Free After the First Death by Robert Cormier Page A

Artkin spoke low so that the girl could not overhear. “The snipers are the most patient of men, as they wait. And as they count. They count to see how many of us are here. And they count the openings, the places where they see a bit of flesh here, a bit of clothing there, an eye, a temple, ahand.” Miro always marveled at Artkin’s concentration and the way he had of lecturing even in the middle of an operation. “So be careful, Miro. Do not expose yourself unnecessarily. And be alert always. Although we are, to some extent, protected from the snipers.”
    “To what extent?” Miro asked.
    They could hear the girl murmuring to the children, calming their fears, reassuring them.
    “The message that was sent. The message said that for each one of us who dies or comes to harm a child shall die. They perhaps do not believe this yet. But they will.” He glanced at the body of the dead child on the back seat. “In a while, they will know to what extent we will go.”
    Miro frowned. A question had formed itself in his mind, but he was too timid to ask it. He had never questioned Artkin before, had been content, indeed pleased, to carry out orders.
    “Are you troubled, Miro?” Artkin asked.
    And Miro saw immediately that he could hide nothing from Artkin.
    “This operation,” Miro said, and fell silent, turning to the slit in the window once more, afraid that he would see anger in Artkin’s eyes at his impertinence.
    “What about this operation?” Artkin said. There was no taunt in his voice now.
    He did not look at Artkin but spoke the words that were plaguing him. “This operation is different from the others. The others—we struck fast and then ran. The post office explosion in Brooklyn, the confrontation in Detroit. Los Angeles. We did what was necessary. But this is different.” He kept his eyes glued to the scene outside, but his words rushed out now. If he were going to be condemned for speaking, then he would speak everything that was in his mind. “We are on a bridge,surrounded. The police out there, and the soldiers. The snipers.”
    “This is a test of our strength and endurance, Miro,” Artkin said, still speaking as a teacher, reasonable, patient. “I agree that we appear to be vulnerable. And that danger is all around us. The woods on both sides of the bridge are dangers. They can bring men in there, snipers and others, more numerous than the trees. And the bridge itself. We are perhaps one hundred fifty feet high and open to possible attack by men climbing the girders under us. At night, especially. But we have Stroll and Antibbe to guard us at night. This is a railroad bridge, Miro, and there is space between the ties to see what goes on below. And we have flashlights and spotlights.”
    His words did not bring comfort to Miro. Instead, they emphasized the truth of Miro’s concern.
    “But, most of all, Miro, we have the children. They give us the balance of command. Let the generals and the police chiefs gather in the building across the chasm, let them set up their communications. They are powerless while we have the children.”
    Perhaps Artkin was right. There had never been reason to doubt him before—why now? The snipers would not dare shoot and risk the lives of the children. Stroll and Antibbe were professionals—they knew their jobs. The building across the ravine was at least a thousand yards away, while behind them there was nothing but the sheer drop to the depths below. Still, Miro was troubled.
    “How long will this go on?” he asked.
    “Until the demands are met,” Artkin said, turning back to the window, studying the scene outside.
    “What are the demands?” Miro heard himself asking, taking a deep breath as he spoke, knowing he was takinga desperate chance by asking a question like that.
    Artkin did not answer immediately but continued to look at the terrain. Have I sealed my doom? Miro wondered.
    “You are growing up, Miro,” Artkin said. “I forget sometimes.” He