Amerikan Eagle

“I’ll tell you, but Christ, it doesn’t make sense… something like that to get me in a labor camp.”

“Sean, what did he say?”

He shrugged. “The FBI guy said something like ‘Right from the start, he’s our man.’ ”

“ ‘Right from the start, he’s our man’? That’s what he said? What in hell does that mean?” Sam asked.

Sean said, “If I knew, do you think I would be here?”

* * *

They talked for a few minutes more, with Sam trying to jiggle something, anything from Sean’s memory of what he’d overheard. But the records clerk kept insisting the same thing: Right from the start, he’s our man. Sam looked at the MPs, ready to take Sean back. And if ordered, ready, no doubt, to take Sam prisoner as well.

He asked, “How’s it going here? How are you treated?”

Sean had one dirty hand on top of the other on the picnic table. “There’s been stories, you know. In Life and The Saturday Evening Post. And movies. I Was a Fugitive from a Labor Camp. But that’s all bullshit. Nothing like the real deal, my friend.”

Sam was silent.

“The real deal is, you get picked up and then tuned up slapped around, that kind of shit. Driven out here, dumped in a compound. Lined up, names checked, and first lesson you get, some of the older prisoners, they’re on the other side of the fence. They whisper to you, ‘Hey, toss over your watches, your extra shoes, food packages,’ that sort of thing. The guards will confiscate everything you’ve got. So some of the guys—hell, some are just kids—they toss stuff over just like that. You know what happens next.”

“They never see their things again.”

“Of course. And then you get shaved, deloused, showered, and given these lovely clothes. Another tune-up here and there, and you meet your bunkmates. Oh, really trustworthy fellows. What wasn’t taken at the fence is stolen during the night. Off to work the next morning… chopping wood, making furniture, waiting for your billet for a train out west… oh yeah, you learn a lot. Food is rotten, the bunks have fleas, and it’s every man for himself.”

Off in the distance, a burst of gunfire followed by another. Sean winced. Sam said, “What the hell was that?”

“Officially, weapons practice. Unofficially, guys decide that being here in a transit camp is their best chance to get out before being sent out west. Most of ’em have relatives in easy driving distance. So you get the occasional breakout attempt, the occasional shot-while-trying-to-escape. All unofficial, of course.”

“Yeah.”

Tears welled up in the record clerk’s eyes. “Other thing you learn, Sam, is what kind of coward you are. All the talk of being brave and not knuckling under our new government order, it’s all bullshit. You get dumped here, pretty soon all you care about is a good sandwich for lunch, hot water for a shower, and being able to sleep without getting beaten up. Stuff like freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, that’s all crap. Just keeping your own ass well fed, warm, and safe. That’s all you care about.”

The wind shifted, and instead of hearing gunfire, Sam heard a man’s scream. It seemed to go on and on and then gurgle off. Sean looked at him and said, “Bad, I know, but at least it’s not as bad as the other camps.”

“What other camps?”

“Shit, I think I’ve said too much already.”

“Come on, Sean. What do you mean? What other camps?”

“Word is, there are other camps out there. Not officially part of the system. Highly restricted. Here, at least, and the regular labor camps, you get in, you’re serving a sentence. These other camps, they work you to death.”

“Where are they?”

“Mostly in the South, from what I hear, but Jesus, the rumors are something else. If you step out of line, just for one second, you’re shot on the spot.”

“Who’s in these camps?”

“Who the hell knows? Not regular political prisoners, that’s for sure. Word is, there are special trains that take the prisoners to these camps.”

“What the hell do you mean, special trains?”

“Sealed. With markings painted on the side, so they get priority through all stations and sidings.”

That damnable memory of when he was a patrolman, hearing that train roar through with no identifying marks save the yellow stripes painted on the side, hearing the screams and moans from within…

“Another thing, Sam. The prisoners in those special trains… they’re tattooed. Numbers on their wrists. Can you believe that? Tattooed, like fucking cattle.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sean was looking at him expectantly, but Sam couldn’t say a word. He was thinking furiously.

Peter Wotan.

Special trains.

Tattooed wrists.

He had to leave.

Had to leave now.

Sam stood up and motioned the MPs over. As they started walking toward them, he said softly, “I’ve got to go, Sean. But I’ll do my damnedest to try to get you out.”