Little Mountain by Bob Sanchez

might have been his insides. What did he really hear? What did he really see? It was hard to tell anymore.
             He stared out towards the lake while his insides churned like the ocean. His head felt as though a stone cutter had chipped away at his forehead with a hammer and chisel. The surface of the lake was a moonscape of watery craters, an archipelago with human islands. A skull rose up, its temples caved in, black eyes peering out to see what had disturbed its rest. Had it been above water all the time? Sambath hadn’t noticed. The empty sockets looked directly at him, accusing. You. You! He heard a scream above the rain, a familiar sound, his own voice.
             “Sh-h-h. Be quiet, comrade.” Boreth’s hand clamped firmly on his mouth. “ Angka’s ears are everywhere, even in the rain. Let’s be like our friend Vacheran, who holds his screams in his heart.”
             Of course Boreth was right. Angka was The Organization, and Sambath never knew whom to trust except for these two. Angka seemed to hear everything everyone said, as well as many things no one said--they heard what they wanted to hear. They did what they wanted to do.
             Perhaps Vacheran’s mute witness was the answer. If he could not speak, how could Angka’s spies accuse him of speaking ill?
             They had no right to break from work. Sambath gripped the wooden cart and pulled it through the mud. Boreth and Vacheran had to push from behind and make sure no bodies fell off. Together they moved slowly toward the old school yard, where a rusty bulldozer rattled back and forth.
             When the bulldozer driver threw up, Comrade Bin motioned to Sambath. “Come help our Comrade,” Bin said, his eyes full of concern. “You take his place while he goes to the hospital.” No one survived the hospital.
             Sambath’s chest muscles burned as he pulled himself onto the tread. He sucked in a breath that tore at his lungs, then climbed into the steel seat. The stench of rotted flesh drifting from the pond was almost more than he could bear. In front of him lay a tangle of bodies, motionless except for the occasional spasm that a comrade silenced with a rock. Guards stood by with their automatic rifles. Comrade Bin waved impatiently, so Sambath dropped the blade and shifted into gear. He wanted to drive over Comrade Bin, flatten him with the treads. Maybe that would help him to feel better for an instant before the guards’ bullets ripped through his body. But this machine could never move fast enough, and he probably could not kill even one soldier before he died. A burning bile rose in his throat, and he forced it back down. I am such a squealing little pig, such a coward. But they say they know everything. What if they can read my mind? Then don’t think. He wiped away all thoughts, shut down his mind and accelerated. The bulldozer lurched forward, and as a comrade jumped out of the way, Sambath pushed the bodies into the shallows of the lake.
     
    “Sam. Hey, Sam, snap to. Line one.” Sam looked at Fitchie, puzzled for a moment, until Fitchie nodded toward the blinking light on the telephone. “Your wake-up call, Hot Dog.”
             “Sambath Long here.” He folded his lunch bag and put it in the desk drawer.
             “Hell-o, Detective Long. Doctor Katsios here.” Demetrios Katsios. Cheerful man, loved his work.
             “Dr. Katsios, you--”
             “I called about the shooting victim.”
             “In the Heights. Bin Chea.”
             “Right. Let’s see, some of this you might know. Scalloped shot pattern, gunpowder stippling on the face. Bits of plastic wadding embedded in the skin. That’s consistent with a sawed-off shotgun at three, maybe four feet. Doesn’t blow your head off at that range, you know. To do that, you’ve got to--”
             Sam held the phone away from his ear.