Free Selection Event by Wayne Wightman Page B

many are there?”
    “I seen about ten.”
    “I only saw men. Are there any women?”
    “Maybe one. I heard a voice that mighta been a woman. Maybe.”
    “What's your name?”
    “Max,” he said cautiously.
    “I'm Martin.” He reached across the space between them and shook the boy's hand. It was hot and grimy.
    “Are we gonna excape?”
    “You bet,” Martin said. He moved over next to the boy and whispered. “We're going to do whatever they want us to do. We aren't going to cause them any trouble. When I see our chance, we're out of here. And now we won't talk about escaping again. When it's time, I'll let you know. Until then, we do everything they say.”
    “You won't leave me here.” He was folding and unfolding the edge of his t-shirt around the plastic Superman.
    “No, I won't leave you here.”
    “My mom and dad are dead.” He was looking at his hands again. He turned his toes in toward each other and moved them back under the edge of the cot.
    “Mine are dead too,” Martin said. “Almost everyone is dead.”
    “Except these bad guys,” Max said. He bent his head down farther, his shoulders jerked a little, and then he brought his hands up to cover his eyes.
    Martin sat on the cot beside the boy and wrapped one arm around him. Inside his grimy t-shirt, his skin was hot, and between sobs, Martin could feel the boy's quickly beating heart.
    Later, as they talked, Martin learned that Max had been found three days earlier and had been kept in the room the whole time, for what reasons the boy didn't know. They had told him they were going to “bring back America” and that they were keeping him here for his own safety, but he didn't believe them.
    The boy had wandered around Santa Miranda enough to know that it was safer now to wander around than it had ever been before. “No gangs or perverts,” he had said. “I seen lots of animals, though. Zebras, monkeys, hippopotamesses, and lots of things.” Loose zoo animals were more of a treat than a threat. He listened attentively when Martin told him about living underground and then coming out to see a giraffe grazing the top of a tree.
    Later in the day, when both Martin and the boy were feeling noticeably hungry, Ryan rattled the hasp and opened the door. He brought no food but carried his pistol in his hand. He motioned for Martin to follow him.
    “What about the boy? He's hungry.”
    Ryan said nothing, but after a slow blink, he gestured again with the pistol and jerked his head at Martin.
    “Do what they tell you,” Martin told the boy and then left the room.
    Curtiz sat at the long dining table, which had been placed in the middle of the living room. He still wore his camouflage outfit, but he had his beret off, and his short black hair was as neatly barbered as his thin mustache. A half empty glass of red wine sat by one hand and next to that was a wooden pointer. Two maps were opened and spread across the table, one of Santa Miranda, one of the East Bay and San Francisco.
    “To show you how much I trust you, Martin, you already have your first mission.”
    “I'm not a religious person. Or a spy.”
    “Very good! Yes. Would you like something to drink while I explain your... well, let's call it your 'assignment.'”
    “Max is hungry. The kid.”
    “Mess is at 1700.” He stood up and leaned across the maps, apparently studying them carefully. Martin remembered doing this with the boys on his street. They had an old map they'd found in someone's garbage can and with a stick from a peach tree they poked it full of holes as they made elaborate plans to defeat the Russians when they invaded Oak Street.
    “We're going to establish an outpost of civilization here, Martin, and you're going to be a part of it, in on the ground floor, so to speak.” He looked up at him and raised one eyebrow. He pressed his lips together contemplatively and seemed to be tapping his teeth together. “Martin,” he said, “if I may speak personally and