Houston (ON HOLD)

Blake

The truck rattles as it goes down the road and my stomach churns from the constant lurching and bumping. I've ridden in trains before, but never in an actual automobile. I must be car sick. Most of the people around me are silent, save for the ones who are crying. We don't speak to each other and don't dare to make a sound that would cause alarm with the soldiers sitting near the tailgate. The air is stuffy, and the covered bed of the truck is uncomfortably warm. A bead of sweat drips down the back of my neck, caused by both the heat and my own fear. My hands are tied behind my back. The blindfold over my eyes feels like it's made out of some sort of scratchy cloth, and the itch caused by it is killing me. I can only see out of the bottom of the cloth, and what I see is my own plain shoes and the shoes of the man sitting on the bench to my left.

I have no idea where we are going, or even where we are. I'd had my hands tied and eyes covered a long time ago, and I've lost track of how long I've been biting back my nausea from the constant swaying. I don't know how long I've been sitting here in the darkness, lost in my own thoughts as I move further and further away from home.

For the thousandth time, I wonder about my family. I haven't spoken to my mother or father since this morning, Alice since before school began, and the last time I'd seen Emma, I'd watched her run away with that little boy in her arms, seeing her face for the last time as I'd tasted dirt and felt the barrel of a gun tapping the back of my head. They have to assume that I'm dead. They all could very well be dead and I'll never know. After the carnage I'd seen today, I wouldn't doubt it.

They'll never know that I'm alive. Emma escaped before she could see the Republican woman I'd saved Emma from earlier come over to the group gathered around me and say something in Spanish to them. I couldn't understand what they'd said, but after she'd spoken I was hauled to my feet, bounded and blindfolded, and then shoved into this truck. Before I knew it, Portland and my family were a long way away.

During the rest of the day, we only stop once for a break. We're all allowed to step out of the truck for fifteen minutes and then we're all corralled back into the thing. Night eventually falls and darkness comes with it. I can't see anything out from under my blindfold anymore. The truck stops momentarily but then starts back up again after a rotation of drivers. I would be bored if fear wasn't already taking up most of the space in my head.

The man sitting next to me has blubbered about one thing or another throughout most of the day. He's been crying and moaning about his family, which is understandable, except we were barked at by the guards a long time ago to keep silent. He's the only one that's made a sound the entire duration of our drive.

"Hey," I whisper to him. "Be quiet."

He doesn't respond. He only sniffs and mumbles something about his wife.

"You think I'm not terrified?" I snap. "I have a family too, and they're all probably dead. You need to shut up, or you'll be killed."

The man still cries on. I shake my head and decide to ignore him. I've done all I can to help him, and he won't listen to me. Grief is a strange and powerful thing. Sleep begins to call despite my racing heart and I lean my head back on the metal bar behind me.

I'm woken from my doze sometime later by the truck stopping. Doors slam shut and footsteps crunch through gravel and dirt toward the back of the truck. The man next to me becomes hysterical and starts to yell about how we are all going to die, a comforting noise as the footsteps arrive at the bed of the truck.

I hear someone step into the back of the truck, the bed sinking under their weight. The footsteps come closer, especially close to me. My heart races in my throat as my mind begins to picture the possibilities of what might happen to me. I could be shot, choked, blown up, and all kinds of other, more creative ideas in order to secure my death.