A New Life

He was asleep on a rice straw mat on the floor of the hut when a sharp kick to his lower back waked him, angry and scared. He came to a crouch, back against the wall, but the kicker had retreated hastily away into the doorway. Ready to run.  A scruffy sapper said, "You. Boy. It is time for you to go. Come to the truck."

Now that he was awake, he could hear a motor thrumming outside, smell rough exhaust fumes.

The soldier backed out of the door and disappeared. The boy went to the hut door, cautiously, and looked out. It was before dawn, and the camp was dimly lit by a few yellow lights strung on bamboo poles.

There was an ancient stakebed truck ten feet away, engine running. The bed was uncovered, and had a pile of melons, some burlap bags of rice and an old small engine lying it in. The soldier was standing beside the passenger door, and montioned to the back of the truck with his AKS. "Get in!"

Zeno was motionless for a moment, and then said, "No. Why? Where are you taking me?"

 "GET IN!" screamed the soldier, jabbing threateningly with his rifle. Zeno looked around. There was no one moving this early in the camp.

 "You must go. It will be good." Zeno pivoted instantly at the voice. The officer was standing behind him, slouching on the hut wall. Smoking. He smiled. "I am sending you to the city to meet a man I know. He will help you. You will help him, too, and then, he will help me. Almost like Kharma." He smiled on through the smoke.

"Where? Who is this man? I want to go home."

"All in time, young tiger. All in time. You will have a home. Now, get in truck, or I will tell him to shoot you. You might be worth something to me, but not all that much."

Zeno looked at the bare ground, then squeezed his eyes shut tightly. A tear fell to the ground, and he was mortified at the loss of face from the show of weakness. There was no denying, though. He was a boy, not yet a man, and he wanted his mother and father. He looked up. The soldier and the officer waited.

Zeno shuffled to the back of the truck and climbed in. A driver got out of the cab with rusty old shackles. The soldier came to the back of the truck and aimed his automatic rifle at Zeno's head. The driver locked one end of the chain around Zeno's neck, and then the other around the junk engine lying on the bed.

 "That will hold him. No one wants to drag a hundred kilos around with their neck. Ha!" The driver got back behind the wheel, still chuckling to himself. The soldier sneered at Zeno, and got in the passenger side.

The gears ground, and the truck lurched forward. "Make me proud," said the officer, waving, and shrinking into gloom as the truck moved forward, out of the camp.

 Soon Zeno could only see his shroud of cigarette smoke, strangely luminous in the cold yellow light of the camp. The truck smelled of diesel fuel and rust. Everything was covered in rust, the truck, and everything in it, including his clothes, his skin. The smell was so strong, he could taste it. It tasted like blood.