Read Online After the First Death by Robert Cormier - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Cormier
Ads: Link
was supposed to have signified his manhood, his complete acceptance into the brotherhood of freedom soldiers. He looked down at the girl now with resentment. He also resented the dead child who lay here on the back seat, waiting for Artkin to decide what to do about him.
This is why Miro did not like waiting. It gave him too much time to think, to ponder, to wonder about things he should leave to Artkin. He wondered now about the girl, squinting his eyes to see her at the front of the bus. He had tried to engage her in conversation, attempting to follow Artkin’s orders, but she had been uncommunicative.Miro pondered what she was thinking. Did she suspect that she would die before this incident was over? Had she seen through Artkin’s lies, even though he lied so skillfully? A sudden thought struck Miro. Does Artkin lie to me as well? Have I also been taken in by his skill?
He shook his head as if he could get rid of such a terrible thought that way.
He looked out through one of the window slits. Outside, all was peaceful. The bus was high enough to see over the parapet at the edge of the bridge. The parapet would protect them when they passed from the bus to the van. The building across the chasm was still deserted, without movement. He searched for the glint of sniper rifles in the woods but saw only branches, heavy with summer leaves. A bird cried overhead; he did not recognize the sound. In his homeland beside the river, the old men said that turtle doves and larks circled in the air above the orange trees. He had seen no turtle doves in the United States. No orange trees, either, although Artkin said they grew in southern areas like Florida, where Miro had never gone.
Swiveling his eyes toward the sky again, Miro heard the sound of a helicopter, and his breath caught in excitement. The sound grew louder. He felt the blood begin to pound in his veins, his heart beating rapidly. The helicopter’s motor throbbed violently now; it seemed to be on the roof of the bus itself, enveloping the entire bus in its sound.
The waiting was over at last.
Now it could begin.
When Kate heard the sound of helicopter, she had been sitting despondently in the driver’s seat, clutching the wheel uselessly, unable to face the children anylonger and unwilling to look at the boy Miro. She knew she was doomed. She had known it the moment she saw them put on the masks. The knowledge had sickened her, causing her stomach to lurch with nausea. They had allowed her to see them unmasked. She could recognize them anywhere, identify them, point them out in police lineups, the way it happened on television cop shows. The children perhaps didn’t represent a threat to the hijackers; the testimony of five- and six-year-olds probably wouldn’t hold up in court. But Kate knew they couldn’t afford to let her go. Or let her live.
In an effort to escape the thoughts and the panic they brought, she had moved among the children, tousling hair, stroking cheeks tenderly, speaking to those who weren’t completely asleep. Most of the children were still in a kind of half stupor, languid, like limp rags. Now and then a child stirred or sat up, looking around inquiringly. A thin boy with freckles and electric-orange hair tugged at her sleeve. Yawning, he asked, “When are we getting to camp?”
“Soon,” she said. “Pretty soon.”
He smiled wanly at her and sank into a kind of half sleep, eyelids fluttering.
A girl, blond and blue-eyed, the kind of child who won “Prettiest Baby” contests, looked up at Kate. Her chin quivered, tears spilled on her cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” Kate asked gently.
“I forgot my Classie,” the child said.
“Who’s Classie?”
“Classic’s my chraff.” She wiped the tears with a small, trembling hand.
“Your what?” Kate asked. She was conscious of the boy Miro looking down at her from where he stood on a seat a few feet away taping the windows.
“My chraff,” the child said, sniffing, her
This is why Miro did not like waiting. It gave him too much time to think, to ponder, to wonder about things he should leave to Artkin. He wondered now about the girl, squinting his eyes to see her at the front of the bus. He had tried to engage her in conversation, attempting to follow Artkin’s orders, but she had been uncommunicative.Miro pondered what she was thinking. Did she suspect that she would die before this incident was over? Had she seen through Artkin’s lies, even though he lied so skillfully? A sudden thought struck Miro. Does Artkin lie to me as well? Have I also been taken in by his skill?
He shook his head as if he could get rid of such a terrible thought that way.
He looked out through one of the window slits. Outside, all was peaceful. The bus was high enough to see over the parapet at the edge of the bridge. The parapet would protect them when they passed from the bus to the van. The building across the chasm was still deserted, without movement. He searched for the glint of sniper rifles in the woods but saw only branches, heavy with summer leaves. A bird cried overhead; he did not recognize the sound. In his homeland beside the river, the old men said that turtle doves and larks circled in the air above the orange trees. He had seen no turtle doves in the United States. No orange trees, either, although Artkin said they grew in southern areas like Florida, where Miro had never gone.
Swiveling his eyes toward the sky again, Miro heard the sound of a helicopter, and his breath caught in excitement. The sound grew louder. He felt the blood begin to pound in his veins, his heart beating rapidly. The helicopter’s motor throbbed violently now; it seemed to be on the roof of the bus itself, enveloping the entire bus in its sound.
The waiting was over at last.
Now it could begin.
When Kate heard the sound of helicopter, she had been sitting despondently in the driver’s seat, clutching the wheel uselessly, unable to face the children anylonger and unwilling to look at the boy Miro. She knew she was doomed. She had known it the moment she saw them put on the masks. The knowledge had sickened her, causing her stomach to lurch with nausea. They had allowed her to see them unmasked. She could recognize them anywhere, identify them, point them out in police lineups, the way it happened on television cop shows. The children perhaps didn’t represent a threat to the hijackers; the testimony of five- and six-year-olds probably wouldn’t hold up in court. But Kate knew they couldn’t afford to let her go. Or let her live.
In an effort to escape the thoughts and the panic they brought, she had moved among the children, tousling hair, stroking cheeks tenderly, speaking to those who weren’t completely asleep. Most of the children were still in a kind of half stupor, languid, like limp rags. Now and then a child stirred or sat up, looking around inquiringly. A thin boy with freckles and electric-orange hair tugged at her sleeve. Yawning, he asked, “When are we getting to camp?”
“Soon,” she said. “Pretty soon.”
He smiled wanly at her and sank into a kind of half sleep, eyelids fluttering.
A girl, blond and blue-eyed, the kind of child who won “Prettiest Baby” contests, looked up at Kate. Her chin quivered, tears spilled on her cheeks.
“What’s the matter?” Kate asked gently.
“I forgot my Classie,” the child said.
“Who’s Classie?”
“Classic’s my chraff.” She wiped the tears with a small, trembling hand.
“Your what?” Kate asked. She was conscious of the boy Miro looking down at her from where he stood on a seat a few feet away taping the windows.
“My chraff,” the child said, sniffing, her
Similar Books
