Rescue Base 203

Annie was pushing the wheelbarrow full of dirt — this was the third load she'd hauled to the pit that served as a latrine. Her shoes and the hems of her jeans were spattered with splashes from the foul-smelling hole. She was sweating from the effort, her blouse soaked through. The small hill where the inmates had to dig for dirt lay at the edge of the forest, a hundred yards off, out of sight of the Base. You had to dig the stony ground with a shovel, under the watch of two guards, fill the wheelbarrow, and haul it back to the Base's gates. There was only one guard along the way, but much of the road was visible from the watchtowers. Then, under threat from the sentries' weapons, you had to cross the camp to finally reach the pit. And start over. She worked mechanically, her mind fixed on a single concern: when would Marlène give the signal? It had to be close to noon, and the guards would soon give the order to head back. She tried to catch Marlène's eye as she came the other way, her empty wheelbarrow rattling along the road. But Marlène paid her not the slightest attention. Was she going to break her word? Despite the food Annie had given her?

She emptied the wheelbarrow into the stinking muck stagnating in the pit, indifferent to the splatter, then headed back. If Marlène had betrayed her, she'd need to rethink her plans and seize the opportunity without further delay. The only chance was up on the hill. How could she distract the two guards supervising the work there?

When she reached the hill, she spotted Marlène leaning on her shovel, chatting with the two men. They were completely relaxed, rifles slung over their shoulders. A surge of hope seized her. Then a terrible suspicion. Was Marlène ratting her out?

At that moment, Marlène turned and pointed straight at her. No doubt about it now — Miss Pee had ratted her out! The two guards eyed her with a smirk, then shuffled toward Annie. She let go of the wheelbarrow handles, stunned. She was utterly frozen with fear. That was the end of her plans! She had no way to defend herself. Her own shovel lay on the ground ten feet away — she hadn't brought it with her, since it was useless for emptying wheelbarrows.

Marlène had stayed still behind the two men, seemingly indifferent to what came next,

But suddenly she raised the shovel, wound up, and swung the blade hard into the first guard's neck; he crumpled to the ground, gasping. Without wasting a second, Marlène swept the second guard's legs out from under him with the shovel; he went down too, screaming. Marlène seemed possessed — relentlessly she rained shovel blows down on the man, keeping him from getting up or reaching his weapon, while his colleague, on his knees, desperately tried to stanch the blood pouring from his neck.

That night, the purge begins. It's past midnight. The hour wasn't chosen at random; Romuald reckons that, caught by surprise in their sleep, the prisoners will put up less resistance. The guards have driven the inmates out of the dormitories. They're gathered outside the barracks, barefoot for the most part, a shivering, anxious mass under the glare of the floodlights. Eight guards and three members of the administrative staff watch over them, weapons drawn. The sentries posted on the ramparts observe from a distance — they're the most reluctant of the guards, which is exactly why they were assigned to watch duty.

Romuald Kidongo, meanwhile, is still sitting at his desk, gaze lost in the distance, telling the beads of his rosary. When one of the guards knocks at the door, he snaps out of his trance. "Yes, what is it?" barks the Director. "They're assembled as you requested, Director, sir," comes a muffled voice from the other side of the door. "Wait for me. I'm coming!" Romuald replies curtly. He tucks the rosary back into his pocket, crosses himself, then opens a desk drawer; inside is a holster and a revolver, which he takes out. He checks it carefully; he's never had to use it before now. Perhaps the time has come to fix that. He stands, straps on the holster, slides the revolver into it. Then he picks up the slender pointer he usually uses in meetings to indicate one point or another on a map. He's ready. He takes a deep breath before leaving the office. The task ahead is difficult but necessary; there's no question of shirking it. This, he tells himself with pride, is what marks a true leader: owning the good along with the bad, taking full responsibility for it. Then he pushes the door open and appears, grim-faced, before the intimidated guard. "Let's go," he says, in a tone that brooks no argument.

Outside, the night air feels cool to him. He pauses a moment on the porch of the administrative building, surveying the Base, lingering on each structure, checking the guards' positions. The sentries, those cowards, are at their posts; the rest of the men ring the stunned inmates, rifles raised. Good — his orders seem to have been carried out so far. He coldly studies the two groups of prisoners, men on one side, women on the other. Some are in pajamas, some in nightgowns, others naked; none has had the chance to get dressed or cover themselves with a coat or jacket, or even put on shoes — the guards have made sure of that. Romuald advances slowly through a murmur of anxious voices. Then he stops two meters from the group of frightened women. At a wave of his hand, two guards step closer, weapons in hand. "Have them line up," Romuald says.

"Get in line! Single file!" one of the guards shouts. "Move it!"

A few sharp taps with the flat of their rifle butts speed things along, and soon the women are lined up. The group of men seems paralyzed, but to prevent any rash uprising, the guards' weapons stay trained on them, at chest height. The Director steps forward, walking slowly along the line, studying the unfortunate women. When he finishes this first pass, he starts a second; with his pointer, he singles out certain women — at once the guards yank them roughly out of line and gather them off to one side. There are eight in total, including Nicole and her wards. The others — some fifteen emaciated women, judged too old or too weak — wait, terrified, not knowing whether they've been chosen or condemned, shivering under the glare of the floodlights. At a signal from Romuald, one of the guards steps over. "Take the selected ones back to the dormitory," he orders. The eight women move off, escorted by their guard, relieved, though not without a last glance at their companions standing frozen, paralyzed with dread. The slam of the dormitory door echoes through the silence, and then the guard returns, alone, and resumes his post.

The murmur of unease grows among the inmates. The moment is critical, Romuald knows it. Leaving the group of shivering women under the guards' watch, he moves toward the male prisoners. He gives a slight signal to one of the guards. "Line up!" the man orders. Grumbling, the men comply. One of them, completely naked, makes a pitiful attempt to cover his genitals. But another protests loudly, trying to rouse his fellow unfortunates. Romuald points at him at once with his pointer.

Two guards grab the protester, drag him out of line, and, despite his struggling and protests, force him to his knees. Every eye is fixed on the wretched man. The tension is palpable. Romuald walks toward him in a sudden silence. He towers over the terrified man. The moment has come. As Romuald unclips his holster and draws his revolver, a horrified murmur ripples through the group of prisoners. The rebel's pleading look does not move him as he presses the muzzle of the gun to his forehead. The gunshot cracks out like a peal of thunder.

The gang stood in a circle around a tree. Three men, stripped to the waist, hung from it by their arms, the tips of their feet barely brushing the ground. Their faces and torsos were dotted with bleeding gashes, their flesh marked with enormous bruises, their trousers stained with blood and urine. One of them, a blond man with a ponytail, had passed out. The other two groaned faintly. They had no voice left, from all the screaming and pleading.

A storm of shouts and insults rained down on the three hanging men. Facing them stood Luc, alias the Boss, alias Barbeuc. He toyed absently with his knife as he watched them. The gang members were utterly worked up, fascinated by the scene unfolding before them. Luc snapped out of his reverie and stepped toward the unconscious man hanging in the middle. He gave him two hard slaps to bring him back around. A ripple ran through the crowd of onlookers. When the wretched man opened his eyes, Luc grabbed his hair with one hand and, using the knife in the other, despite the man's screams, sliced clean through his right ear, then the lobe of his left ear. He tossed the bloody pieces to the ground as his victim sobbed, his body wracked with shaking.

Excitement among the bandits had reached its peak. But when Luc raised a finger to his lips for silence, the gang's shouting stopped at once. The Boss turned to his victim and said, in an oily tone once the silence returned: "I left you one ear almost intact. So you can hear me. Go on then, tell me how you and these two clowns here were planning to screw us over."