Paper or Plastic

by Mackey Chandler

  He totaled it and handed the change to Roger with a look that said, I know what you are doing. Roger made a show of handing the change to Martee.

  "Paper or plastic, Ma’am?" John asked. It was so old-fashioned. They still bagged your things for you and didn’t even charge for the bags. Of course being the only store in town, their prices covered the bags nicely too.

  "Paper or plastic?" John asked again.

  "Paper or plastic what?" Martee asked.

  "Paper or plastic bags? - Ma’am."

  "Paper or plastic bags, what?" Martee asked, still puzzled.

  John glared at Roger, like this was his fault.

  "Would you care for paper or plastic bags? Ma’am."

  Martee snuck a quick look at the PDA in her hand. "Roger, are these paper or plastic bags something for which I should assure the man I will care? Is it an obligation I want to assume?"

  The clerk had a purple vein standing out in his forehead, against the red flush of his face. Roger decided to end it before the man died of a stroke.

  "The lady is still learning English, John. She gets confused if you don’t speak in complete sentences. Martee, he would like to know if you prefer paper bags or plastic bags, for your groceries to be packed in, to carry away."

  "Oh, how interesting. Whatever you think best, Roger."

  "Plastic for both of us, please," Roger instructed him. It was a real struggle not to laugh at the look on John’s face, but he was afraid if he did he would be driving all the way to Cooperville from now on for his groceries.

  Once they were out the front door he at least allowed himself a big smile.

  He stopped beside his truck and put the groceries in the front corner of the bed. Martee watched carefully, as he hooked an elastic cargo net over them.

  "Let me get the door for you," he offered this time.

  It was stiff, he realized when he opened it. He stepped back, to slam the door extra hard, careful not to get against the grubby dumpster and there was a man right at his elbow, who reached past him to point with something in his hand

  The gesture held such instant threat that he was back in combat mode, as if the last couple years had never happened. His elbow went up and back hard and there was a very satisfying crunch when it connected with the fellow’s nose. The blow knocked the fellow sprawled back flat on his back, but he was made of pretty tough stuff. He sat right up, ignoring the massive nose bleed that gushed down his chest.

  The man was not trying to stun him. He aimed past Roger, at Martee sitting in the open cab. She was struggling to pull the door shut, but was too stiff.

  The edge of the door caught some of the beam and there was a visible play of discharge down the door edge and her arm. Whatever the weapon did it wasn’t very effective on her. She twisted away, obviously buzzed by it, but not going into the full shock that a Taser would produce.

  Roger didn’t remember when he decided to draw, but the man finally marked him as a serious threat and turned to take aim at him, Roger's 10mm was already at full extension and he was thumbing the safety off. He would have shot the fellow right in the middle of his chest, but as he squeezed the trigger, the fellow twisted away from that aim point.

  The pistol went off with a crack like the sky breaking in half and the slug caught him low on the shoulder and shoved him back hard. The electronic weapon flew off out of the man's grip from the impact, but the lead-core bullet simply rubbed a grey smear across the man’s shoulder as it ricocheted off.

  The fellow turned back grim-faced and unhurried, with a new weapon in his other hand. This one had a real barrel with a hole in the end and Roger didn’t doubt it was lethal.

  "Drop it! Or this round will take you!" Roger ordered him.

  "Your weapon can’t hurt me," he said unafraid. "Can’t you see that, barbarian? Walk away. All I want is our woman." He had the same odd accent Martee did.

  "Pritsha!" Roger told him and had the satisfaction of seeing the man's eyes go wide with surprise at his own language, as he started to bring the strange weapon up.

  The 10mm took him dead through the heart this time. No copper-jacketed soft lead slug, the second round in every magazine he loaded had a special armor piercing penetrator inside. It could crack a ceramic armor breast plate, or blow a hole through two inches of good steel.

  Roger looked around still in combat mode. The man was flat, limp and no further threat. There was nobody in sight, but that wouldn’t last long. Civilians were stupid enough to run toward the sound of gunfire.

  There was a house in sight, off at an angle, but no car in the drive. Maybe nobody was home.

  He looked at the back of the building. There was a camera, but it pointed at the loading dock. If he went left he would never show on it. He dropped the hammer carefully and holstered his gun. He grabbed the dead man by an arm and rolled him over on his belly. He wanted the clean side to pick him up, but the exit wound made as bad a mess on his back.

  He grabbed the man by the neck and back of his pants, to keep him away and straight armed him up and over the side of the truck in one clean jerk, without rubbing against him. His back told him he would pay for that later. The man's pistol he scooped up and pocketed.

  When he turned back Martee was running back to the truck and he wondered what the devil she thought she was doing. Then he saw the man’s electronic weapon in her hand. He would have driven off and left it behind on the ground.

  She jumped in and he finally slammed the door for her, as he had intended so long ago. Her thoughtful action made him pause and he looked at the back wall of the store that had been to his right when he fired. On the ground at the base of the wall were the two pieces of bright brass and he took the time to scoop them up and put them in his pocket.

  When he started the truck he engaged the four-wheel drive and moved over until he was centered on the dumpster. He realized he would be rubbing dumpster paint on his bumper, that could link him to the scene. But he eased up against it and squeezed the throttle on, until he pushed the dumpster over the splash of blood on the pavement.

  He felt like they had been an hour cleaning up the scene, but it had been just past three minutes from the first shot until they rolled away.

  His truck was pretty tall, but there were lots of commercial trucks that looked down on it, so he wasn’t about to go down the road with a body in the back.

  As difficult as it was to do, he drove away slowly, as if nothing was wrong, along the service drive behind the stores to the hardware. Parked off in the corner as far away as he could, he hoped nobody would come close with Martee sitting in the cab. He told her to stay, but who knew what she would do? She might be terrified of him now. She certainly looked upset.

  It seemed like hours while he bought a tarp. The man in front of him exchanged unhurried small town pleasantries with the owner, until he thought he'd scream in frustration. When he came back out he was relieved to see the truck still there, without anyone around it. Martee was even there, which he had not been confident about at all.

  When he pulled out on the road he thought for the first time he might actually get away with this.

  Chapter 3

  "Roger," she said finally, when they were out of sight of the town, "why are you doing this for me? Not that I don’t thank you. I’m an illegal alien and don’t want to have the police arrest me, but if you don’t report that you defended yourself and killed a man, won’t it make your police question your motives later?"

  "Martee, believe me, I’m doing it as much for myself as for you. If you think my local police would be quick to give me the benefit of the doubt, after I shoot a stranger, you don’t know them very well. Let's hope there is no later."

  "But, he had a weapon, two weapons and he had already fired at me when you shot. I can’t believe they don’t expect you to protect yourself."

  "Believe what you want. The first thing he used on you there looked to be some kind of Taser that shocks a person helpless. If it got to court the prosecutor
would probably argue it is a non-lethal weapon and I wasn’t justified to respond to it with deadly force."

  "But once you are stunned he could do anything to you. He could cut your throat, or throw you in the river to drown."

  "Don’t matter, they’d probably argue the man didn’t pull a deadly weapon, until after I pulled one out, so he was the one to properly defend himself, not me. They’d take that much as evidence of his good intentions not to kill me – just disable me."

  "I don’t have much confidence the court will treat me fairly. There have been all kinds of cases in the news that show no common sense at all. If you don’t have a fortune to hire a bunch of high-powered attorneys and years to fight them, there isn’t much justice to be found in the courts. Too many prosecutors are looking to score wins and don't give a damn whether anybody is really guilty or innocent."

  "I thought things were simpler here," she said disappointed.

  "It wouldn’t be simple at all, even if we had a video record of the whole thing. I was in the Army not so long ago and that's another strike against me. When I was discharged the docs were not happy with my adjustment to civilian life at all. There are plenty of people who expect ex-soldiers to run amuck when they come back and are scared to death of us. This would just confirm their worst prejudices against me. No, thanks anyway, but I don’t trust any of them to treat me right."

  Martee got a fresh look of alarm on her face. "This man may have a computer like mine," she said lifting her PDA by way of illustration, "it could be tracked if it is set to share. You should get rid of anything he has in his pockets, or someone may track us."

  "A wireless device? Is it a radio like this?" he asked, touching the key fob hanging in the ignition, she had seen him use to unlock the truck.

  "Yes, exactly." After she thought about it awhile she added. "I’m not even sure he might not have something inside him."

  "A chip?" Roger asked. "Could his gun be chipped too?"

  "I’m not certain," she admitted. "I don’t think you should go to your house, if that is where you are going."

  "My house is the other direction. Last thing I'd do is collect dead bodies on my property. That has a way of coming back to bite you on the butt."

  She had the PDA out. This time he noticed it scrolled new lines as he spoke. She had given up any effort to keep him from seeing it clearly. He reached over and tilted the screen to him. There were two lines, one in English spelled terribly and the other language that used the same letters that were on the buttons.

  Martee laughed belatedly at his comment after she figured it out. She was still a long way from understanding simple factual statements – much less humor, or speaking English extemporaneously. Roger suddenly wondered if she wouldn’t do better with total immersion, without the machine as a crutch.

  "I only guessed about a radio thing inside him. I’ve never heard of such a thing, but I suppose it is possible. The," – she stopped and consulted her PDA – "organization he belonged to is very secretive. They might have things I wouldn’t know. Some things they have are better than what your people have, but it has surprised us lately, your people have a number of things that are better than ours. Your gun for example, he didn’t expect that at all. His jacket should have stopped it."

  He thought about that. The jacket was weird too. He never had seen or heard of bulletproof clothing that just looked like normal clothing – well, ugly normal clothing – instead of a separate layer under or over your usual clothing.

  Then they both had that odd accent.

  The man had been too confident anyway, jacket or no. If he had doubted the ability of his second round to defeat the armor he would have shot the fellow through the head. At three yards, he had no doubt of his skill to do that. In order to feel he was in no danger, the fellow must have assumed a horrible level of marksmanship as normal. It made no sense.

  "What are we talking about here? KGB versus the CIA?"

  "I don’t know what those are," she admitted. "His is the same kind of organization as the ones who make you wear these," she plucked at the belt.

  "He was a cop?" he asked with a sick feeling and while she consulted her PDA he expanded that: "Do you mean he was a policeman?"

  "Yes, that is exactly right."

  "Oh great. They never stop looking for you if you shoot a cop." Then he had a contrary thought, "Wait a minute. He’s a bit out of his jurisdiction isn’t he? I think it’s time you level with me and tell me where you are from. I know damn well it isn’t Germany."

  "Yes, you made that clear. I am certain you are right. They are outside their jurisdiction if that means territory. But they are used to doing what they want pretty much," – she had to stop and look up a word – "unopposed. They are harsh enough with their own, but with you people - I’m positive they don’t recognize your government’s authority at all. If they did it would be much different."

  "Lady, I know plenty of people who don’t recognize the United States of North America. Wasn’t too long ago I had a government-paid tour among some of them, for close to three years. But that has consequences. We’re not talking about some banana republic; we’re talking about the most powerful nation in the world. If they run armed agents around the US, somebody will not only figure it out, but there will be some major righteous retribution when they do."

  She studied her PDA for the longest time and still required a definition for retribution. Then he had to explain why he held republics that grew bananas in such low esteem.

  "Yes, you can kill one of them if you get close enough," she finally replied. "You’ve proved that. But you can’t take the fight to them. You have to wait for them to come to you. Not to be unkind, but you are not equals."

  "Why? Can these guys hide so well we’ll never find them? Don't underestimate us. We have a lot of experience hunting terrorists across any number of countries."

  "Sometimes you are a silly man," she objected. "I'm sure you can find them here, but you don’t have any real spaceships. You can’t even go off to the far planets around your own sun, much less to other stars."

  Roger ran off on the shoulder and stood on the brakes so hard the truck’s computer had to struggle to keep it straight. At the end he rammed it in Park so hard, that by rights the lever should have busted off. He didn’t want to say another word until he could look her straight in the eyes, undistracted.

  He turned and challenged her, "Look right at me and say - I’m not from Germany. I’m from outer space."

  She looked surprised and checked something on her display first.

  "I’m not clear where you consider space outer, but I’m from space so far away it must be outer. My star is so far away you can’t see it from here – by eye at least."

  He'd noted within minutes of meeting her she was a lousy liar. Trouble was, she believed what she'd just said. One thing he trusted was his own internal bullshit meter. And she believed what she'd told him. He was sure of it.

  "I thought you already understood," Martee objected.

  "Why, why in the world would you think that?" Then he laughed at his usage.

  Why in the worlds, maybe? He thought.

  "At breakfast, you said if I could not deal with people more convincingly, I should just beam myself back to the mother ship. I don’t have a mother ship and I'm not sure what this beam is, but I didn’t expect you to know that. The police certainly do have a mother ship and you seemed quite clear on the concept."

  "Oh Dear Sweet…"

  "Roger," she interrupted firmly, "if I am not from space, why are men with funny guns trying to kidnap me from parking lots? What more proof would you need that I am an alien?"

  He had to admit that she had a very good point there and she hadn’t even mentioned the ugly suit of weird body armor, or the odd language. The gun did look otherworldly and he was itching to take it apart. However it was still too much to absorb. He just sat and looked at her for a moment, thinking about it. She seemed to take his hesitation as disbelief, th
ough.

  "There is one thing," she offered reluctantly. "I could show you my space ship, but I’m afraid to go back to it if they know the area where I am. I want to stay away from it for a few days, until I know they are not following me. But I will show it to you if that would help. If you don’t think it is just a story thing, made up by a crazy lady."

  "I think I can tell the difference between a stage prop and a real space ship," he assured her, "but it’s time to do something else before we go too far."

  Rog dropped the shift lever back in gear, pulled back on the road and drove about three miles silently. There was a road off to the left running uphill and he pulled in past a sign that said, Maple Canyon Campground. It also said, CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE - ASPEN COUNTY PARKS.

  "They closed this about three years ago because of budget cuts," he explained. "They put a chain up a couple times, but all the local kids have big trucks like this and if they want in they just drive through and snap the lock, so they stopped trying to close the road."

  He drove through a leaf-littered parking lot and around a loop to a concrete pad, that had a sign and instructions. It was a sanitary dump station for RVs. What he was interested in was not the small opening for a dump hose. He stepped across the knee-high barrier, intended to keep vehicles on the pad and searched around in the tall grass and weeds. Since the place was closed they no longer kept the place mowed either. He found a concrete plug with two loops of rebar sticking out for handles and heaved it out with difficulty.

  Martee had gotten out of the truck and didn’t volunteer to help or ask any questions. Roger carried the body over using the tarp and let it down on the tall grass. He went through the pockets carefully and found an electronic case very much like Martee’s and a very ordinary folding pocket knife. There was no extra ammunition for the pistol, although there was a holster of open weave, that appeared to be sewn permanently onto the inside of the jacket.

  What he did notice was the lack of any money, or any obvious identification such a driver’s license, or any documents at all. How did these guys identify themselves, or pay for lunch? He considered the knife. The blade had that bright look, like stainless. If he tossed it in the septic tank it might be there long after the body was gone, so he put it in his pocket.