big man.” I unbuttoned my blouse. “Let’s be quick.”

“I’ll take you, now,” he growled, “…and her later. You both owe me. She’ll return as long as I’ve got you.”

I eyed his handgun, hoping for an opportunity to snatch it.

He kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and dropped his pants. His holstered gun landed behind him. No way to reach it. He pushed, and I hit the ground hard. Grinning like the devil, he stepped out of his pants and towered over me. I braced for the worst.

Bam! The close gunshot stunned me. Collins dropped heavily. The impact of his bulk squeezed the breath from my lungs. Blood soaked my blouse. It took a good half minute to wriggle free.

Dana sat very still in the lantern light, Collins’s handgun by her side. “Is he dead?” she whispered, her eyes staring straight ahead as if in shock.

“I… I think so.” I leaned over him. Blood seeped from a hole in his back. A soft groan escaped his lips. “Shit! He’s alive.”

Dana nodded and turned to me. “What…what should we do?”

“I can’t help him. And I don’t want to.”

He moved a leg as if trying to rise and produced another groan, a series of unintelligible sounds, and then a long sigh.

Dana stood. “He’s dying.”

“Yes.” I rubbed my forehead and teetered on my feet. “I need to sit down.”

My mind blanked. I’m not sure how much time passed, but the sharp bark of a gunshot brought me back.

Dana put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s for the best.”

I nodded. “What about… his body?”

“Leave it. It’s too hard to dig a grave.”

“I guess.”

“Go to sleep, Mom. We’ve got a hard day tomorrow.”

“Dana… I don’t think Dad made it.”

“I know, Mom.”

How long had she known? Had she been trying to protect me from reality? I don’t remember lying down, but the morning sun woke me. Dana knelt nearby, going through Collins’s backpack.

“He’s got some food and a map, Mom. I found Hankston. We’ll go down and hitch a ride with one of those cars.”

“What about the bomb?”

“Just leave it.” She reached into the backpack. “There are some spare clothes here. Put them on. They won’t fit very well, but yours are so bloody.”

From his belongings, we took the lantern and map. Dana strapped the handgun on and led me down the bluff, slipping and sliding a good bit of the way. We followed along the river. As we neared the bridge, the wail of a harmonica reached our ears.

“Listen, Mom. It’s that song.”

A man and a teenage boy, holding the harmonica, stood by a truck parked on the side of the roadway. As we made our way up the slope, the man eyed us with suspicion, but the boy smiled.

“Hi, I’m Dana. This is my mom. We need a ride.”