With the fleshy part of his fist, he pounded once in the center of the chest as hard as he could. It made Gembel jolt, but when he checked a pulse again, he found nothing.
Next was chest compressions, so Nash found the center of the sternum and started pumping. As ribs cracked under his palms, one line of that old disco song went through his head on repeat to the beat of the compressions.
Ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive, staying alive …
In training when they’d practiced on dummies, the song hadn’t felt this morbid. Still, he kept pumping as the words played on a reel. It was all he could do. If compressions didn’t bring back a pulse, Gembel was dead. No 911, no paramedics, no emergency room.
After what felt like two minutes, Nash checked for a pulse again.
There it was! Pounding away in time with Nash’s own racing heart!
No, wait. Nash took a deep breath, pulled his fingers away, and then laid them gently at Gembel’s throat again.
Nothing.
Gembel’s color had improved, now more white than blue, but he wasn’t breathing.
Nash clasped his hand together, one over the other, and felt them settle into the groove in the center of the sternum. That groove hadn’t been there before; it was an indentation from Nash’s pumping. The dummies he’d practiced on in training had been very realistic, even down to the amount of pressure required to compress a chest and the cracking of ribs, but they hadn’t had this palm-shaped impression.
There was nothing to do but go another round, so that’s what Nash did. After a couple of minutes, he checked a pulse again. Still nothing. Another round.
After the third round, Nash was exhausted. He slumped from his knees to his butt as he reached for Gembel’s throat again.
There was no pulse.
In training they’d told him that three rounds of compressions would bring back anyone who was savable. Nash wasn’t ready to give up, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do another round of quality compressions. If there was someone else there, he could trade out, but it was just him and the guard.
Nash looked over and saw the man standing a couple feet back from the cell with an unconcerned expression on his face. A billy club hung from one hand.
“Your turn,” said Nash, standing and facing the guard.
“What? Fig that. I’m not touching him.” The guard took a couple steps back, bringing his weapon up across his chest.
“You’re doing it or I’m going to take that club from you and beat you until you’re as blue as this man was a few minutes ago.”
The guard’s eyes flashed across Nash’s gun and he said, “You little punk, like to see you try.”
In two steps, Nash crossed the ground between them and landed an elbow above the guard’s eye on his unscarred side. The billy club fell from his hand and Nash snatched it out of the air.
“How’d that feel?” asked Nash. “If you liked it, stand where you are. If not, get in there and try to save this man.” He raised the club, fully prepared to let the guard taste it if he didn’t move.
The guard moved.
“I don’t know how to do it,” he grumbled, kneeling next to Gembel and rubbing his swelling eye.
“You saw how I did it,” said Nash. “One hand over the other, straight up and down.”
The guard grumbled as he did as he was told, and started into half-hearted compressions.
“Deeper,” said Nash.
Still grumbling, the guard ignored him and kept doing one centimeter compressions when he needed to be at about five centimeters.
“Deeper,” repeated Nash, jabbing the guard in the ribs.
“Ouch!” he pulled his hands back and covered the spot where he’d been prodded.
Nash poked him again, just above his hip bone. “Deeper!” Nash poked him again when he didn’t move fast enough.
The guard jumped into action, compressing Gembel’s chest like he meant it.
Nash resisted the urge to prod him again.
After a couple of minutes, Nash told him he could stop. The guard collapsed back against the wall.
Still no pulse. Nash had to accept the fact that Gembel was dead. Gembel was dead and Nash could have done something about it if he hadn’t hesitated.
“No great loss,” said the guard, catching his breath where he sat.
Nash stood over him, weighing the billy club. “You really want to push my buttons right now?”
The guard winced away from Nash. “Watch it, boy. If I shout jailbreak, I’ll have fifty men here in seconds.”
Nash stepped back and put his hand on the heavy metal door. “Go ahead and scream. Maybe in a few days, someone will bring you something to eat.” He started swinging the door shut.
“You’re making the wrong friends, Ranger” called the guard. “And the wrong enemies. People like you never figure out how things work here, because they don’t last!”
The door clanged into place like a bell and Nash turned the key. From inside the cell, the guard was yelling something about being locked in with a dead body.
Nash had no sympathy. “I don’t like this cell,” he said, and snapped the key off inside the lock. He threw the keys onto the ground and rang the bell before walking out. Let them come and dismantle that special cell to rescue the guard. Nash hoped it would never house another prisoner again.
Just as the guard had said, men were rushing toward the jail from nearby buildings. He walked past them without even looking at them.
“Where are you going, Ranger?” demanded one man. “There’s a jailbreak.”
He kept his face down, hoping soon there would be a broken jail.
“Forget it,” said another man. “He’s one of those Rangers. Didn’t even stop a theft right in front of his face.” The man spat toward him.
“He’s not the coward one, who Chiel told us about is he?” asked his companion as they passed out of earshot.
Arguing with them would do no good, and he really didn’t care what they said. Everything he touched went wrong, so why bother?
Nash found himself back at the same crossroads where he’d made the decision and he stopped again in the middle of the street. What had all that accomplished? Nothing. It wasn’t a victory. And it wasn’t like the guard would learn some lesson from a few bruises in his side or being locked in a cell for five minutes. If anything, Nash had just made more enemies for himself.
A man was dead, and it was partly Nash’s fault. Everyone who knew him hated him. And he was becoming famous for failing to help people instead of helping people and failing to become famous.
He just wanted to slink away and hide under a rock.
He could. This intersection would take him wherever he wanted to go.
Gembel, on the other hand, would never stand at any intersection again.
Nash needed to finish this page of his story before he crawled off and felt sorry for himself. Confronting John Wayne wouldn’t be any sort of victory, but it had to be done.
He wouldn’t crawl, he wouldn’t sneak behind John Wayne’s back, and he wouldn’t slink away like a scared little worm. Nash was going to let John Wayne know what he’d done and what he’d found in the cell and give him a chance to talk it over. Then they were either going to come to an agreement on terms Nash could agree on, or they would part ways.
7
60 Seconds
<< “Better to die in honor than live in cowardice.”
Ranger Ronan O’Reilly, AKA Triple R >>
John Wayne is responsible, Nash told himself as he walked toward the door under the cat sign. John Wayne killed Gembel Saatia. Nash and the guard had helped, but the bulk of the blame lay at John Wayne’s feet. Self-pity transformed into anger as Nash neared the door.
Nash paused under the cat sign and thought of the view down the barrel from earlier that day. The sun beat down on him and sweat poured from all over.
“Go ahead, Nash,” he muttered. “Stand up.”
Nash knocked on the door.
It opened immediately and a cute redhead appeared in the doorway. She had a friendly smile and a glimmer in her eye that was both alluring and threatening, like a trap lay somewhere ahead. A silky robe covered most of her, while not leaving a whole lot to the imagination.
Nash cleared his throat. “Tell John I went to spring our prisoner and he’s dead. He’s got 60 seconds to come talk to me.”
The young lady reached a hand out and ran it down Nash’s chest. “Why don’t you come in here and wait.” She had a sultry, Eastern European accent. “Give me 60 seconds and I’ll make you forget all about your little prisoner.”
Under different circumstances, a come-on from such a cute girl would be impossible to turn down. Nash took a step back. “No thank you, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? You don’t have to be insulting!” She slammed the door.
Ma’am? thought Nash, unsure where that had come from. Well, it wasn’t the first time nerves had made him do or say stupid things. He went to the middle of the street and started counting in his head.
It was possible his former trainer was too busy to care about Nash or Gembel. Hopefully he didn’t come out shooting. Those two cobra shots in the alley had been dead on, and faster than Nash could pull off two shots without aiming at anything. If John wanted him dead, there was nothing Nash could do about it.
Thirty seconds.
Nash wiped his moist palms on his pants and prepared to draw but without looking like he was gunning for a shootout. Those injuries yesterday had been life-threatening but not life-ending. A bullet to the head would be both.
Forty-five seconds.
Maybe some luck had come Nash’s way and he could just go quietly and never see John again.
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine …
Sixty.
Apparently he’d been due an easy victory after yesterday.
As Nash turned away from the building, he still felt the pent up energy. He hadn’t won. He’d taken a risk so big he couldn’t even quantify it, and everything was still up in the air.
Nash had to go in and face John Wayne down. It didn’t matter what he interrupted, or how mad it made his former trainer, Nash couldn’t just leave this.
Before Nash could act, shouted words came from behind him. “You just don’t know when to quit!”
Nash turned around slowly, afraid that if he moved too quickly he’d get a bullet in the head with no warning. His trainer was liable to do it, and he’d do it without a second thought.
John stood in front of the door, shirt off, suspenders hanging down on both sides of his waist, and gun trained between Nash’s eyes. Even from ten meters, Nash could tell that gun was steady.
The drawl was mostly gone as John shouted, “I can forgive you for challenging me in front of a prisoner, but interrupting me when I’m with company is downright rude to the lady. I gave you credit for more brains.”
“Gembel is dead,” said Nash. “As far as I’m concerned, you killed him.”
“That piece of garbage killed himself, piker. He only had a few weeks to live, which you would have known if you used that eye or your brain.” The muzzle of the gun didn’t sway a millimeter to one side or the other. “This island is better off without him, and it will be better off without you.”
Nash wasn’t going down without a fight. If he died in this street today, he’d die with his gun in hand, so he drew it and centered in on John’s chest.
“You shoot, I shoot,” said Nash. “We both lose.”
“You think you can shoot me? I’m the original cowboy, but you’re welcome to give it a try.” John holstered his gun and put his hands out to his side. “By the time you pull that trigger, you’ll be dead.”
Nash believed it, with what he suspected about John Wayne’s shooting endowment. And the cowboy was probably just waiting for an excuse. While Nash was tempted to pull the trigger, it wasn’t fear that John could draw and shoot that fast that made him slide his finger into a safe position. Nash couldn’t kill in cold blood. Not when no one’s life depended on it. Tucking his gun away, he walked forward.
“C’mon then, pilgrim,” said John falling back into character. “I can shoot you just as easily from near as I can from far.” He took another step away from the door, which closed behind him. “What now, piker? You going to arrest me? Kill me?”
“You need to take responsibility for killing a man.”
They reached each other and went chest to chest, Nash looking down a few centimeters.
John laughed. “People die here, piker. It happens. I didn’t pull the trigger. Did I even break any laws?”
“If my training wasn’t so worthless, I’d know the answer to that.”
“You know nothing!” shouted John, spittle hitting Nash in the face.
Nash didn’t flinch. He could smell alcohol on John’s breath now, along with sickeningly sweet perfume emanating from his body. “I know why I’m here. And it’s not to try being a big man by pushing little people around.”
“Sticks and stones, piker. What are you going to do, kill me?”
“I’m not going to kill you,” said Nash. “Not even going to try, unless I see you pulling something like you did with Gembel. Then you bet your ass I’ll bring everything I have down on you.”
“Big tough Ranger with big tough words.”
“I can’t make you be a decent person, John. I can’t make you go and take responsibility or try to make things right with Gembel’s family. But I’ll tell you and all the other people like you on this island, I came here to protect people, not to stand by while you push little people around.”
“Responsibility,” said John as if he couldn’t believe it. “You want me to go fill out a death certificate or something? You can shove your paperwork where the sun don’t shine, along with all your ideals. And try calling me John again, boy.”
The pettiness still boggled Nash’s mind. “You aren’t worth the time,” said Nash. He’d said his peace, and there was nothing left to gain here. As Nash started to turn away, John grabbed him by the shirt and held him.
“I’m not worth your time?” shouted John. “You think I care about you? You think you know me? If you were on fire I wouldn’t piss on you to put you out.”
“Suits me fine,” said Nash, pulling out of John’s grasp and looking over his shoulder. “After today, we don’t even know each other.”
“After today you’ll be dead and forgotten. You won’t survive a day here with your twenty-first century morals.”
“Then I won’t be your problem,” said Nash, turning to leave. He wanted some justice for Gembel, but there was nothing else he could accomplish here.
John laughed. “You fight two little Jennies and you think you’re so tough. I’m the Mongoose. I’m Mr. White Hat.”
The barrage of words didn’t bother Nash in the slightest. “Sticks and stones,” he said as he took the first step away.
John wasn’t done spewing words. “I’ll give you one lesson before you go, kid: Don’t mess with the big dogs if all yer gonna do is bark.”
Nash could tell it was driving John crazy to be ignored, and as long as all he used was words, Nash was happy. He kept walking.
“I got a new nickname for you, pard. One you’ll never forget.”
This should be good. Sticks and stones …
The concussion of a gunshot slammed into Nash and he brought his hands up reflexively, hoping he didn’t have a hole in his back. Blood speckled his face, but he was too shook to know where it had come from.
John said, “Catch you on the flipside, Pinky.”
Nash looked at his hands and saw the little finger of his right hand was completely missing. The very last segment, the part with the fingernail, lay on the street half a meter ahead of him. Everything else must have been disintegrated by the bullet. Blood burbled like a miniature chocolate fountain out of the wound and down his arm.
Nash howled, registering the pain as soon as he saw the injury. How could such
a small part of his body cause so much pain? Then again, it didn’t hold a candle to the acid spray in the face, so that was something.
Breathing through clenched teeth, Nash pulled the handkerchief John had given him from his pocket and slapped it over the bleeding digit. After allowing a string of curse words to roll off his tongue, he started forward again, without looking back.
One full day in, and he had a pair of injuries that would never heal completely, no matter his speed-healing endowment. It didn’t take a PhD to figure out that he couldn’t keep up that pace very long. It felt like his conscience was on the road to mending, or it would be soon enough.
Though, really, what had he accomplished? Not a single person was better off with him on the island.
Nash went through the intersection without hesitating, turning left this time.
A group was coming from the direction of the jail, and he caught the words, “… dead … his fault.”
He hated the position he was in—friendless, penniless, clueless.
All he could hope was that the road he was on would take him somewhere better. And that he’d live long enough to get there.
8
The Trouble with Routines
<< “Nothing in nature compares with the enmity between Vamps and Wares. When the two Castes meet, a cocktail of hormones is released that mimics distilled testosterone mixed with crack cocaine. Liquid rage and a dose of perceived invulnerability. It is in every way imaginable a chemically induced bloodlust.”
- Excerpt from a trailer advertising the Blood Feud Channel, featuring Vamps and Wares >>
Livi fingered the words inscribed on the monument two miles outside of new city San Juan. With enhanced vision she could read it, even in the shadow of the half moon. She didn’t need to read, though, to know the words that were etched in her mind. The short pillar marked the epicenter of the nuclear blast that wiped out the half of Puerto Rico’s population on this side of the island. Thousands of hapless tourists too. A twin nuke took care of everyone on the other side of the island.
A Route of Wares: An Urban Fantasy Action Adventure: Hollow Island Book One Page 9
