The excited chatter among the other students was cut off as an army truck blocked the road ahead. Our bus shuddered to a stop, almost sending the vehicle crashing into the trees on one side of the dirt road. There was a steep wall of a mountain on the other side. I turned my head and saw another truck as it closed in behind us. The silence inside the bus was punctuated by the engine turning off.
Our bus driver opened the door and climbed out, presumably to assist the truck ahead of us. Before he could reach the other vehicle and the various conversations could resume, three men with guns stepped from the back of the seemingly disabled truck. Our driver approached the vehicle, looking for the operator. He didn't see the men and we stared in disbelief as he was shot in the back of the head.
It's funny the way the mind compensates for extreme fear. I saw the bus driver shot, but it seemed like a high-definition movie playing out before my eyes. As it was happening, everything became brighter and more vivid. I could smell Paul's breath, sweetened by the apple he'd eaten. The gun shot was loud, but distant. The reality didn't settle in my head. It was more like I was watching a cruel joke. It's not really happening, I thought, but it was. Fear coursed through my body even as the details of the events played out with perfect clarity.
The seemingly small space filled with our screams of terror at witnessing the murder of the bus driver. It was as if I had no choice in my reaction; I screamed with the other students because there was nothing else to do. My mind tried to tell me none of it was real, but it was happening whether I wanted to believe it or not.
The men from the army truck climbed into our bus from the front door. The back door was thrown open and more men with guns stood outside. Paul grabbed me, cutting off my own screams. He pushed me down between the floor and seats as I trembled, barely able to move or be moved. He used his body as a shield above me before I could even think what to do. I watched as Kelly slipped through a hole in the floor. There were more screams and more gunfire. Then Paul was lifted off of me and we were shoved down the aisle and out the back.
I saw Kelly on her hands and knees, two gunmen focused on her; she was bleeding from a cut above her eyebrow. Her face was so pale, ghostly white even with her deep summer tan. The rest of the students were lined up against the side of the bus and Mrs. Wellington was being dragged by her silver hair toward the trees. Some of the students were being herded toward the front truck, and photos were being held up next to each of their faces, I assumed to confirm their identities.
"We should make a run for it," Paul whispered in my ear. I barely heard him above the pounding of my pulse in my ears because his voice was so hollow and surreal.
"No, w-we can't," I stammered. I trembled at the idea of escape as we were shuffled toward the army truck. When we reached it, the man with the pictures said something to another man with a rifle and that man grabbed me and tried to pull me away from Paul. I couldn't understand them. Their language was Latin based—similar, but not the same dialect as the villagers. They were shouting and speaking too quickly.
Paul refused to let my arm go and I was just as reluctant to let go of his hand. He released my arm to shove the man who grabbed me, pulling me closer to him. A man appeared from nowhere behind Paul, and the man's face was immediately imprinted on my mind forever. He raised a handgun to Paul's head and shot him before I could even get out a warning. The blood from Paul's head sprayed thick and warm across my face. I blinked rapidly, trying to understand what was happening. A smell similar to raw ground beef filled my nostrils.
Screams exploded all around me as I fell to the ground with Paul, choking on my sudden large tears. I was still holding on to his hand as his blood soaked my clothes. There was more screaming, loud in my ears. At the time I didn't realize it was me. I was dragged away from Paul, kicking and bawling. Another soldier with a gun pointed it at me, but the man with the pictures yelled at him and threw his arm under the rifle, flinging it into the air a moment before he pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening and I couldn't hear a single thing for a moment, not even my own voice.
My body felt cold, my mind numb. Again I thought I was in a vivid dream. This can't really be happening. It couldn't be happening, not to me, or Paul, or all of us. The men yelled at each other. The one with the pictures pointed at Paul's body and then he slapped the man who'd tried to shoot me. There was a confused look on the face of the man who'd shot Paul.
All the men seemed soldier-like to me, but they weren't. If they were soldiers why had they murdered Paul? It didn't make sense, even though they all appeared to be wearing some type of uniform. My mind couldn't reconcile the conflict of their actions with the way they were dressed. Wake up, I thought, but this wasn't a nightmare, it was real.
The man with the pictures gestured at me. I was dragged by two other men around the truck that most of my classmates were in to a Jeep parked a few feet away. They lifted me over the back and then a cloth bag was tied over my head. The bag cut off the intense sights, but not the horrible sounds that slowly got louder and louder from the world around me. Please God, why can't I wake up?
