Anarchy- Another Burroughs Rice Mission

by Theo Cage

  The bird was dead.

  可怕的

  H O R R I B L E

  HUNTER ROLLED ACROSS the lab, an expansive glass wall looking out onto the desert to his immediate right. He was messaging Grace. Waiting less than a few seconds. Then messaging her again. Over and over. He knew this was unproductive and infuriated her. Well, it didn’t exactly make her angry. Frustrated would be a more precise definition of her typical reaction. Then he messaged again. Where was she? Why wasn’t she responding instantly?

  . . .

  GRACE PUT HER HAND ON BRITT’S. They were sitting in her F150 pickup in the grocery store parking lot. Britt had decided she needed to get out of the house. House? Laboratory? Headquarters? Whatever you wanted to call the building they all shared: Rice, Britt, Grace, Hunter, Jimmy, a dozen lab rats and programmers, techs, a security team. It was more village than home.

  Britt was going shopping. She was going to drive out of the desert, into town, Fountain Hills, to pick up something to make for dinner. They had a huge kitchen and a chef, but Britt just wanted something simple: a salmon sandwich, a Pepsi, a whole jar of giant olives. She was craving things. She wasn’t feeling like herself.

  Grace asked if she could join her. Grace drove the big truck with the noisy off-road wheels, feeling like Mad Max hunting for Thunderdome.

  At Fry’s they had filled a shopping cart, bought some wine that Britt wouldn’t partake of, some chocolate she would. Back in the truck, just about to buckle in, she lost it.

  “I’m the fixer,” she lamented. “I used to help set bones and administer drugs and settle people down. Now what do I do? I stare out the window at the desert wondering where my man is. I lived alone for eight years and was perfectly happy. Now look at me.” Grace patted her hand. She cared for Britt, but she wasn’t a hugger or a Florence Nightingale. The two of them could not be more different. Yet Rice had chosen both of them. He had his reasons, unfathomable as they may seem right now.

  When Grace was seven, she started to lose interest in her Barbies and gravitated towards a trunk full of GI Joes left over from her father’s effects. This didn’t alarm anyone in her family. Her mother shrugged, almost expecting her to veer off the expected path.

  Grace grew up in London, struggled to make friends. She was a black kid in an all-white neighborhood. She wore clothes she found in a secondhand store: black tees, camo pants, boots. She didn’t talk a lot. Words seemed superfluous, relationships like minefields.

  The way soldiers communicated struck her as sensible: two fingers pointing to a target, the nod of a head. People told you what to do. You didn’t have to unpack the meaning or ask again. There weren’t degrees of understanding, shaded suppositions. Things were clear, direct.

  “You’re going to be a mother,” said Grace. “You’ll have tons of opportunities to be a fixer. There will be scuffed knees and medicine to administer and broken toys to fix. You’ll be right in your element.”

  Britt took a tissue from the center console and dried her eyes. “You’re a brilliant marksman, Grace. But as a sister—”

  “I was a lone child, Britt. I never even had a cat or a goldfish to look after.”

  “Basically, what you’re saying is you’re emotionally broken.”

  “And then I’ve been hanging with Hunter lately, too. He’s essentially a high-tech tractor with a brain. And that’s about as warm and fuzzy as it gets.”

  “At least he’s here,” Britt said.

  “Sure, when he’s not plugged into the Internet twenty hours a day. And when I say plugged in—”

  “You mean plugged in.”

  “How did we get here, Britt? What horrible things did we do in another life to deserve this?”

  “It must have been outrageous. Look how we’re being punished. We live in a ten thousand square foot mansion built by an evil genius billionaire with ten bathrooms, an indoor pool and an elevator.”

  “We get to fly all over the world, wined and dined by Presidents and kings, fly in a private jet, eat in the best restaurants.”

  “Now that I think about it, our life is pretty miserable.”

  “The worst.”

  There was silence for a long minute. Then Grace’s phone vibrated in the charging station by the gear shifter.

  “It’s Hunter,” said Britt.

  “What was the clue?”

  “He’s the only one who texts you? That’s pretty sad as well,” said Britt, trying to smile.

  “He’s been pinging me for half an hour. From his brain.”

  “We haven’t talked about that very much. But it’s a bit—it’s weird.”

  “Sorry, you’re right.” Grace lifted her phone up and swiped the screen. “I’m not reading his message. I know what it is.”

  “What?”

  “He wants me to tell you something. He’s anxious to know what your reaction will be.”

  “OK! Tell me.”

  “He thinks he found Rice.”

  Britt froze for a moment, then reached out and squeezed Grace’s arm. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “You know I’m a big believer in trust but verify.”

  “Just tell me!”

  “Hunter found what he thinks is a message. We can’t verify it yet. But it looks solid.”

  “What kind of message?” asked Britt.

  Grace hesitated, swallowed. “A butterfly.”

  Britt’s eyes grew wider, plainly bloodshot around the edges. Her fingers bit into Grace’s arm. “I don’t understand …”

  “It was an animated image. Sent from a village in China.”

  “Of a butterfly.” Britt released Grace’s arm and sat back in her seat staring up at the sky through the dusty windshield.

  “Hunter thinks it was very cleverly done. With stones,” added Grace, seeing the look of disbelief in Britt’s eyes. “He’s contacting the CIA. He’s sending them to the village to confirm.”

  “I’m not getting my hopes up,” said Britt, sighing.

  “I understand,” murmured Grace. “I totally understand.”

  禽

  B I R D

  RICE HELD THE TINY SONGBIRD in his hand, curious. Why had the bird died so quickly? Was he sick? There was no physical damage that he could see.

  He passed his thumb over the feathers, searching for a wound. The water in the cave could be poisoned, but he hadn’t seen the bird drink. And if it was tainted, he couldn’t imagine Lui not saying something. Although he did mention the cave had an effect on people. Wouldn’t there be dozens of corpses here if the cave water was toxic? Rice wished he’d paid more attention. He thought Lui was talking about prayers or meditation. Maybe it was something else.

  Rice froze. He heard voices in the distance: a shouted command. The soldiers were here already. He was trapped. He laid the bird back in the steamy water and paddled to the back of the cave where the roof slanted down to the water. He reached back with one arm, feeling for the rock face. His arm passed through the water unencumbered. The underwater portion of the cave was deeper than he thought.

  He listened, moving as little as possible, keeping his lungs full so he would float without moving his arms. He saw the light at the mouth of the cave dim, shadows moving, two voices echoing. One lengthening shadow crossed the far wall, the silhouette of a rifle deadly apparent. Rice waited. He would submerge at the last possible moment, before the soldier’s eyes adjusted to the dim green light of the cave. The search would be brief. There was no obvious place to hide.

  Rice exhaled slowly, took in a deep breath and slipped below the surface. He turned in the water and moved back, under the rock face. The water here was deep, over ten feet to the bottom, just enough light leaking in from the cave opening to illuminate the rocks below.

  He pushed forward, expecting a rock wall. Instead an underwater river opened up, widened, the bottom expanding into blackness. He had at least a minute or two to explore, based on past experience he could hold his breath for almost four minutes. That should be
enough time for the soldiers to finish their reconnaissance. He moved deeper into the black water, feeling an odd sensation. Trained as a Navy Seal, Rice had done hundreds of dives. He knew intimately the feeling of running low on air, the pressure on his chest, the ringing in his ears. He should have lots of time, but something was wrong. His lungs were already spasming. The sudden need for air set off alarm bells. He could feel panic welling up. What was happening? It was too soon to turn back to the surface. Even if the soldiers found nothing of interest, their curiosity would be enough to keep them lingering for a moment or two, out of the wind, fascinated by the emerald glow of the water.

  Rice realized then what the problem was. Natural springs have been known to excrete carbon monoxide. He recalled a story about three soldiers who died. They had climbed down to a spring fed pond and eventually passed out from lack of oxygen. The cave was full of colorless tasteless CO. That was what killed the bird so quickly: its tiny brain overcome. Rice had taken a deep breath of air that was mostly composed of carbon monoxide. That explained his struggle over lack of oxygen. Now he had no choice. He had to go back. He had to get out of the cave. He was already feeling sleepy, the CO replacing the oxygen bonding to his blood cells. The longer he waited, the less energy he would have and sooner or later he would just pass out. Drown.

  He pushed up in the water to test his strength. He still felt physically fine, but he needed to get a breath of air and fast. Rice reached up, felt the ceiling with his fingertips, felt coolness on his hand. Air. There was a bubble of air above him. He pushed his way up in the murk, banging his head on the volcanic rock. The bubble was only a few inches deep. He laid his head back, fighting the panic, sensed his nose break the surface. He blew out a lungful of air, heard the rush of air, then sucked in the steamy atmosphere. It was probably mostly carbon monoxide. But it felt better out, the more CO he breathed, the closer he would come to passing out.

  And passing out in this water, alone, was a death sentence.

  水

  W A T E R

  Near Lui’s Hut

  THE TWO SOLDIERS HURRIED along the well-beaten path, alert, anxious. There were stories: prisoners who formed groups for protection, armed with sticks and rocks. You lock someone up for life in a place like Quinjang and they will have to wonder what they have to lose? Their commander had quickly squashed the rumors. No one had died. But of course, they would say that. Who would admit that soldiers trained with rifles would be beaten by troublemakers with stones?

  Their commander, a fat and spoiled shang wei (a captain) from Guangdong, had told them to check the path climbing up to one of the community shrines. These were natural hiding places, with excellent views of the village below. As they approached the rock alter, they noticed what they thought was shallow shelf into the low mountain was actually a cave that stepped down into the dark.

  Both soldiers slowed and brought their rifles up. They nodded to each other, one taking the lead. As soon as they entered the shadows of the opening, they both stopped.

  “Lio chen,” said one to the other. Be careful. If there were prisoners with rocks in this cave, they would see nothing before it was too late.

  “Ting”, one whispered, listen, the command echoing in the cave. The soldier in the rear took a cautious step back.

  “Dan chow way” Coward. As their eyes adjusted, they could see dark natural steppingstones angling downward towards water. The cave was small. There were no hiding places. They both stared at the water. They imagined several prisoners, stirring up the water. But where would they go? They could see the bottom clearly, the water dark green.

  The lead soldier slapped the other on the back. “We survived. No sticks or rocks today. Pity, I would like to shoot one of those traitors.”

  They both stepped down to the water line, staring into the pool. The water seemed to be illuminated from some invisible source, the reflective ripples glowing on the ceiling in bright neon green. One soldier put his hand in the water, swirled the surface with his fingers.

  “Warm.” he laughed. “Now I need to pee.” He stood and undid the buttoned flap on the front of this uniform trousers and urinated into the water.

  “Now it’s more sacred.” They both laughed.

  Rice could hear the soldier’s voices, muted bass notes. He floated, just under the bubble, barely moving his arms. He didn’t think his position was visible from the steps by the water, but he couldn’t be sure. His thinking felt muddled, like he was being drugged. The carbon monoxide was having its effect on his body.

  He knew now why Wey thought the cave was magical. When the men would gather here, they would slowly become sleepy and tired, their minds would wander, they would fall into a dream-like state. If they stayed too long, they would die. Maybe they had rules about that. No one could stay more than half an hour. Perhaps they used a candle or a burning stick to mark the time or repeated a prayer so many times. This might have been going on for centuries.

  It was likely the whole village was poisoned, at least the men. It took as long as six months to replace the blood cells locked with CO2. That would explain the dull eyed look of the villagers and why Lui seemed to sleep twelve hours a day.

  Rice slowly swam up to the bubble and took another deadly breath. Maybe he should just surrender. If he stayed in the water much longer, he would pass out, fill his lungs with water and die.

  It was a horrible thought. The ultimate failure for a SEAL was to drown. So much of their training was based on survival in the water. One of the first swimming exercises that Rice remembered they sent five of the trainees home. The CO bound your arms and legs and threw you into the deep end of the pool. Some of the newbies just let a full-on panic grip them and started to scream underwater. They were rescued by trainers in scuba gear. And washed out of the SEALS.

  Rice knew there had to be an answer to the problem: they didn’t just throw soldiers into a pool to watch them drown. He used his bound legs like flippers and pushed himself to the surface, but he couldn’t stay there. He just sank again. So he tried again, this time grabbing a partial lungful of air when his head broke the surface. He repeated that exercise ten times until the Scuba divers came to rescue him. He was exhausted, but he passed the test.

  Rice floated up and took another breath through his nose. He couldn’t grab a lot of air. In order to stay quiet, he had to exhale slowly which gave him almost no time for another inhalation. He was seeing stars now in the dark, a sign he was running low on oxygen. He fought to stay awake, fought to keep moving so he wouldn’t sink down in the water.

  Eyes closed, bright flashes of light exploded around him, he saw Britt’s face floating in the distance. She was smiling. Then he saw what she was holding, his daughter. He was overcome with emotion. He reached for her, but his arms moved as if in slow motion. He was turning, dropping, gliding downwards. He opened his mouth to say something, call Britt’s name. He felt water at the back of his throat. That was strange. Why would that be? Then he took a breath. He felt cold water fill his lungs. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. There was no panic, no fear. He felt at peace. He tried again. Then again. All those years he had trained to be drown-proof. For what? Breathing water seemed so natural.

  It wasn’t so bad after all. It was time to go to sleep.

  巫术

  M A G I C

  Lui’s Hut

  LUI WATCHED ANXIOUSLY as the soldiers shuffled through his home. He thought they would make a cursory search then be on their way, but they seemed convinced that the star prisoner was secreted in his hut. The commander was strutting around by a shiny black SUV, constantly on the phone, waving his arms, shouting directions.

  Two of the soldiers had headed up the path to the cave where Rice had gone. They hadn’t returned yet, which worried Lui. The cave had special powers. But even a tall powerful man like his guest might be overcome if he lingered too long. He had warned Rice. The visions were powerful, but he had seen men close to death if they lingered, unable to deal with the magic o
f the cave water.

  Lui stood in his doorway, working hard to keep his head down, his eyes off the well-worn path that led up the mountain. The commander had stepped away from his Range Rover and was huffing his way up the trail toward him. The head soldier was corpulent, well fed. He looked nothing like the locals. A bread eater.

  “Citizen, listen, we don’t want to tear this village apart, rip the roof off your home, throw your belongings into the street. Tell us where the prisoner is?”

  “Why would a prisoner come here? We have nothing for them. They eat better in their cells.”

  “You are a funny one. You think they eat better? Would you like to try? It can be arranged.”

  The commander stood, one hand on his waist, his shirt bulging against a wide belt that was already on its last notch.

  “We have seen no escapees,” said Lui. “In the last month we have had one American tourist who moved on when he saw how poor our crops were. He felt pity for us.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “To the city. He was looking for a good meal of fried pork. All we have here are skin and bone chickens.”

  The commander licked his lips. “Describe him.”

  “Caucasian. Six foot. Brown hair. Expensive hiking boots.”

  “His name?”

  “We were not on a first name basis.”

  The commander spit on the pathway, then looked up at the mountain behind Lui’s hut, the top rounded like a loaf of bread, wrapped in forest green. His eyes caught something in the distance.

  “My men are back. Unfortunately, they are alone.” Then he swore and kicked a rock across the path.