The Last Road Out

[Viridian]

The Last Road Out
By Viridian


At one point I thought I knew every country in Asia. Then another one springs up overnight. How does a country get made? At what point does one declare oneself a nation? The academic answer would be somewhere along the lines of being recognised by other nations. The realistic answer was when the budding nation realised that they were sitting on top of a wealth beyond imagination, and they had acquired the means to force governments to cede certain benefits. I never got to know what the new country was called; only that it came about at a bloody price.

I’d been a freelance journalist for a few years. I spent most of my time travelling around South East Asia, visiting remote places and writing journal articles for various geographic magazines. I was hoping to get more widespread recognition and make it big in National Geographic, but that was some way ahead of me. It was a pleasurable job that got me meeting different people and seeing new things. It was doubly fun for me, a woman in my mid-30’s, to do things men would typically boast about. I climbed mountains, explored jungles, and even got myself held hostage at one point.

This was a lot different. Where paramilitaries are often portrayed as disorganised and chaotic, the real military and officials could be even more so. We had been shepherded into an empty plot of land from our hostels in the middle of the night and were left waiting for hours. It wasn’t cold – the tropical climate made for humid nights – but it was uncomfortable being crowded into a small patch of land. You could sense there was something bad happening. You could see it in people’s eyes. There had been rumours, of course. Tonight we would find out at least one version of the truth.

A round man in a suit stood on a makeshift platform built from crates and skips. He waved for our attention and started barking out instructions. I couldn’t understand what language he was speaking in, and neither could most of the crowd. A few whispers among the crowd and some broken phrases in English were soon interpreted into something meaningful.

“You are all in big danger,” he shouted. “The rebels have seized control of the roads leading out of this province. We must evacuate immediately by order of the army. We will send coaches to take you all to the capital, where you will be placed in the custody of your respective embassies.” The crowd erupted into shouting. The official continued his speech. “Leave all your belongings here. They will be returned to you in the capital. Please do as the soldiers ask and you will all be safe.”

That nearly started a riot. The crowd was quickly turning into an angry mob, and would have lynched the official if it weren’t for the thoughtfulness of his soldiers. They fired shots into the air, bringing the crowd into line. Seizing upon the surprise, the soldiers moved in and dispersed the crowd as efficiently as police would end a protest. I knew the official’s promises were all a farce, but whether or not we were in good hands was something we had to find out later. We were all haphazardly shoved into the coaches that had been pressed into service from tourist depots; no one bothering to take our names. Most of us had been asleep before the impromptu assembly and had no identification with us; few of us had anything more than our sleepwear.

Packed into the coaches like sardines, we were driven for hours down bumpy roads. We didn’t know where we were going. The drivers apparently only had one instruction: drive. And drive they did. We wound our way through the jungle; an eerie experience at this time of the night. Those of us who were by the windows could see the orange glow of the sun appearing between the peaks in the distance. We had been awake all night. Some of us were sleeping on our feet.

The coach came to a stop in the middle of the road. Ahead, we could see a checkpoint manned by soldiers. It looked routine enough – the whispers said that the army had cordoned off the rebels and they were processing all traffic going in and out of the area. It didn’t sound right to me. Why would we be driving towards the danger zone? The answer was much clearer in hindsight. The events that unfolded were the most traumatic I had ever experienced. It was reported much later that the local official that had briefed us earlier was travelling ahead of us in his private car. He proved to be an unpopular man. When the soldiers realised who he was, they ordered him to stop and surrender to the new regime. The official fled. The soldiers opened fire on his car, killing all of his guards. The official made a run for our coach. What happened next was unexplainable. It might have been than the rebels thought the coach was a military vehicle, despite being painted with bright pictures and large Coca-Cola logos. Maybe the driver’s uniform looked awfully similar to a soldier’s. Whatever the reason, the rebels opened fire on the coach.

Glass shattered and people screamed. The thin body of the coach was no match to the rifle bullets that saturated the entire vehicle. All those who were standing up were mercilessly cut down; many receiving multiple wounds; some killed instantaneously. When the gunfire was over, at least twenty of us were dead; a dozen more severely wounded. The ones who were fortunate enough to be seated managed to evade most of the gunfire, which had been aimed at head-height. The official was peppered with bullets before he got on the coach.

The rebel soldiers emerged from their ambush positions. They checked the interior of the coach, now filled with dead and dying people; covered in each other’s blood and brains. Of the entire coach, around 12 people were able to walk out. The rebels took us away. What happened to the rest of the survivors became a mystery that brought down the wrath of the world once the details were discovered. That was months to come.

We were moved onto a truck and driven to the rebel encampment, where we would remain for two weeks. The journey there was tense. The rebels were constantly on the watch for government troops and were suspicious of some of the surviving tourists. We sat in silence for most of the trip. The girl sitting opposite me gave me a fond nod.

“I remember you from the hostel,” she said. “I’m Diana. I joined your cabin yesterday morning. What’s your name?”

“Vanessa de Silva,” I replied.

Diana was an 18-year-old girl from Australia, enjoying her first months of freedom from school by going backpacking. Her parents were both Greek, yet she had a unique appearance that was neither Greek nor Anglo. Her skin was pale and her brown hair was slightly ruffled. She was small in size but wide at the bust and hips; a rather average look that befitted her teenage status. I soon came to know some of the others on the truck: Philip and Grace, twins from America who were on holiday; Jarryd, a university student from Australia; and Thanh, a young Vietnamese lady who spoke little English.

At the camp, the men were separated from the group. Thanh was whisked away by the guards, leaving myself, Helen and Grace. We were kept in a small hut under constant guard. Our routine became clear – we would be held hostage until further notice. We were to be fed rice and vegetables twice a day and allowed some time to stretch our legs, but the majority of the time was spent in confinement. The men were tasked with doing manual work and we seldom saw them, especially after they were moved to a different camp.

Boredom was the main enemy for us. The guards did not allow us to converse freely, though we managed to have hushed talks behind their backs. However, we were more troubled by the guards’ boredom more than our own; and a week into our capture, the guards began to amuse themselves. Without even doing anything, I was becoming the centre of attention. I was wearing a tank top in the blue and white stripes of the Argentina national football team. I bought it when was I a teenager and kept it as a lucky charm. I had since outgrown it. It was a tight fit but still comfortable. However, it was already low-cut, and wear and tear had ripped the neckline down further to my larger bust, exposing more cleavage than I was comfortable with, and the top my areolas were just visible. Combined with a short skirt, I was eye candy for any guard who was assigned watch. The others were attractive as well – Grace was dressed for a night out in a small, tight red dress; and Diana was clearly braless under her t-shirt.

Whoever was in charge of the camp maintained strict discipline. As we were foreign nationals, our capture was of the utmost importance to their nationalist cause, providing a crucial bargaining chip to bid for recognition of their legitimacy. That also meant we were supposed to be kept in good condition. We were for the most part, and the rebels did not dare touch us. One day, however, the camp leader was away. A few guards stepped into our hut. One of them was carrying a pack of commercial-brand cookies. He tossed them to us. He pointed to Diana and made a groping motion before pointing to me. Diana looked confused.

“He’s giving us the cookies,” I told Diana, interpreting his crude body language, “if you play with my breasts.”

Diana looked horrified. The guard repeated his obscene gesture.

“Do it,” I told her. “Otherwise they might shoot us.”

Hesitantly, she moved over to where I was kneeling and placed her hands over my breasts. I gave her a nod of approval. She gave me a brief squeeze. I grabbed her hands and forced them under my top, allowing her to squeeze my hardened nipples. I moaned ecstatically; not having had any intimate sexual contact as long as I could remember. Diana was horrified, unable to take her hands off my tits as I kept her massaging them. Another item clunked onto the floor – a tin of condensed milk. The men were paying for a show. This was going beyond my comfort zone, but I remembered the last time I was held hostage. We were forced to strip, and when one of us refused, she was shot dead on the spot. More concerned about their lust for blood more than the food rewards, I reached under my skirt and pulled off my panties, hurling it towards the guard who had donated the condensed milk. I slipped my fingers into my moist pussy, groaning with intense pleasure, fingering myself as Diana played with my nipples.

“Suck on them,” I gasped between breaths. “Bite them hard.”

I put my hand behind her head and thrust it into my chest. She sought out my nipple with her tongue; each lick sending a spasm of lust through my horny body; her teeth putting me in a state of near-climax. This time a whole Red Cross food parcel was thrown into the hut. Diana let out a sharp cry. Grace, who had been watching helplessly, was reaching up Diana’s top and fondling her breasts. Diana squinted and resisted, having never been touched like this before. This might have ended in an ugly manner, and it did.

A sharp bang echoed through the hut, followed by the thud of another object on the wooden floor – the guard’s limp body. The camp leader had returned. He barked at the other guards watching the show and berated them heavily. They cowered under him, not wanting to meet the same fate. He ordered them to drag the body off. He looked at us three sexually-charged hostages with a look of contempt, but he didn’t need to ask us what had happened. He shook his head, reached into his pocket and pulled out a bar of chocolate. He left it on the pile of donations we had accumulated. We dined that night on the extra rations, though each of us both relished and rued how it was given. I was feeling unbearably horny and Diana felt dirty after her first sexual experience. I found it hard to talk to her, as if I had violated her rather than the other way around. The guards had taken my underwear as well, leaving feeling even more exposed. That night my fingers wandered between my legs several times. I never finished the job.

The next day, we were moved from the camp. As a precaution, our hands were tied in front of us so that we could not move freely if we ran for it. We were led away on foot through seldom-trod paths in the thickest jungle. It was tiring and we were forced to march for hours, resting every now and then for only a few minutes. The camp leader frequently offered his water bottle to us, which we gratefully accepted. By now we were in pitiful condition. We had all lost some weight and our clothing was torn and dirty.

Not long after our last rest, the march was interrupted by the hail of gunfire. We were thrown onto the ground as bullets whizzed overhead. One of the rebels stood up and was immediately cut down; his body ripped through by a dozen shots at once. The other rebels fired into the foliage, raking the surrounding vegetation, but instead they themselves were raked by return fire. The jungle their friend, the rebels were now at the mercy of their ambushers, who used their tactics against them. The rebels were slow to recover from the shock of the assault and banded together at pile of rocks, forming an ad-hoc defensive formation.

The camp leader, however, had other ideas. Fearful that we would be caught in the crossfire, he pulled us up and ushered us ahead. The path led to a rope bridge that spanned a gap in the rocky path. The bridge was old and was barely strong enough to support one person, but under attack as we were, we hastened across the swinging bridge. The ropes gave way without warning, sending us plummeting down. The camp leader grabbed me by the waist and tried to throw me forward, but it was already too late. We crashed down onto the ground below – not water, as I thought, but another soft landing. I landed on top of the leader and immediately heard a loud squelch followed by the constant sound of sucking mud. The whole surface of the mud quaked. Grace and Diana sound distance behind us.

The leader’s face was almost driven right into the mud. On his stomach and weighed by his packs as well as my body, he was sinking rapidly into the mud. The sandy texture, the rivulets of water running through the cracked surface and the fact that we were all steadily sinking quickly told me that we were in a patch of quicksand. With our hands bound, we had no way of escaping. The leader was our only hope, but he was quickly disappearing beneath the thick surface. I tried to roll my body off him, landing with a plop on my back. The quicksand immediately opened up and moulded around my whole body, drawing me in. Alarmed, I tried to get my body upright, succeeding only in digging my legs deeper, which in turn caused my lower body to begin to sink. I couldn’t find the leverage to get free. The rebel leader was all but gone now. In his last throes, before the weight of his equipment pulled him under, he managed to get an arm out of the sucking bog. In his hand was a knife. His last instruction was cut short by the quicksand covering his face, but I understood what he wanted me to do. His firm held strong as I pushed my bindings against the blade. A few tugs and it cut through the sinews, nearly slicing through my arm. The hand still held the knife firmly even after its owner long descended into the depths of the mire; so that when he was dead body was recovered he was still clutching it – a testament to his last deed.

With my arms free, I was able to shift myself into an upright position, sinking to my waist. Grace and Diana were up their hips and, still being bound, could only wriggle where they were. However, my struggling had churned up the mud where I was, causing me to sink quicker than they were. The quicksand shifted and I was suddenly up to my breasts. Barely able to move in the thick bog, the best I could do was heave towards the leader’s body. His packs were still above the surface, though sinking rapidly. I climbed over the top, forcing the leader’s body to fully submerge. I could feel my skirt being pulled down my legs by the quicksand. Instead of reaching down to salvage my modesty, I took off my mud-soaked tank top and carefully snagged onto a nearby root. It was the last time I would wear my lucky football top. As I dragged myself over the unforgiving surface, the top ripped apart. Clutching desperately at the root, I wriggled the rest of the way out; the quicksand caressing every inch of my naked body. The gritty sand sent pulses of arousal as it brushed against my nipples and between my legs. In different circumstances this would’ve gotten interesting. I pushed those thoughts aside and stood on solid ground; mud dripping off my body.

No sooner had I gotten myself out, I found myself at the end of a rifle muzzle. The rebel shouted at me. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. His eyes were wide and fearful, his arms shaking. I held my hands up, but he was rapidly becoming frustrated at my inability to understand. A burst of gunfire ripped through the foliage and peppered his body. He fell forwards and knocked me back into the quicksand. I landed on my back and he crumpled on top of me. I could feel the warmth of his blood pouring out of his wounds. He was dead weight. Within seconds I was pushed under, barely able to get a last breath in. I angled my body so that he would slip off, but doing so made me sink deeper beneath the surface. I pushed an arm up through the quicksand. Immediately it was grabbed by someone. Another hand grabbed my arm and hauled me up. Moments later my head re-emerged and I gasped for air.

“It’s okay,” said a voice. It was Thanh, the girl from the camp. She was up to her shoulders in the quicksand with me, holding me up. Thanh shouted out and the other two hostages, Jarryd and Phillip, appeared from the jungle, armed with captured assault rifles. They got down and helped pull us to safety.

“We’re glad to see you again,” said Jarryd, flashing a bright grin. “You won’t believe what we had to do.”

“Tell later,” Thanh snapped. “Two more over there.”

I turned and nearly cried in horror. Grace and Diana were nearly gone; their heads tilted to prevent them from submerging. Phillip dropped his rifle and ran to the edge of the quicksand towards his sister. I blocked his path.

“You’ll get stuck!” I cautioned.

“Grace!” he fumed. “Hang on! We’ll get you out!”

Jarryd was pulling a rope out from his pack. Thanh tapped me on the shoulder. “We go now, or they go. Quick!”

She stripped off her clothing, revealing her delicate oriental frame. She didn’t care as much about modesty than the need to get rid of the muddy clothes that were weighing her down. She ran gingerly across the quaking surface of the bog. I followed in her steps, aware that the surface could come apart and pull us in at any moment. Thanh managed to reach Diana on the far end before she was pulled to her hips. I barely reached Grace. We hooked our arms underneath theirs and kept them afloat at the cost of our own bodies.

“Grab this!” Jarryd yelled, hurling the rope towards me.

“Their hands are tied!” I shouted back. “We have to pull them out!”

“Tie it around yourself first!”

I seized the rope as soon as it came near and tied it around myself. Jarryd and Phillip heaved on the rope; their combined strength pulling us through the bog like a toy boat in a bathtub. Phillip’s desperation to save his sister fuelled him with adrenaline. He grabbed Grace and pulled her out of my arms while Jarryd did the same for me.

“Hurry!” Thanh shouted. She was up to her shoulders and Diana’s face was about to be consumed.

Phillip was cutting through Grace’s bonds with a knife when he was suddenly hit in the shoulder by a bullet. He slumped over.

“Phillip!” Jarryd and Grace shouted in unison. Grace laid him on his back and tried stop the bleeding, calling out his name for a response. Jarryd picked up a rifle and opened fire on the incoming rebels, drawn to our position by the previous gunfire.

Naked, there wasn’t anything I could do in the fight, but Thanh and Diana were still out there. Not willing to let Thanh’s sacrifice go to waste, I ran out over the quicksand again. I soon sank to my hips, but I kept on trudging through. The quicksand, now churned up and liquefied, accepted me greedily, pulling me to my chest once more, but I got to the girls. I held onto both of them.

“Pull!” I shouted.

But no one did. Bullets were flying overhead. I couldn’t see what was happening behind me. Shouts were muffled as my ears went under, followed by our heads. All three of us were under the quicksand. The air was being squeezed out of me. I couldn’t hold on. Something was pulling. Suddenly my forehead felt cold air against it. The pressure eased and my mouth opened for air, swallowing mud but retaining enough oxygen for me to refill my lungs as I coughed and spluttered. Grace was pulling. So was Jarryd. So was Phillip.

It took all three of them – Phillip with only one arm in use – to get us to the quicksand’s edge. Diana was pulled out first followed by Thanh. Grace set to freeing their bonds while Jarryd fished me out. Once we were all free, Jarryd guided us to a nearby pond, where we were able to get ourselves cleaned up. Grace tended to her brother and made a bandage out of her dress. I emerged from the pond with the water glistening off my skin. I hadn’t felt this light for years, even though we were still in the midst of an insurrection. I wished I had towel to dry myself off. I was surprised when a jacket was flung at me.

“You’ll freeze,” said Jarryd. “Put it on. It’s my dad’s.”

It was enough to cover my upper body, and warm enough from Jarryd’s body to keep me comfy. Jarryd had insisted on keeping watch, though it seemed he was more interested in watching the girls bathing. He took his eyes off the pool to look at me.

“Tell me what happened,” I said.

We sat down and shared our stories. Jarryd and Phillip had been taken to another camp with more prisoners. They were treated more cruelly than we were, and their misery only ended when planes flew over the camp and bombed it. A lot of prisoners were killed, but those who were alive overpowered their captors and seized weapons. Remembering us, Jarryd and Phillip broke off from the group and tried to seek us out. They encountered Thanh, who had escaped without us knowing about it. They tracked the rebels as they moved out and took us away. The three of them ambushed the rebel column and managed to rout them. Jarryd, a former army reservist, devised the plan and executed it perfectly.

“The plan now,” he said with a slight boast, “is to get across the border. It’s a bit of a hike, but they’re probably expecting refugees. Rumour has it that they’ve joined the war on the government side and the rebels are pulling together for a last stand. We should be safe from here on.” He sensed some hesitation from me. “What’s wrong?”

“Just wondering,” I said. “Phillip had a reason to go and find his sister, but what about you? You could’ve joined with the rest of the group. It would’ve been safer.”

He blushed. “Well, I’ve got a thing for Latina chicks, you see…”

It didn’t matter whether he was joking or not. I leapt onto him and smothered him with a kiss. Suddenly, being bare from the waist down wasn’t such a bad thing – and there was always the pond to get cleaned up in.

[YerKiddin]

Great story!

[PM2K]

Nicely done!