by G M Eppers
I watched as the older men starting filing past the long table, helping themselves to our hardware, Nitro’s field kit sitting near the far edge untouched. Next to it was a pile of stun guns. A rather short, squat man, clean shaven, picked up a stun gun and tossed it from one hand to the other, examining it. Clearly, he was not familiar with the technology. Another one, taller but thin, picked up another stun gun to show him how it worked. He turned it on, ready to laugh, and touched the end to the shorter man’s arm. Nothing happened. He shook it and tried again. Still nothing. He had found Badger’s drained stun gun and though he understood its use he didn’t know how to read the charge gauge. The shorter man activated his and touched it to the taller man’s waist. The tall man went down instantly, convulsing in pain and twitching uncontrollably. The shorter man laughed, tucked the stun gun into one of the many pockets in his guerrilla outfit, and stepped carefully over the taller man to get to the rifles. After a few minutes, the taller man got himself shakily to his feet and stumbled away. I was pretty sure the shorter man needed to watch his back.
There was a tap on my shoulder. Badger turned his back to the compound and spoke in a low voice. “Helena, these people are speaking more than one language. At least, I’m pretty sure they are. They’re probably imported from all over Africa.”
“That’s true,” said Hightower. He was still sitting. Even a meal didn’t give him the strength to stand for long. “They aren’t local. This is pygmy country. I think they’ve wiped out the local villages for fifty, maybe a hundred miles.” With one finger, he traced a wide circle in the air to indicate some distance. “This compound looks like it was built on a pygmy village. That table is pretty low, don’t you think?” I hadn’t noticed, but now that he mentioned it, it seemed obvious. The top of the table came to just below waist high to most of them. The shelters were also clearly designed for much shorter people. For the first time I noticed people going in and out and each one had to duck low to go through the doorways. Even the youngsters had to duck a little bit. I wondered if this was one of the villages that might have treated Sylvia like a god or one that would have boiled her alive.
Another whistle blew. I heard the four people of the CURDS3 suck in air as they slowly and dispiritedly assumed the position.
“More food?” I asked.
“No.” He wouldn’t look at me.
Gold Tooth was walking around the cage, giving everyone a good look over. Again, but without touching them, he made especially close inspections of Sylvia and the twins. Please don’t spit on him, I thought, sending the sentiment to all three of them mentally. Please don’t spit on him.
Whether they heard me or not, they refrained from spitting.
Next to me, Hightower seemed exhausted. His legs sagged. His breaths came deeply and unevenly, his mouth not even closing.
Gold Tooth pointed to Hightower and spoke.
This time someone else untied and unlocked the doorway while again dozens of others kept their weapons trained on the rest of us.
“NO!” Iris screamed. “NO! Take me, you bastards!” She received a blow to the back of her head from a gun butt. She dropped to her knees, one hand going automatically to the wound, the other steadying her fall. She refused to drop any further, but stayed on her knees with her back straight.
Three men entered, confident that we were all restrained by impending gunfire, and went immediately to Edward Hightower. Two of them forcefully unwrapped his arms from the bars and took him from the cage, his feet dragging, leaving parallel lines in the dirt. The third man followed behind, one hand on his weapon, alert for any sign of resistance.
Iris rubbed the back of her head, tears streaming down her face. “No,” she whimpered weakly, barely hanging onto the cage wall. In no time, the door was shut, locked and tied and the whistle blew again. Iris fell heavily to the ground, but I rushed to the other side of the cage, watching. Once the cage was locked, all the guns moved to follow Hightower as the three men dragged him across the compound, around the far end of the long, low table, and into the jungle. In my head, I heard his voice telling me that no one comes back.
Slowly, the crowd of guerrillas thinned as dozens melted into the jungle. Unlike the men who stayed, who kept their weapons in front of them, these others slung their rifles across their backs as they laughed and spoke casually with each other. They pointed ahead of them into the trees, waving for their friends to follow and pointing to their wrists as if they were wearing watches. Some of them were, but many were not. It was hard to tell how many guerrillas were encamped here, but I judged that about half their number left right after Hightower was taken. It still left fifty or sixty men, each with multiple firearms on them. They huddled in small groups, only giving us a passing glance once in a great while.
When I returned to Iris, her two surviving teammates were with her. A man and woman, their hair slightly different shades of brown. She stood taller by an inch or so and looked Asian, he had the dark skin of an Arabian and a scruffy untended beard and moustache that was clearly uncomfortable for him. He kept scratching it and running the back of his hand through it as if he could rub it off. Iris, remembering her training, said, “Dawood Karish and Mai Nguyen, combat and legal respectively.”
We nodded at each other.
“He wanted to go,” Dawood said quietly. “They seem to pick the weak ones. Like they may not have enough protection in there and don’t want anyone who is going to fight back. He told me he was going to try to be next, try to jump them.”
“That could be foolish.”
“If it doesn’t work, we’ll never know,” Mai admitted. “But if it does…”
Iris didn’t lift her head. “Then what? There’s nowhere to run.”
“You’re forgetting, Iris. Ed has sniper training. If he gets his hands on a weapon, well, he may not survive, but he’ll do some damage. I’d rather die fighting, wouldn’t you?”
It was good to hear that Hightower hadn’t really been as weak and depressed as he seemed. It made me feel better about our chances, even though I didn’t see a way out any more than Iris did. Or was she trying the same thing? All four of them might have made a pact before our arrival to make another attempt. If at first you don’t succeed, try try again.
“Helena.” It was Badger. “I think I just realized something, but I’m not sure if it’s important.”
“What is it?”
He looked around, but if there were guerrillas hiding in the trees we wouldn’t see them. Hiding is what guerrillas do best. He kept his voice low. “A lot of these guys are speaking different languages. They only speak,” he went extra low to say the next word, “Swahili,” and his voice rose back, “to Mr. Gold Tooth. And,” he stressed, “I think I heard a name. I think Gold Tooth is …Obeseki.”
Iris’ head sprung up. “Obeseki is dead.” Amadi Obeseki had been the man who shot President Dacto during his inaugural speech at the Capitol. His body was found at the observation level of the Washington Monument with a long-range rifle and a 9mm Glock. “And that was a long time ago.”
Badger leaned in. “I think Gold Tooth might be his brother, maybe a son.”
“Well, we didn’t kill Amadi. He killed himself,” I said. “If this is some kind of revenge thing, he’s mistaken.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just a family business.” Like the rest of the team, he kept looking around, examining the cage. He grasped one of the branches, pulling on it. Elsewhere, I saw Billings’ hand go up and take hold of an overhead branch. I guess he was pulling on it, but it didn’t budge. It hadn’t taken us long to go around the cage and none of us had found any weak spots. With the machete far out of reach with the rest of our weapons, there was nothing we could use to wear away at the ropes. “Would I be speaking out of turn if I said we need to get out of this cage?”
“I’m open to suggestions on that.” Even if we could get through the bars somehow, there were more than dozens of men nearby with assault weapons who knew this
jungle like the backs of their hands.
Iris leaned her head back like Hightower had done, staring at the roof of the cage. “Hey, Ed told you our story. What’s yours? I know Miss Chiff sent you to find us, but what were you doing before that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not. But if it’s quiet, I think too much. Do me a favor and talk for a while.” A lost, haunted look passed over her eyes as she spoke and I knew she was thinking about her lost teammates.
I explained about our mission from the beginning, from Big Block of Cheese Day, to Begorah Farms, to the Smoky Flue, to the call to drop everything and search the jungle. She sounded skeptical. “You don’t think that’s connected to this? How does this Obeseki thing figure into it?”
“I don’t know.” I hated saying those words. “Dacto’s assassination happened back before New Cheese became Uber, before we knew it was dangerous. So how could there be a club back then?”
Dawood touched my shoulder. “Before the world knew it was dangerous. Somebody already knew.”
I let that sink in. I hadn’t really thought of it that way before. It always seemed like Uber just happened over night, like it hadn’t existed until Banana Harris isolated it and named it. But of course it had existed. It had probably existed before someone decided to market it as New Cheese, too. It was quite possible that they already knew it was dangerous, but like cocaine and heroin pushers the lure of a big payday was just too tempting. The previous administration had notoriously cut back regulations, reduced inspection by the FDA to almost nothing, allowing the New Cheese to enter the market. But by the time Dacto was elected, the danger was apparent, though undefined, and there was little doubt that he would be bringing back all those pesky regulations. Perhaps it wasn’t his world peace agenda that got him killed, but his intention to boost FDA and CDC funding to address the spread of Offensive Obstruction. If so, we could be dealing with people who’d been involved with Uber for more than a decade. Seasoned professionals. “We have to get out of here,” I said. “This can’t end here. People have to know.”
Dawood said what I’d already been thinking. “Even if we get out of the cage, how do we get past all the guerrillas? Hand-to-hand is not going to do it.”
“We don’t have to get past all the guerrillas,” I said. “Just the ones between us and the weapons table. We could probably hold the line long enough for Nitro to inject someone with the STD—“
“And the Calvary can come in and collect our bodies,” Iris finished for me.
There was a pop in the distance and flock of birds took flight calling a warning. Iris winced. We recognized the sound of gunfire, even from far away. That was probably Hightower being executed. Why take people away to kill them? I wondered. They could just kill us all here. Did they get off on watching us squirm? But it didn’t look like anyone was even paying attention to us. No one had tried to silence us. No one gave us any of the usual sadistic, gratuitous orders that captors liked to give. We’d been fed and watered and deserved no more attention than a goldfish.
“We can’t just sit here waiting to be executed.” That seemed to be precisely what most of my team was doing. Except for Sir Haughty, who had his back to the cage, looking out the back corner. After a moment, he bobbed a little, I saw his hands move below his waist, then he turned around. Great. That’s all my suggestible bladder needed. Pushing it out of my mind, I looked outside the cage at the men laughing and milling around. The long table was nearly bare now. Only a couple of Glocks, the dead stun gun, and the field kit were unclaimed, all toward the far end, and a pile of empty HEP belts on the near end. I focused on the field kit. Even if it didn’t amount to much, we still needed to activate that STD. It was the only possibility of reaching the outside world. A plan was starting to form in my mind.
“Nitro!”
He came over. “Yes, Helena?”
“That STD injection, how hard is it to do?”
“Not hard.” He was trying to figure out my line of questioning, but was failing. “It has to go in muscle, not a vein or artery, but it’s hard to hit either of those accidentally. Anyone could get it into muscle. Like insulin. Avoid the obvious vein locations. Upper arm, outer thigh. Like that.” He paused, studying my face. “What are you thinking?”
“It doesn’t really matter who it goes into, right? They see the new signal, they come get us.”
“Yes.”
While it was easy to hear in the enclosed space, Team A turned to face me and listen. Sylvia was doing chin-ups on the ceiling, or neck-ups as it were, with her head bend forward because it wouldn’t fit through the gaps. Hearing a plan going down she dropped to the ground and paid attention.
“We need to activate that STD. The STD is outside the cage. The only way out of the cage is to get picked.”
There was a collective gasp as they followed my reasoning. “Mo-,” Billings started, then stopped himself. Even though it was not likely that they could understand English, it was against his training to use the word “Mom” when we were captive. It was only the shock of my idea that caused him to slip. “Helena, no. Hightower told us. No one comes back.”
“I don’t have to come back. I just have to inject someone with the STD.”
“No!” Billings was adamant.
I was impatient. While I understood his objections, I was angry that he couldn’t control himself. “Damn it, Billings, this is the kind of decision that has to be made sometimes. If you can’t handle it you don’t belong on the command track.”
“Let someone else.”
“I’m ranking officer, Billings. I’m not going to ask someone else to do this. Besides, it makes sense. Dawood said they pick the weakest, right? I can make them pick me. Look at my competition. Sylvia will probably get picked last. That eye injury makes her look tough as nails. Roxy is like a white, redheaded Amazon. The twins have too many arms and legs to control. It’s a safe bet the guerrillas are misogynists. They only picked Hightower because he looked close to death. I’m female and small. Two things they consider to be signs of weakness to begin with. They’ll pick me.” Or at least, I was reasonably sure they would. I looked down at Iris, who had been here far longer. If I was choosing the weakest, it would be her. After the loss of her coordinator, she looked utterly demoralized. “Iris, I’m going to need you to buck up.” I crouched down. “I know you’re tired, but even if I told you what to do, you might not have the strength. I can do this, but it’s a close call between the two of us. You need to look strong, like you have new determination, when they blow that whistle. Can you do that?”
Iris looked up at me. It was hard to tell if it was sweat or tears running down her cheeks. Probably both. I was talking about a suicide mission and she knew it. She nodded.
“Three men took Hightower. Is it always three?” She nodded again. “Then I have at least three chances.”
Nitro asked, “How are you going to get the syringe?”
“Let me worry about that.” I sat in the nearest corner and casually smeared dirt on my face and clothes, then focused on looking tired and worn out. Iris was currently blocked by people. She could wait for the whistle to come to life. There was only one other thing I needed. “B,” I said, “cover my back for a minute.”
Billings and the twins formed a semi-circle around me and turned their backs, while I scrunched into the corner to answer the call of nature. I suppose soiling myself might have added to the illusion of weakness, but I just couldn’t bring myself to take that step. Everyone was ripe enough without that. I kicked dirt onto the puddle I’d made and zipped my pants, wondering how long before they would need to choose another victim.
The sun moved a degree or two across the hazy sky as we sweltered in the cage. The threat of rain refused to break. Talking slowed, then stopped all together. There wasn’t much to say. Billings stayed near me. I could feel the tension oozing from him as he no doubt wondered how much longer I would be there. He wanted to talk me out of it, but there was no alt
ernate plan. The decision had been made. I could feel it in my own stomach, which began to feel like the mealworm paste I’d eaten had been a particularly thick cement. Flying insects found our sweaty bodies quite appealing and the silence was sometimes broken by a swat or a slap. There were periodic bird calls, the hooting and howls of monkeys, possibly our friends the bonobos, and almost no wind to cool our skins.
Our captors, in their guerrilla gear, should have been unbearably hot, but they seemed unbothered. We were served more bowls of water at one point, but no food. Sometimes, men would come out of one of the shelters carrying what looked like a large drumstick or some other piece of meat, but they were always just finishing, and throwing the empty bone into the jungle. I would have liked one of those bones.
But I wouldn’t have any place to put it. Because my stomach dropped down to my feet when the whistle blew again. The sun was getting lower. Maybe it was time for food again. I didn’t see anyone counting us, however. We gathered around the bars, holding hands, away from the doorway, and then Gold Tooth came out of one of the shelters. His rifle had a bayonet attached. He strolled toward the cage.
I had taken a position in front of people, so that I could be seen. Like Hightower had done, I let my knees buckle and hung from the roped branches by my elbows. My head lolled. I let one hand lose its grip and reached frantically for the branch, missing it and hanging by one arm at an awkward angle, appearing too weak to straighten. At the same time, I stole a glance at Iris just as she was stealing one at me. I gave her a very slight nod of encouragement which I hoped looked like head lolling. Even though she was mostly hidden by other people, she pulled herself up and poured some impressive determination and defiance into her eyes.
Gold Tooth circled the cage, hesitated, then circled it again. Did he suspect that I might be faking? Panting, I fell to my knees, my right arm stretched to the limit. Billings, to my left, tried to help me back up. His hand was cold on my arm. I got back to my feet, grasping the side of his shirt. “Tell grandma I love her,” I whispered to him.
