The Suitcase

THE SUITCASE

The two little girls ran.

Their dirty, bare feet pounding the earth, their breath sharp and laboured, their filthy arms trying to a keep grip on the bounty flung from the moving train. It was a pattern. They knew the drill. The exiled passengers…. their people…thought they were keeping their precious belongings, but of course it never happened. Always, around the underpass, the Soldiers would fling their un-necessary cargo out of the train, to make room. Some suitcases fared better than others, tumbling effortlessly down the embankment leaving riches intact…. others, smashing into the ground from a height, bursting open, to display everything. Food, toys, money (useless now in the war), clothes, jewellery. Photos, papers and books, good kindling, were always a good find.

One suitcase each was the rule, whatever was in it. You took your chance, and you took it cautiously and quickly before the Soldiers came to clean up. Then straight back to hide in the underpass with the community. It was an important job, fueled by the yearning for warm clothes or food, and no less the desire for luxuries; a pen, a hair-tie or a soft scarf. Nothing would be wasted.

The two little girls ran.

They had seen the Soldiers on the road but didn’t think they would come so quickly. They heard boots behind them, shouts, undecipherable amidst the noise of blood pounding in their ears, and the metal sound of firearms being prepared. They couldn’t lead them back to the underpass, and Megs knew she had to decide for her little sister. The cases were heavy, but they knew the path and forest well. Megs grabbed her sister’s arm and took a sharp right, shoving both suitcases under thick bushes, then they turned east and 20 metres up the hill, she found the alcove in the rocks. The heavy sounds of boots were still behind them. How close it was hard to tell, but they got closer and closer until it seemed like they were almost on top of them. The girls flinched at a gunshot, meant to flush them out? Then silence. They could play that game, they were used to hiding in silence, and sure enough, eventually the boots shuffled and then distanced themselves back in the direction of the road.

When they got to the underpass, the others were back already, letting the old folk open the bounty first. No-one was worried, they had lost many, so people not returning had to be easily forgotten. It’s why no-one bothered to remember names.

That’s when they heard it. Amidst the lethargic pre-occupation of rummaging for food and clothing, a sound so unfamiliar it left everyone cold and motionless. A soft whimper coming from the larger of the girls’ suitcases. A puppy? Lulu tried to grab her sisters’ hand, but Megs was already tearing at the buckles on the solid case. Blankets and coats, and movement, and sound, as their removal revealed the tiny pink hands, feet, and scrunched up cherub cheeks of a baby ready to cry.

They had a week. From that first red-faced cry, warm gurgle and pink fist pump. A week where focus shifted from just survival, finding food and staying warm. A week where they had to share resources to keep something other than themselves alive. For the first time the community took a good look at themselves. The Old Woman in Green, who rarely spoke or moved from the dirt pile at the height of the underpass, even came down and produced a carton of powdered milk from under her overcoat. People that could barely move from fatigue, found the energy to go out for water and scavenge at night.

There was even some hope, although no-one dared use that word. There was hushed talk amongst people that had never spoken to each other before about safety in the Mountains, and the rumours of plentiful berries and fruits and even other communities. The wet season had already started, but the big rains were coming soon. They had caught the tail end of them last year, having to stay up high on the dirt sides of the underpass for weeks at a time to escape the flooding.

They had a week. Then the Soldiers came back. The community had a lookout, a plan, and everyone knew their hiding spaces. A ditch at the top of the underpass, pillars wide enough to hide behind, alcoves at the ends of the tunnel. The Soldiers marched through noisily, smelling of smoke and sweat. They didn’t pause except for one, who stopped to relieve himself. He let the other go ahead and finished his cigarette. Then suddenly he swivelled his head. Something had caught his attention.

The baby cried. Meg couldn’t silence it without making noise herself. Her sister’s eyes were panicked. The soldier shouted, but he was out of ear-range, so he raised his rifle and headed up the wide litter-strewn dirt of the underpass. Meg thought fast. She thrust the baby at Lulu who pacified it temporarily by giving it a finger to suck on. She grabbed a pile of blankets instead….and ran out into full view. Up, up to the top of the underpass, and hoisted herself up onto the bridge, still clinging to the empty swaddling.

The little girl ran. Then stopped.

There he was, standing on the railway tracks, a grin under his helmet, gun raised. Megs was trapped on the Bridge. There was no exit on the other side, they had tried to create one, but it was too steep. Maybe this was enough time for some of the others to get away. Maybe not.

Behind him, the Old Woman in Green approached stealthily. Silent, and amazingly nimble on her feet. She carried a knife; long, rusty, but sharp, and plunged it into the unsuspecting Soldiers neck. He shrieked, grasped his neck and toppled over the precipice where his body came to rest, like a discarded suitcase, in the dirt 40 metres below.

They packed up their meagre belongings, waited a few hours for rain to cover their tracks and sound… and each with visions of a different tomorrow, headed off toward the Mountains.