A Fistful of Dynamite

by James Lewis

  Watching nothingness, his mind roamed back over the past year. Here he was an expatriate Irish revolutionary, a wanted man back home, sitting out on the black and sprawling Mexican Plain in a locomotive that belonged to a foreign government, ready to commit another act of war against that government. And for what? Juan was right. What was different here from anywhere else? There was always betrayal and stupidity, and things never changed for all the change. There would always be people in power and people out, corruption and revolution. There would always be loyalists and rebels, and like Juan’s mice and cats they would all play out their assigned parts. And what was his part? To be a dynamiter. To hate the government and sympathize with the peasants and play that same role no matter where he was or who the opponents were. What was he doing here? He was being Mallory, the terrorist. It was all he knew. It was assigned to him. Circumstances had assigned him his personality and now that personality would dictate his fate. It was true for everyone. Personality determinism he would have called it, if he’d held a philosophy chair at Oxford.

  He saw it before he heard it. A faint shower of sparks against the sky. And then, like a small lantern, the headlight glowing and round in the distance.

  He watched it come on, waiting. The headlight grew larger and the shower of sparks more intense. Closer. Closer.

  Now! Now! He threw the handle. It clanged in the cabin and the engine slowly began to move. “Shovel, Villega!” Mallory shouted. “Shovel!”

  The engine gathered speed. It surged forward with a dull, hollow roar from its chimney and clattered over the darkened tracks.

  Mallory watched the two trains converge. Gutierrez’ engineer hadn’t seen them yet; there was no squeal of brakes. Good. Let them come on a little farther. Mallory watched the distance between them melt away. His lips moved silently, counting seconds, measuring space. In a moment now he could—

  He came quickly back into the cab and knelt down on the floor. He already held a match in his hand. He struck it against the metal and swiftly lighted four fuses. They flared up and the dazzling sparks began worming out from the cabin, two via the window, two through the door.

  Mallory stood up. Villega was staring in hypnotic fascination at the burning fuses. His eyes followed them as they disappeared outside the cabin. His face was covered with perspiration, his shirt stained with it. From the look in his eyes it could have been from fear as well as exertion.

  Mallory stepped down onto the running board. The wind rushed by his head and pushed coolly against his face. The two trains were less than a half mile apart now. The other engineer would have to spot them soon. If he did, everything would be fine. They would be in perfect positions.

  He glanced back at Villega. “When I say ‘jump,’ jump out and run. Remember, you’ll be running for your life!”

  Villega looked out past him at the shadowy ground rushing past. He seemed to cringe, and his breath came out in a wracking note of despair. He said nothing.

  Mallory heard the first shriek of metal against metal then. His eyes followed the sparks suddenly shooting along the track ahead. The other train was braking. Christ, it would be stopping just where he wanted it. He looked toward the fuses. The sparks were halfway to the dynamite. The trains plunged toward each other. The other engineer must be frantic, Mallory thought.

  They were only a quarter-mile away now. The clatter and hiss of the engine couldn’t drown out the desperate whistling of the train ahead. Its headlight filled the night. Let them whistle, Mallory thought.

  He reached into the cab and pulled Villega harshly toward him. “Now close your eyes and jump. Quick!”

  Villega seemed frozen by fear. “No—no—!” His eyes were locked in terror on the ground below. His hand was clenched in paralysis on the door grip.

  Mallory looked up at the light ahead. No more time now. They were too close. He glanced at the cowering Villega. No more time for him. His breath caught and he flung himself from the engine.

  He heard Villega’s awful wail even before he hit. “MALLORYYYYYYYY.” It pierced through all the other sounds and lingered in the air like the bottomless, unstrung cry of a dying animal. Mallory’s running feet slammed into the ground and he hurtled forward. He twisted violently in mid-air, catching the second impact on his shoulder rather than his face. Pain surged through him. He relaxed and let his momentum carry him in a roll down the slope. Small rocks stabbed at him; the flesh of one hand scraped away. His breath was coming in short, wrenching gasps by the time he stopped rolling.

  He looked up from the bottom of the slope, raising only his head. The locomotives were only a few hundred feet apart now. In a second they would hit. Framed against the pale red glow from the boiler was the pathetic form of Villega, still clutching desperately the doorframe grips. Villega was looking back toward where Mallory had first landed, searching for help that wasn’t there.

  A moment later the two engines hit. The explosion was as massive and as memorable as Mallory had ever seen.

  Chapter Four

  The engines crunched together and climbed skyward in a tortured ballet. They disappeared in the howling flames and smoke of the explosion.

  Shards of metal flew over Mallory’s head. He burrowed into the ground and brought his arms up protectively. When he looked up again, the first four or five cars of the train were lying on their sides, burning violently. Ahead of them, the engines were still cloaked in smoke; behind, most of the other cars lay twisted and smashed.

  The guerrillas opened fire from the hill looming above Mallory and from the plain to the other side of the troop train. The pink glow from the fires illuminated their targets better than any flare might have done. With machine guns and rifles, they lay down a relentless barrage.

  Mallory saw troops scrambling from the train and heard men screaming frantically. How many were there supposed to be? A thousand? Half of them must be dead, he guessed. That still left more troops than guerrillas. He wondered how many of their heavy weapons had been destroyed.

  The soldiers were quickly organizing their defense. They were well drilled, Mallory noticed. In minutes they had several machine guns returning fire. From out of the wreckage they hauled a half-dozen mortars. They spotted them along the length of the train and began lobbing shells into the hill. The shells exploded with dull thuds.

  Other troops were beginning to fire mausers at the hill. They had positioned themselves in the wreckage so that they were protected from the merciless fire coming off the hill in front of them and from the plain behind. Mallory glanced up the hill. Among the dizzying constellation of gun flashes the troops would find plenty of targets.

  A small cannon had been spilled from an open car and lay on its side beside the train. A dozen soldiers, braving the gunfire, heaved the gun upright. They lowered the barrel to zero degrees and began slinging cannister shell out into the dark countryside. Dammit, Mallory thought, they’d have to get that gun soon or it would chew up a lot of men.

  In the glow from the fires he saw a slim, erect figure haul himself from one of the ruined cars. He reached the ground and, with difficulty, picked his way through the rubble. Clearly enraged, he hurled aside twisted bits of metal and dead bodies which blocked his path. Mallory saw that it was Gutierrez.

  Gun in hand, the colonel made his way along the line of overturned cars, shouting orders as he went. He reached a wagon which somehow had remained upright and swung himself up through the smashed door. He looked back for moment at the hill, his face raw with hatred, before he disappeared inside.

  Mallory got up and ran low toward the hill. The heated air from the fires came up and buffeted his face. The sharp, familiar cacophony of a battle at its hilt battered his ears. He felt sore and weary in ways he never had before.

  The hill wasn’t too high. Running hunched over, he made it to the crest within a minute. He passed the bodies of several guerrillas along the way.

  A mortar shell burst just yards in front of him and the impact threw him to the ground. He dar
ted up quickly again and pushed ahead. All over the hill there was shouting now and men crying out in pain. If it got any worse for the rebels, he would have to do what Santerna had forbidden.

  Ahead of him, in the faint light reaching the hilltop, he could make out the unmistakable figure of Juan. The Mexican was at a machine gun, swinging it determinedly back and forth along the line of the train below. Mallory headed toward him.

  Juan suddenly got up and shouted indistinguishable orders to some man below him. Then he hefted the machine gun and carried it away from Mallory, toward the far end of the train. Mallory trailed him halfway down the side of the hill. He could hear someone moaning nearby and smell the sharp sting of cordite in the air.

  Juan stopped to reposition the gun. He was now above the untipped car, the one into which Gutierrez had disappeared. Mallory noted the area where the gun was placed. It was right where he, Mallory, had to be if he were to finish the job properly. Juan couldn’t have picked a better spot if he’d been reading his mind.

  Mallory’s feet slipped and sent some pebbles rolling down the hill. They struck Juan. He wheeled around, bringing the machine gun around with him. Mallory kept coming.

  Juan realized who it was in time. Holding the gun, he got up and climbed toward him. He was smiling more broadly and with more genuine friendship than Mallory had thought him capable.

  “Hey, Firecracker,” Juan called warmly. “It’s me.”

  The bullets caught Mallory in the side then and flung him back against the hill.

  Juan was about to shoot when he recognized Mallory’s silhouette coming down toward him. Motherofjesus, the Irishman was unharmed after all! And he had been worrying that somehow Mallory might not have jumped from the train in time. His own sense of relief surprised him. He was really getting to like Firecracker, he thought as he called out to him. They really were a good team. He saw Mallory smile back at him as he came down the hill.

  A moment later the Irishman’s body was wrenched violently around and hurled to the ground. The sight sent pain shooting into Juan’s head. His heart slammed against his chest. Blood raced hotly to his eyes. With an insane scream, he turned and ran wildly down the hill. He saw Gutierrez standing in the door of the railroad car holding a rifle. The machine gun exploded in Juan’s hands.

  The bullets caught Gutierrez in the chest and flung him sideways against the doorframe. He bounced off into the gunfire. His body twitched and jumped like a deranged marionette, his arms flying askew. The body didn’t fall until Juan’s gun was empty.

  Juan threw the gun down and ran frantically back up to Mallory. The Irishman lay gasping where he had fallen, his face contorted in pain. He opened his eyes as Juan neared. A taut smile edged his lips.

  Juan bent to him. Mallory raised his arm and gestured weakly toward a hollow near the far edge of the hill. “Over there,” he said hoarsely. “Pull me over there.”

  Juan grabbed him under the arms and dragged him the dozen feet to the hollow. Mallory would be safe there, at any rate. He cleared the stones and pebbles away and propped him against a rock. The Irishman’s eyes remained shut all the while.

  “Where the hell he get you?” Juan asked. He looked anxiously down Mallory’s body.

  Mallory didn’t answer. Juan moved to examine the rib cage on the far side. Mallory nodded; that was the spot.

  The Irishman took a rasping breath. “Right where it’ll do me the most good,” he said. His voice was as even and as unexcited as ever.

  Juan shrugged. “Yeah, but that don’t mean nothing,” he lied. “You’ve seen worse.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  He studied Mallory, lying there so calmly. A burning pain suddenly rose in his chest and coursed through him. His eyes filled. He couldn’t believe it, but for some reason he didn’t want Mallory to die. He had never felt that way so intensely before, caring whether somebody died. But Mallory … Mallory was his—

  He hauled in a breath. A mortar shell burst violently nearby. He never looked up. Shells were exploding all over the hill now. He didn’t care.

  “Jesus Christ, Johnny, and with America only two steps away!” he said, not knowing what else to say, knowing it didn’t mean anything now.

  Juan shook his head, disbelieving. “Listen, Firecracker … I mean … I’ve gotten used to you.” What was he trying to say? It was all so confusing to sort out. He reached out and awkwardly gripped Mallory’s arm. “Hell, you’re like a … a brother to me. If you quit on me now, where the fuck do I go?”

  Mallory smiled wearily. “Yeah, looks like I gave you a royal screw,” he chided. “You’ll never get those American banks now.”

  Juan started to reply. That wasn’t what he’d meant at all. Not at all. He stopped himself. He saw that Mallory understood.

  Mallory painfully sucked in air. “Stick with these lunatics,” he said. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find a good deal.”

  A thought gnawed at Juan. Something he had to know. “What happened to Villega?” he asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  “But—”

  “… and he’ll be remembered as a hero of the revolution.”

  “So will you!”

  Mallory wheezed. His voice came out soft and remote. “Me? I’m a second-hand hero, just one of the mice.” He smiled wanly. “You people can’t even pronounce my name right.”

  Juan could see Mallory visibly fading. The lines in his face had smoothed and his mouth hung open limply. He wanted to scream at him, to call him back, but what good would it have done?

  A machine gun raked the ground a few feet away. The shells pounded closer. Men were screaming below. Mallory seemed to perk up at the sound. With sudden energy, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. “Give me a light,” he said.

  Juan did. The crazy son-of-a-bitch could smoke a cigar if he wanted. Why the hell not? He smiled at Mallory. The pain, his, Juan’s pain, didn’t go away.

  Mallory dragged once at the cigar. “How they doing out there?” he murmured.

  “Not too good.”

  Mallory looked at the glowing tip of his cigar. He flashed Juan a curious smile and nodded toward his coat. Juan’s eyes tracked downward. Mallory’s coat lay half open. In the inside pockets, Juan saw now, were two remaining sticks of dynamite.

  He stared at Mallory. The Irishman cocked his brows. His breathing was fainter but less rasping. “Come on,” Mallory said, and gestured to the dynamite.

  Why not? Juan took the sticks from the coat and held them out. Mallory touched the cigar to the fuses, and Juan stepped out of the hollow. He moved partway down the hill, picked out a target and hurled the first stick. He threw the second while the first was still in the air.

  He cut quickly back toward the hollow. He heard the explosions behind him at the same moment he saw Mallory. The Irishman jarred him more.

  Mallory had moved across the hollow. He had propped himself sideways against another rock and his eyes were following a sparkling fire that raced out the hollow and down the hill.

  “No, Johnnyyy!” Juan screamed, but it was far too late.

  He understood immediately. Mallory had ignored Santerna’s order. Mallory had wanted to plant dynamite all along the bottom of the hill and under the track. Santerna had said no. They didn’t want to destroy the entire train, just the first few cars, he had said. Just enough so that they could surprise and overwhelm the soldiers. That way they could capture the heavy weapons. They needed them badly for the assault on Mexico City. Besides, Santerna had said, there was no way they could be certain the trains would meet at the bottom of the hill.

  Mallory had said he would guarantee it. The trains would meet where the dynamite lay. And the dynamite would be their insurance, in the event the battle went badly. Santerna’s answer was they didn’t need insurance. It hadn’t been a good enough answer for Mallory, that was apparent now. He must have planted the dynamite before the rest of them arrived, while they were still marching up from the abandoned cars three mil
es back.

  Juan rushed toward Mallory and froze. A horrible spasm shook the Irishman. His body convulsed in palsied fervor and then went limp. Mallory lay on his side, his bowler on the ground, his long hair brushing the dirt. He raised his head and grimaced, and then his eyes cleared and a light came into them for a moment and while it burned there he managed to gasp, “Duck, you sucker!” and smile for the last time.

  “JOOHHHHNNNYYYYYY!!!!!”

  The cry boiled despairingly out of him and hung heavily in the air as he flung himself toward his friend. The explosion caught him and smashed him to the ground. Heat and sound and light beyond his imagination battered at his body. Flares burned in his head.

  A consuming pain drove his feet madly along the ground and he thrashed toward Mallory. He caught Mallory up in his arms even as the shouting began so clamorously behind him and he stared through a veil down into the lifeless face. The pain, that awful, searing pain, stabbed at him again and he looked up blindly into the darkness ahead.

  “Oh, Johnny. What about me?” he said.