Badger Games

by Jon A. Jackson

  “How did you get in?” Helen said.

  “Not that way,” Jammie said. “Dinah’s special at that. I think she’s one of those gals who find the missionary position oppressive. Although, I dare say she can tolerate a little man-on-top, now and then—and your Joey’s not so heavy, is he? But it’s a little late for gossip. Time to soldier.” She stooped to pick up her gear bag.

  “What’s in there?” Helen said. She was trying to distract herself from these malicious jibes.

  “Just some toys, in case I get bored,” Jammie said. “Wish me luck.” She slung the AK-47 over her shoulder.

  “I don’t believe that stuff about Joe and Schwind,” Helen said.

  Jammie gave her a glance of pity. “You know what they say— ‘Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah.’ Stand by your man, honey. But don’t forget—he’s just a man.” She started into the cave, then stopped, turning to look back. “I’ll tell you what … and this is my honest, sincere opinion … if I were you, I’d skedaddle before we come out of here—whoever comes out of here. Just a bit of wisdom from your worldly fellow nymph.”

  Helen stared at the woman. Turned sideways, Jammie’s posture accentuated the exposure of her breasts. She didn’t trust Jammie. There was something wrong. But she knew that there was something between Joe and Schwind. She’d sensed it before. Was there something, as well, between Joe and Jammie? She’d seen them standing in the trees, down by the stream, standing very close. But she’d been unable to see much.

  “What were you and Joe talking about, down there?” Helen asked.

  “Oh, just Clausewitz,” Jammie said. Then she glanced down at her breasts, aware of Helen’s stare. “Oops. Nothing serious, my dear, honest. Joe’s not really a tit man anyway, is he?” Then she vanished into the interior.

  Helen stood on the path, fuming. The bitch! she thought. She looked around. The sky was clear except for a handful of puffy clouds. Nothing stirred in the grand panorama except a few birds, magpies she thought, flapping and calling around the trees along the glittering stream below.

  What was she doing here? Backing up Joe. Maybe Jammie was right: she ought to scram. But after a few frustrated minutes, running Jammie’s remarks back and forth through her mind, she knelt to rummage in the backpack for a roll of duct tape: Joe had suggested mounting the flashlight on the barrel of the shotgun, just in case. Now she took his advice. Then she went into the tunnel.

  She had hardly gone fifty feet, just beyond the point where there was no longer any illumination from the entrance, when she came upon Jammie’s gear bag. It sat, not nearly so full as it had seemed, next to the AK-47, leaning against the wall.

  Kibosh was willing but skeptical. “He’ll die in here,” Kibosh said as they made their way into the mountain, “and I might find his bones in a year or two of lookin’, though to tell ye the truth, I don’t reckon I’d spend my Sundays doin’ it. But by golly, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes neither. It’d be a hell of a miserable way to go.”

  “Not as miserable as the one he gave to a lot of others,” Joe said.

  It did not take long for them to reach their first serious obstacle. The floor of the tunnel they were in had been gradually sloping upward more quickly than the ceiling. Finally, there was little more than a crawl space, scarcely large enough to admit a man of Joe’s size. Kibosh was skinnier. He crawled forward with the light while Joe waited. Soon he crawled backward out of the hole. He seemed puzzled.

  “I coulda swore this was a walk-in drift,” he said. “But it just plumb peters out.”

  They were sitting on the floor, and Kibosh picked up a handful of sand and let it run through his fingers. “This ain’t no recent cave-in,” he said. He looked around and picked up a sliver of what looked like wood, sniffed it, then tasted it. “That there’s a bone,” he said. “This has been used by a lion. There’s quite a few of ’em about, more than there used to was.”

  “I never thought of these mountains as being like this,” Joe said. “They look so solid, and yet they’re just honey-combed with these passages and tunnels.”

  “A mountain’s a livin’ thing,” Kibosh said. “Quite a lot goin’ on in ’em. Lions, bears use ’em, even badgers—though they like to dig their own, mostly. They’re diggin’ machines. Well, we’d best backtrack.”

  Soon they found where they had gone astray. A fall had masked off another tunnel. They picked at it for twenty minutes or more, dragging larger rocks away. It was loose at first, then more tightly packed, but finally loose again, and they were able to push through into a man-sized passage.

  “Hard work,” Joe said. They paused to drink water. “You seem to have an idea where you are,” he said to Kibosh. “How?”

  “Why, I don’t know,” Kibosh said. “I just al’s seemed to have that sense. Ye get turned around, sometimes. But I al’s had that sense of it. Kind of a feel. Where we are now, we been steady goin’ up, an’ a little to the right, all the time. I reckon the main route, if ye want t’call it that, is on a bit more to the right and higher yet. That’d be where Boz orta be, if he ha’n’t strayed off into another whole system.”

  They went on. Joe had lost track of time, or would have, but now he was surprised to see by his watch that they had been in the mountain for only a little more than an hour. They investigated several galleries, as Kibosh termed them, to no avail. One passage came to a full stop with a cave-in, quite old according to Kibosh. Another angled back toward yet another exit.

  “Do ye want to take a break?” Kibosh asked. “Ye could foller this tunnel here and it’d get ye to a point downstream of where we started, by about a quarter mile or more.”

  “How long would that take?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  Joe thought about it, then decided to push on. It was well that they did, for in another twenty minutes they came to a cross drift that Kibosh said was almost certainly bound to intersect with the main passage. But he wasn’t confident how far it was.

  “How can you tell?” Joe asked.

  Kibosh said he could tell from the size and condition of the drift. It had been worked pretty thoroughly. “Musta found some gold in here,” he said. “I’ll have to ’member this. See, they worked these galleries here and there, laid these old boards … kinda rotted now. See?”

  “Why did they stop?”

  Kibosh looked at the dirt, inspected some flecks of minerals he pointed out to Joe. “It’s a sign, but not real promising. They had to’ve assayed, an’ prob’ly didn’t find it rich enough. Maybe they jist got tired. Found somethin’ better over yonder. Maybe they got sick. Who knows?”

  Joe was weary of being in this hole, but he didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t do to quit now. They pressed on. Within fifteen minutes they were into the cross drift that they’d come upon earlier. But after they had traveled along it for a while, Kibosh remarked that it seemed to be quite a bit farther to the main passage than he’d reckoned.

  “Seems like it keeps bending back,” he said. They stopped and reconnoitered a bit, exploring some of the galleries they had passed. At one point, Kibosh paused and sniffed. He said he felt a draft—did Joe feel it? Joe wasn’t sure. They hoisted their gear and went on. Within a short time Joe and Kibosh found themselves in an easy passage, and not long after, they came to a recently collapsed cross tunnel.

  “This could be it,” Kibosh said. “It heads the right way.” Together, they managed to clear away enough debris to squeeze through, and from there it was a short walk until they entered a large chamber.

  “By damn,” Kibosh said, “this here’s the chamber where I stopped with Boz. An’”—he broke off to cast his light about—“he ain’t been back here. I bet he’s still betwixt us and the main exit.”

  All right, Joe thought as they set off. They moved at a good pace, Kibosh as confident of his whereabouts as if he’d been on the corner of Park and Montana, in Butte. They had not gone far when he suddenly snapped off his light and turned to stop Joe. “Up ahead,�
� he whispered.

  There was a faint glow ahead. The two men moved forward softly. Joe took the lead, with the H&K at the ready. They came to a bend and then around it and there, some fifty feet beyond, was Bozi Bazok. He stood hunched, a light in one hand and a pistol in the other, his back humped with the old canvas pack. He wasn’t walking, just standing and talking.

  “You little whore,” he muttered, “who the hell do you think you are? Keep walking. Come on.” He trudged forward, still talking. The two men followed, keeping their distance.

  “There’s bandits up in these mountains,” Boz said. “Taliban! Ha, ha! I’d like to see them. I’d blow their fucking brains out. I’ll blow yours out too. Come here,” he said, stopping. “That’s it. Get down on your knees. I’m gonna do it right now! Oh, quit whining. Come on.” And he shuffled on.

  Kibosh plucked at Joe’s sleeve. They stopped and let the man stumble on, still jabbering—“Balijas! Bozi Bazooks! You don’t stand a chance! Haw!”

  “Sumbitch is plum loco,” Kibosh whispered. “But I’m damned if he ain’t found his way. If he just keeps walkin’ he’ll walk right out. The wimmen’ll be up ahead. Hadn’t we orta do somethin’ fore he gits there?”

  Joe knew he was right. “Let’s take him. You lay back. He’s in terrible shape, but if he starts popping that pistol it could get dangerous. Stay against the wall, or lie on the ground.”

  “I got a better idea,” Kibosh said. “How ’bout I call to him, flash my light? He’ll come. Ye stay back, in the dark, and we might lure him back to the chamber, where they’s a little more room. Ye could take him there.”

  This seemed a better idea, Joe thought, but it might be dangerous for Kibosh. The old man was willing, though. He felt that the larger chamber would be less dangerous if bullets started flying. Joe consented and began to backtrack, while Kibosh went forward.

  “Boz!” the old man shouted. “Hey, Boz!” He flashed his light down the passage. “This way!”

  Boz whirled around. “Wha’? Kibe? That you, Kibe? You come back for me!”

  “This way, boy!” Kibosh yelled. He waved his light but, mindful of Joe’s warning, retreated around the bend. He kept calling, always staying out of view as they fell back, careful to keep a bend between them and Bazok, his light flashing on the walls to show the route.

  Boz stumbled back toward them, overjoyed. “You came back! You’re a hell of a man, Kibe! Wait up!”

  When Joe and Kibosh entered the chamber they doused their lights, waiting on either side of the entry. A moment later, Bazok burst into the room.

  “Where are you, Kibe?” he yelled. He stood in the middle of the chamber, the Star automatic in hand, looking around wildly.

  Joe was in the act of flicking on his light when the dogs burst into the chamber, howling. Bazok whirled. “Get away! Get away!” he screamed as the dogs attacked. He fired the Star wildly.

  “Get down!” Joe yelled to Kibosh, as bullets ricocheted about the chamber.

  The dogs snarled, tearing at their quarry. Bazok’s light flew against a wall and went out. In the darkness, Joe and Kibosh could hear the dog’s teeth snapping, the rending of clothing, the screams of the victim. Then it was almost silent, with only the panting of the dogs.

  Joe flipped his light on. The dogs stood back from the mangled corpse of the killer, a wretched, torn bundle in the middle of the room. Their eyes glowed in the light, but they didn’t move. Then they padded forward and nuzzled Joe.

  Joe shone his light on Kibosh, who was crouched against a wall. His eyes were wide, but now he stood up, cautiously. “Good dogs, good dogs,” Kibosh said. The dogs came to him, their tongues lolling out. They knew him. Kibosh petted them and took hold of their collars.

  Joe went over to Bazok. He was dead, his throat and face torn viciously, the blood still spreading around him. Joe had turned to say something to Kibosh when another voice broke in.

  “Hold them, hold them,” Jammie said. She stood at the entry, her gun in both hands. She had pushed her night-vision headgear back off her forehead. The dogs were straining in Kibosh’s hands. “If you let them go,” Jammie warned, “I’ll shoot you first.”

  Kibosh hushed the dogs. He looked from Joe to her and back.

  “Keep them calm,” Joe said. To Jammie, he said, “Well?”

  She stepped forward, motioning Joe toward Kibosh and the dogs. “Help him hold them,” she said. When Joe moved over to take one of the dogs, she sidestepped toward Bazok. She glanced down briefly and kicked him. The limp reaction told her what she needed to know. She turned her attention back to the two men and the dogs.

  “Kind of a standoff, hey?” She laughed lightly. “If I shoot you, the dogs get loose, which could be a hassle. That stupid Paulie … I could kill him.” She uttered a bark of laughter. “Well, you can’t kill a man twice, can you? Which leaves you guys.”

  “So, you’re the cleanup hitter,” Joe said. “Is that it?”

  “Very good, Joe. I like that.” She seemed calm, assessing the situation.

  “And who’s the coach?” Joe asked. “Tucker?”

  Jammie shook her head, impatiently. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You’re smarter than that … or maybe I overestimated you. It’s all about money, Joe. Nothing complicated. I offered you a chance … but you didn’t bite. I guess”—she lowered her aim—“it’ll have to be the dogs first.”

  Helen’s light flashed in Jammie’s eyes. Jammie swiveled, but it was too late. The shotgun roared. Jammie was thrown back like a rag doll, flopping on top of Bazok, arms flung wide.

  Joe approached Helen and tried to embrace her, but she held him off with an elbow. She pointed the barrel of the gun so that the light played on the bodies, their blood mingling on the dirty floor.

  “Make sure they’re dead,” Helen said.

  Joe knelt to inspect the bodies. He stood up. “Can’t get any deader,” he said.

  Helen let out her breath and lowered the gun. Joe put his arm around her. She stared down at the crumpled wreckage of Jammie. “My God,” she said. “Why?”

  Joe picked up Jammie’s laser-aimed Llama and the NiteOwl headset that had been thrown from her head. He held them up to show Helen.

  “She would have killed you,” he said. “She killed Paulie.”

  “Why?”

  “What does it matter?” he said.

  “It matters to me,” Helen said. “She didn’t know us. She didn’t know anything about us.”

  “We were just in the way,” Joe said. “She was a determined woman. Dedicated, you could say.”

  Romance

  In the living room of the third-floor back of an apartment building a few blocks off Flatbush Avenue, Roman met an Albanian Muslim man to whom he gave one thousand dollars. A young woman was then brought into the room and introduced to Roman as Fedima. She was dressed like an American girl, in Levi’s and an oversized jersey that bore the logo of the Mets. She wore Adidases. Her hair was black and tied in a ponytail. She was very pretty, a little thin, Roman thought, but with large, luminous brown eyes. She was wary. But for her diffidence, she reminded him of Helen, in fact.

  The Albanian had explained the situation before the girl was produced. She had been through hell, he told Roman. Her abductor, a Serbian irregular with the nom de guerre of Bozi Bazok, had raped her, of course, many times. She was lucky he had not murdered her, as he had murdered all of her family, before her very eyes. He had cut their throats, mostly, but some he had simply shot. Fortunately for Fedima, the bashi-bazouk had needed someone to help him escape from Kosovo—he feared that he had been cut off from his outfit by the Kosovo Liberation Army.

  This young woman was a very great heroine, the man told Roman. They would write songs about her. Despite her terror, her grief, and, it must be admitted, her ignorance of how to reach Albania, she had managed to convince the bashi-bazouk that without her he would perish. In fact, they stumbled into Montenegro, after enduring horrendous nights of snow and very little food or drink�
��and for her, repeated abuse by the bashi-bazouk. Whereupon she had escaped and fled to Albania, perhaps through the intentional negligence of this Bazok, who had tired of her and no longer needed her assistance.

  By then there was no sense in returning to Kosovo—no possibility, in fact. Refugees were streaming out of that land. Ultimately, Fedima found safety in a camp run by an international agency, and from there she was sent first to Sweden, then to America.

  Alas, she was a ruined woman. Luckily, she had not gotten pregnant. But she would never find a Muslim husband. She was learning English, taking courses at the high school. She hoped to go to junior college. She would become a secretary, perhaps. She might even find an American man who would marry her. In some ways, the man said, she was lucky. She was alive, at least.

  If Mr. Yakovich could help her, that would be wonderful. They—the family with which she was placed—got very little assistance from the international agency for taking her in.

  “What happened to Bazok?” Roman inquired.

  Apparently, he had gone back into Serbia. Who knows where he was now? Such a man will find justice, eventually. Allah does not forget. Very likely Serbia was now no longer a safe place for him.

  “You understand,” the man said, evidently mindful of Roman’s Serbian name, “that we do not blame the Serbian people, as such, for this tragedy. There were very bad people among them, but the Serbs have come to their senses and have rejected these gangsters. Now something must be done for the victims of their cruelty. Reparations must be made.”

  “Yes, yes,” Roman said, absently, wondering how much this would ultimately cost the Liddle Angel.

  That was when Fedima was brought in. An old grandmotherly type was also present. “I bring you greetings,” Roman said in Serbo-Croatian, “from Franko.” He had been instructed by Helen to tell her this.

  The reaction was amazing. This downcast little woman flew to him, her eyes ablaze. “You have seen him? He is well?” she cried. “Where is he?”

  “I have not seen him,” Roman said, “but I am told that he is well. He is in Montana. He wishes to see you.”