Chapter Thirteen

“DOWN, DOWN!”

Rusty’s shout sounded distant. A further window went, raked by automatic fire. Mike’s chin was pushed close to his knees. It would be hard for him to get any further down. Closing his eyes he prayed it would soon end. The noise alone caused his stomach to clench up. It wasn’t just the breaking glass and booming automatic fire. As each bullet penetrated the bus it produced a high-pitched whistle. So many cut through the interior that it was hard to pinpoint where they hit. He was aware of Jean only through her grip. Her nails were pushing through his jeans, almost drawing blood. As the bus mounted another bump his nose smashed into the back of the seat. Pain exploded. Rusty was still shouting. The words no longer made sense as the bus slid. Jarring vibrations increased as it lurched sideways, weaving to a standstill as the wheels ploughed through deepening ruts up a steep verge.

Then the screams started. They came as a piercing bombardment of sheer panic. The enormity of the situation was hitting home. Many were crouching in the aisle. Others climbed over seats, anxious to find a new haven from the bullets, somewhere else to hide. All around people fought back hysteria with the fearful knowledge that the bus was under attack. Dulled miscomprehension was turning to conscious terror.

“Mike, we’ve got to get out of here,” said Rusty. “Grab Jean. Get to the other side of the bus. There’ll be less shit flying around. We’ve got to bust a window and jump. Just do it, Mike.”

Rusty’s words were measured and calm. He was holding his nerve in a sea of chaos. The quiet authority in his voice helped Mike steady himself. It poured strength into him, provided a firm anchor to grasp. He had to keep focused on Rusty. In an instant he might lose it, surrender to the fear deep within the pit of his stomach. He knew that he must move and keep moving, otherwise it would be too easy to crawl further under the seat in front. As another bullet deflected up from a discarded trolley, Mike firmly took hold of Jean’s arm and pulled towards the far side. By now most people were falling over themselves to crawl along the floor, either that or sliding stiff windows back, preparing to jump rather than stay as sitting targets. Ducks in a fairground alley, Mike was thinking. It kept his mind off things. Plastic ducks didn’t bleed.

“Keep going, Mike. I’ve got Jean as well!” Rusty continued to reassure from behind.

They edged past the woman previously munching on her tobacco. She was no longer preoccupied with her cancerous crop. Her eyes were fixed on the chaos and broken windscreen at the front of the bus. It was as if she were willing herself to move, but felt a greater horror in joining the scrum of people desperately competing for a passage to the door. Jean’s feet pushed into the woman’s back as they made their way around her prone body. There was no reaction from either Jean or the terror-stricken woman. Rusty’s firm hand guided the rest of Jean’s leg towards the previously vacant corner seat. Mike had now taken up the seat, carefully pulling the rest of her so that she was nestled close against the window. She was still beyond speech, clearly not fully comprehending the gravity of their situation. Hijacking was something that happened in Yemen, perhaps even South Africa. This part of Laos was supposedly safe. Its veiled borders were now openly welcoming the backpacking fraternity in growing numbers. Whatever else the ‘dangers and annoyances’ section in the guidebook covered, bus hijacking did not get a mention. Her conscious mind wasn’t taking this in.

A fresh volley of shots brought further screams and splinters of glass. A gargled shout close by caused Mike to look around. He wished he hadn’t. The tobacco-chewing woman sat unmoved. A deflected bullet had found its way into the sagging flesh below her cancerous mouth. It had passed straight through, burying into the upholstery behind. Mike watched as blood poured through her lips and nose. Her head snapped back, causing a last gurgle, her dying plea to the world. Thick green mucus mingled with the blood as it stained her cotton vest. Horrified as he was, Mike continued to watch. Until recently the only dead body he had seen was four years earlier, his Grandmother laid out on her bed in a floral gown. His exposure to death was rapidly changing. An innocence he wished to keep was lost. On this trip to date he had been required to stare into the lifeless eyes of an unlucky backpacking girl, dragged from the murky river at Trat. The events unfolding here were taking things one stage further. He was witnessing was the death of someone, a person two feet from where he sat, gunned down and murdered. It took Rusty’s voice to bring his focus back.

“Hell Mike, come on, we must get out of here! She was all but dead before the bullet. It put her out of her cancerous misery. We’ll talk about it later, but for now we need to save our asses. If we stay here we’ll strike it unlucky with a piece of stray lead as well. We’ve got to get this window done, now come on!”

Galvanised back into action, Mike took his place next to Rusty and feverishly helped try to prise the window back. It was very stiff, the old variety that slid back to open. Largely immersed in the task, he was barely aware of a knocking sound coming from the roof. Someone was pulling themselves up, their boots clunking on the cheap tin above.

“Fuck! There’s somebody up there! What can they be doing? Why the fuck are they on the roof?”

Mike wasn’t one to string out obvious comments, but having someone on the roof was adding a new dimension. His fear was hitting greater heights. With new impetus, he and Rusty pulled back the window. The warm air blowing from outside brought them very welcome relief. Still running on adrenalin, they were easily able to position Jean and lower her down through the window. Like a dazed mummy, she stumbled forward towards the grass. Clearly shock was cocooning her from the horrors around. Above them Mike could hear footsteps on the roof. There were now at least two gun-wielding maniacs up there. He could make out a watering sound - surely they weren’t taking a piss? Perhaps it was an act of final indignity. Just when he was going to relay this illogical insight to Rusty, the two roof walkers jumped in tandem. Immediately following their hastened departure, a loud roar went up, like a giant blow-torch.

“They’re fucking cooking us! The bastards have torched the bus!” Rusty yelled out.

Mike could clearly smell the petrol. He wished it were piss instead, anything but the potent fumes warning of the furnace to come. They were aiming to turn the Vang Vieng bound bus into an oven.

“No loitering now, Mike! I think that this is our stop. Come on, it’s time to jump ship.”

The humour was lost on Mike. He bailed out in parachute style. The jolting fall winded him. Lying on his side he saw the two boots belonging to Rusty land inches away. The blond Australian rolled over, keeping his head low. Smoke was now bellowing out from the bus roof, much of it black, the paint-work melting with the intense heat. Confused silence within the bus as to what crazy stuff was going on above them rapidly gave way to screams as the realisation hit home. A fresh volley of shots raked the opposite side, puncturing holes throughout the panelling. Many of the occupants were now pushing open windows, squeezing past each other in a bid for freedom. The temperature inside would soon reach cooking point. Most would rather risk a wall of bullets than remain inside a tin coffin. A few less lucky passengers took their chance jumping through the windows facing their attackers. Blind with fear, most were cut down before they scrambled to their feet. One poor soul caught the flames with his jacket as he exited. In seconds he was engulfed as the fire took control. Flapping his arms like an ungainly bird did little other than fan the flames further. Several shots brought his agony to a merciful end.

Mike took in the scene with sickening horror. It was one of ugly chaos. The flames were eating into the paintwork, pouring out dark smoke. Figures were now becoming hazy silhouettes as people desperately sought escape. As he took a breath, he inhaled the pungent fumes. He coughed violently, rasping his throat. Doubling over he heard a shout, far off, then closer. Rusty was calling him.

“Mike, Mike! Where’s Jean? Listen, keep your head down. We’re going to grab Jean and get the hell out of this mess.”

Mike looked to where Jean should be standing. She was no longer there. He squinted, trying to peer through the growing smoke. All around there were people, but no Jean. He felt a remorseful tug; he should have been keeping a better lookout for her. A firm but reassuring pat on his shoulder brought him to his feet.

“She can’t be far, Mike. Let’s grab her and run for some cover. We can then sit tight and hope the Laos cavalry get here bloody quick. Something as big as this is sure to be picked up in no time at all. Let’s hope that they charge in with guns blazing. They’re going to need to with this fucking mess.”

As if on cue, fresh shots landed in their direction. A wiry man took a shot in the shoulder, not five feet from where they were now crouching. Other bullets were burying themselves in the ground around them. Whoever was out there must have just noticed them and was now paying a keen interest. They stood out. Being farang they might make a good sporting trophy. It depended on the warped message the perpetrators wished to broadcast to the world through their actions here. Mike could feel his bowels move as a fresh flurry landed close by. Staying here they were sitting ducks. Rusty roughly grabbed Mike’s arm and they ran, keeping low. As they distanced themselves from the coach, the smoke thinned. Slowing, Mike was able to risk a quick look. He figured that they still might be within firing range, but from what he saw earlier hoped that the general accuracy fell short of the mark. He tried to pick out the familiar figure of Jean. All around people were running, desperate to escape, blind panic driving them on like a stampede of cattle. It took Rusty’s steady arm to pinpoint Jean’s whereabouts.

“Over there, Mike. She’s making a break for the road, trying to get to safety behind those nutters. She’s got someone with her. Looks like he’s helping her, he’s taken her arm to lead her by the way things seem to me. Thank fuck for that! She’s probably in a better way than we are.”

They thought about running through open scrublands towards where Jean was heading with her supporting aide, then decided against it. Menacing shadows with Kalashnikovs were emerging from the smoke and mayhem. They looked to be coming in their direction.

“The trees, Mike! We’ll head for those trees. We have to lose those gun-wielding fuckheads first before we hitch up with Jean. At least if they come for us they’ll forget about her. Let’s look upon ourselves as the necessary decoy. Once we’re in the jungle proper we’ll disappear and wind back towards our girl.