A Bad Decision.

A Bad Decision.

The air smelled of burning tires and something sweetly rotten; it could be overripe mangoes left to fester in the sun, maybe, or it could be a body no one has found yet. Patricia pressed her back against the crumbling wall of an abandoned shop. It was becoming hard for her to breathe; she needed to rest. The gunfire had stopped for the moment, but that meant nothing. The rebels may have moved on past. She could hear their voices fading into nothing. But she knew they would be back.

Her cameraman, Elias, lay sprawled in the street, in a pool of his own blood, just ten feet away from her, one arm twisted unnaturally beneath his body, the other flung out as if reaching for something that may save him, but there was nothing there. She could see everything as she peered through the bullet hole, crouched behind the wall. His camera—a hulking, expensive piece of technology—had shattered into a million pieces on impact. She could see the lens that was a spiderweb of cracks that glinted in the sunlight. Blood seeped from the hole in his chest. It was so ruby red it reminded her of the glass of wine she had the night before. She gagged at the thought, trying to extinguish it from her brain. He hadn’t even screamed when the bullet hit him. One moment, he was whispering to me. “We shouldn’t be here, Pat. I don’t like the look of this, it is getting very—,” he didn’t even finish what he was saying. and the next he was on the ground, his eyes wide open and a red stain appearing on his chest. Her head spun.

“I just can’t believe he is dead,” she whispered to the wall.

Patricia swallowed hard. She had known Elias for almost three years now. He had a wife at home in Nairobi. He had a baby girl that would never know her father, and she knew he was a good father. She had even held that baby once, its tiny fists clutching at her fingers as if her life depended on it. Now Elias was dead because she had pushed him to get this story that nobody will ever see, because she had insisted, they go deeper into that district that was a no-go area for journalists, and certainly not for a white girl, just to follow a sketchy tip from the bartender at the hotel.

“White girls shouldn’t be here,” the bartender had said. She hadn’t listened; she thought she knew better. Now Elias was dead, and it was her fault.

A shout came from the end of the street. These were the men that had killed Elias. They had been looking for her, and now they were back. Laughter followed the shouting, and then came a ragged, drunken statement. She couldn’t make out what it was he said.

The rebels would loot Elias’s body now, take his watch, his shoes, maybe worse. She had seen what depravity they did to corpses in the photos and videos from last month’s massacre. She couldn’t let that happen to him. But there was no way she could carry him. The guilt, she felt the guilt; it was burrowing into her, into her brain. All she wanted to do was curl up and cry, but she had no time for pity, not now. She needed to get out of there, and soon.

Her phone was a useless slab of crap now as she put it in her pocket. The screen had cracked when she’d dropped it, as she heard the first round of gunfire. Now it wouldn’t switch on. The car, which was their only mode of transport, was more than three blocks north, a direction she didn’t want to go. The fact that all the gunmen had all come from that direction gave her pause. She didn’t even expect it would be drivable, either that or they will have commandeered it and drove it away. Hell, it was only a rental, not her problem, she had bigger ones. There was nothing inside the car that she couldn’t live without. She needed to get out of here, she thought, as she heard more of them heading in her direction. The thought of walking horrified her. It wasn’t the distance that worried her, she was fit and ran for fun and exercise, it was just the out there, bit, the unknown.

She came to the conclusion the safest place would be to head for the British embassy. It was her only option, but the problem was, it was fifty miles away. What made it worse was she would have to travel through rebel-held streets just to get out of the sprawling village, then she would have to travel through open country where the roads had long ago dissolved into dirt tracks through lack of maintenance. She knew this; it had only been a few hours since she had travelled on them; it had been the way she had arrived at this godforsaken place that morning.

The roads were full of twists and turns, making them twice the distance than the crow flies. She could go in a straight line, but she worried the forest hid things even worse than men with guns, these things most likely moved a lot quieter, and the last thing she wanted was to end up as something's dinner, even more than being shot, though she preferred it to be neither. Fear and trepidation were starting to take over her thoughts. She needed to get it together, and her thoughts focused on what she needed to do. She had a long way to go.

It had been several minutes since she heard anything, so plucking up some courage, she stood tentatively and peered out at the street. It was clear for the moment. Could she do it?

She took the chance she knew she had to and dashed over to Elias’s body. She had seen death before, but never this close, and never someone she cared about. Her stomach roiled, threatening to bring up her breakfast, but she took a breath and looked back at Elias. Her fingers trembled as she frantically tried to unclip Elias’s press pass from his jacket. It wasn’t a keepsake, nor was it a stupid sentimental gesture. It was for his daughter. Patricia tucked it into her pocket, then forced herself to move. She needed to get out of there before she was spotted again, and slipped into the maze of back alleys, keeping low and quiet. Constantly looking behind her, scared of shadows, but she knew they would not be quiet if they saw her. That was not their way. The sun was sinking now; it painted the sky in streaks of orange and purple. It would have been beautiful if viewed from her balcony at the hotel with Elias. Now, well, it just mocked her.

Every shadow seemed to shift as she passed through the back streets and alleyways, as if something or someone was hiding there, ready to grab her as she passed by, even though her brain told her it was just fear, there was no one there. Every distant voice sent her pulse skittering, a feeling she hated, but was always there. She thought of the hotel; of the lukewarm beers she’d sank just the night before. She could do with one right now. She thought of the way Elias had teased her about her terrible Swahili. It was bad. Normal things. Gone things. Things she may never do again. The adrenaline was gone, reality was sinking in. She was alone in a place she should have never entered, and may never leave.

She thought back to what he had said. That village is large, with plenty of places we could get ambushed, it could easily become a trap. Elias warned her this was a stronghold for the rebels. She should have listened. But she didn’t. The story was all she thought about, and what it would do to enhance her career. How selfish, she thought. Her ego got Elias killed. It would server right if she got killed herself, it was all her fault.

And “IF,” had just become the biggest word in her vocabulary.

She needed to get moving again, get out of the village, get into the countryside, away from this madness, away from these people chasing her, but would that be any better? The countryside may even be worse. But the embassy would be the only place that might still be safe now this is all kicking off, she tried to convince herself; it was on the edge of the city. That is, if she could reach it. She was such an idiot. It should have been me who died, not him. He would fit in better; he could have done this, she thought.

She was free of the village now, but she could still hear their shouting and sporadic gunfire. She walked faster, following the road, but not on it. Keeping to the bushes and shrubbery, out of sight. Or she hoped so.

By dawn, her feet were raw. She had stolen a pair of sandals from beside a clothesline behind an old ramshackle shack. The shoes she had been wearing were for vanity, not practicality, and they pinched. These sandals were not much better, they were a bit small. The straps were cutting into her skin, leaving red welts.

The rebel village had now given way to scrubland. The air was thick with the scent of dry grass and diesel fumes from some far-off truck that had just passed as she was hiding in a ditch. She had slept for a short while, if you could call it sleep. She had curled up in the hollow of a termite mound, waking to an itchy back, and every time the wind rustled the grass, she jumped. Twice, she had heard vehicles in the night, their headlights cutting through the dark like angry knives. Both times, she had pressed herself into the earth, willing invisibility. She realised maybe this job was not all she had expected. Would this be her future? She thought not.

Now, in the pale morning light, she could see the road ahead. It was just a thin ribbon of dust winding toward the hills. The embassy was somewhere behind those hills. Fifty miles might as well have been five hundred the way she felt at that moment.

Her first mistake happened just past a burned-out petrol station. It was just a boy, no older than twelve, if even that. He stepped out onto the road with an AK-47 slung over his shoulder like it was a schoolbag and he was on his way to school. His eyes were bloodshot, and his lips cracked as if he hadn't had a drink in days. He stared at her for a long while as if she was a ghost or a mirage, then he grinned that disturbing grin, showing teeth that had been filed to points. She knew she should have stayed off the road, but it was easier walking, and she could hear or see vehicles coming, long before they could see her, but a child with a gun, in the middle of nowhere, that was something she didn’t expect.

“Mzungu,” he said. (Swahili for ‘White girl’).

Patricia froze in mid stride.

The boy unslung his rifle, gesturing for her to come closer. She didn’t move. Was there a bounty on her? Had the word spread to find her? She hoped not. She looked at this child, that was no longer a child inside. He frowned back, then barked something in Swahili she didn’t understand. When she still didn’t respond to his orders, he raised the rifle until it was pointing straight at her.

She didn’t know what to do, but as she started toward him, a voice shouted from the trees. Another boy, maybe even younger, sprinted toward them, waving his arms vigorously. An argument broke out between them. It was heated. Patricia edged backward slowly as the younger of the two boys grabbed the first boy by the shoulder, pointing urgently down the road.

She could hear it now. A truck rumbled in the distance. The boys hesitated, then bolted into the brush without looking back. They were obviously afraid. That told her that she should also be afraid. Patricia didn’t wait to see why. She ran. She was already on the move, diving into a ditch behind the burnt-out petrol station.

The truck stopped; they were looking for something. Maybe her. Without warning, a burst of gunfire. Had they found her? The shots were shredding the bushes all around her. She trembled so much her teeth started to chatter. Then her bladder gave way. Moments later, she heard the rumble of the truck starting and relief washed over her as she heard it drive away.

Her second mistake came at dusk. She had found a stream, shallow, but it seemed to be clean, and was scooping up some water to drink when she heard a whimper. It was a girl, maybe eight or nine. She was crouched in the reeds on the opposite bank, her dress torn, her face streaked with dirt and tears. Their eyes met. The girl shook her head violently, vanishing into the undergrowth silently.

Patricia didn’t have time to wonder why. The men emerged from the trees just seconds later, three of them. The fatigues they were wearing were mismatched, but their faces didn’t. They had that weathered, hard man look about them. But they hadn’t seen her yet. She dropped flat on the ground behind a fallen log, her heart hammering so loudly she was sure they would hear it, even over the sound of the water. But they passed her by just ten feet away, their boots kicking up dust as they walked. One paused, sniffing the air like a dog. Could he smell her? The leader snapped at him, and to her relief, they moved on, unaware of her presence.

She waited an hour before crawling away, finding an outcrop of rocks she could rest awhile.

She woke up the next day now knowing, or at least suspecting, they were actively looking for her.

Her body was failing her. Thirst clawed at her throat like an angry cat, but the thought of returning to that creek put shivers down her spine. Hunger twisted her stomach into knots, but she had to bear it for now. There was nothing to eat.

The road had disappeared entirely now; she had walked away from it after the incident with the boy and expected to come across it a few miles later. That was yesterday, and her calculation had been wrong. Now it had left her to navigate her way back by the position of the sun, praying she hadn’t veered off course too much. She knew the city was due east. It couldn’t be far away now, she thought hoped.

She set off again, stumbling more than walking, and as she cleared the next clump of trees, she saw smoke. A thin column rising beyond the next ridge.

When she crested the hill and saw it: a compound with the Union Jack flying proudly beyond the gate, relief flowed over her. She had made it. The walls were topped with razor wire, A new addition in response to the unrest she assumed. It had to be the embassy. It couldn’t be anything else.

She sobbed openly as she reached the gate. She didn’t care who saw. What did it matter anymore?

The guards spotted her straight away as she staggered up to the gate, fumbling to find her press pass, the only identification she still had. Shouts rang out and rifles raised in her direction. She pulled out her press badge, holding it up like a talisman to the guards.

The gates opened.

She didn’t remember collapsing. The only thing she remembered was the cool white tile against her cheek, the smell of antiseptic, then a soft soothing voice of a man saying, “You’re safe now.”

She wasn’t sure if she believed him; it didn’t feel real; she didn’t feel—she didn’t feel anything now. But that soft male voice persisted, repeating several times, as if she could not hear him.

Everything around her was so brilliant white, a shimmering white expanse. It didn’t feel right.

But when a young lady passed her a glass of real lemonade, made from real lemons, her favourite drink in the world, she realised she needn’t worry anymore; she realised at that moment; she was in heaven.