Purge of Babylon (Short Story): Mason's War

by Sam Sisavath

  “Bullshit,” Freckles said.

  “Not bullshit. The truth.”

  “When did you hear it?”

  “This morning. How long were you separated from your team?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “A day? Two?” Mason pressed on. “Why did you guys split up—”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Where what?”

  “Where’s the radio?”

  “Back at the truck. You know, where you killed the two guys responsible for killing your team? Like I’ve been trying to tell you, it wasn’t me. I was just along for the ride.”

  “You said that already.”

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “I swear,” he said, and did his very best to look earnest.

  She smirked.

  “Guess she didn’t buy it,” the voice said.

  “It’s the God’s honest truth,” Mason said. “I’m new—”

  “Get up.”

  “Are we going somewhere?”

  “To find that radio, because I don’t believe a single thing that comes out of your filthy mouth.”

  “Filthy?” Mason said, using the tree trunk to slide back up to his feet. “I take exception to that. I try to brush my teeth at least once a day. How many people can say they still practice good dental hygiene these days?”

  “Good one; keep her off-balance with the jokes!” the voice laughed.

  Freckles ignored him and slung her rifle, but let her right hand hover not-so-casually over the holstered Colt. “Try anything, and you’ll join your two friends in Asshole Land.”

  “Asshole Land?” Mason thought. Ange would never say something that idiotic.

  “Ange’s dead,” the voice said.

  Shut up.

  “You know it’s true.”

  I made it, and so could she.

  “Keep telling yourself that…”

  MASON HAD PLANS—or scenarios, anyway—about how to get out of his predicament. It wasn’t like being led around at gunpoint with his hands bound was anything new. In fact, he was in even better shape this time because there was only one captor to worry about, and nary an ex-Army Ranger in sight.

  Even the bum shoulder wasn’t anything new. It had stopped bleeding since he wrapped it up with the handkerchief, which was the good news as he led Freckles (his name for her, in absence of her real name) back in the direction they had come. It was easy to retrace their steps—literally, in this case, since the two of them hadn’t been very subtle as they ran desperately through this same patch of grounds.

  Well, he fled and she chased, but close enough.

  Bottom line, he’d had to deal with worse and was still alive and kicking. That was the goal at the end of this rainbow, just like it had been for all the other ones. He’d met a few people who would disagree with how he went about it, but Ange wouldn’t have been one of them. She would have understood.

  “Giving up’s for losers,” she would say. It was her favorite line, and his favorite of her favorites.

  “She’s dead,” the voice said.

  Shut up.

  As they walked back to the tree line, Mason ran all the possibilities through his head, but each time the outcome was the same: his options were limited. He could hear her behind him, breathing normally despite the heavy rifle and the pack she was carrying. He still marveled that someone so small (what was she, a whole inch or two shorter than him, and half his size?) could shoulder so much weight. Maybe she was a lot stronger underneath that wardrobe than he gave her credit for.

  She had the rifle slung, but the 1911 on her right hip was within easy reach. How long would it take her to draw it? Maybe a second. Maybe less. That would depend on how much warning she got. He wasn’t planning on giving her any.

  His hands were bound, but they were in front of him instead of behind him. That was her one big mistake—

  Car engines.

  No, not engines—just one, and it was coming from the other side of the tree line in front of him.

  Mason stopped without thinking, and less than two heartbeats later felt the cold muzzle of the rifle jamming into the back of his neck and thought, Christ, when did she unsling that thing? Or did she have it in her hands this entire time and I didn’t notice?

  The girl hissed, “Down!”

  Mason went down on one knee. They were close enough to the fields that he could see out at the sea of grass beyond.

  And there, the big elm tree, next to the F-150 where he had last seen it. There wasn’t a second vehicle anywhere, so where had the sound of an engine revving up come from? Or had someone fired up the Ford?

  “Closer,” Freckles whispered behind him.

  He didn’t know why she was whispering. They were far enough away from the truck that no one could have heard them from over there, and vice versa. At least, not people talking. A car engine purring to life was another matter, especially out here with nothing but trees and grass to hinder sounds from traveling across distances.

  Mason crab-walked forward until he was close enough that all it would take was one step and he’d be out in the open. He stopped and steadied himself on one knee, and looked out.

  There were two figures moving around the truck, and for an instant Mason thought Rummy and Lyle had come back to life, but no; there was something different about the shapes. One was definitely a woman, and the other one, a male, looked too big to be either one of Mason’s fellow patrolmen. They had turned on the Ford’s engine and looked like they were getting ready to leave.

  Sonsofbitches, that’s my truck!

  Well, it wasn’t really his truck—if it were anyone’s, it would probably be Rummy’s—but with his two partners dead, Mason thought it was only right that he assumed ownership. Of course, Jocelyn would probably think otherwise—

  “Who are they?” Freckles asked behind him.

  “How should I know,” Mason said.

  “They’re wearing black…”

  “A lot of people wear black these days. It’s fashionable.”

  “Jokes!” the voice said. “We got jokes!”

  He didn’t know if Freckles believed him or not because he couldn’t see her face. The irony was that he was telling the truth. He had no idea who these guys were or if they were, in fact, collaborators. A hundred yards was a hell of a distance to make out the finer details of someone’s wardrobe. For all he knew, they could be men Jocelyn had sent out to find them.

  As they watched, a third figure appeared and walked toward the truck. Another woman, and she was pulling something that looked like luggage behind her (Where are they going, on a vacation?).

  “The radio,” Freckles said.

  “It’s in the truck,” Mason said.

  “Are you lying?”

  “No.”

  “I mean, about these people.”

  “Not about that, either. I don’t know who they are.’

  “You better not be lying.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Don’t make a sound. If they start coming toward us, you’ll be the first one to bite it.”

  Like I don’t already know that, he thought, and said, “Understood.”

  The two of them remained silent and watched the three figures moving around the Ford for a bit. They seemed to be talking, but Mason couldn’t hear a single word across the field.

  “You going to stop them?” Mason asked.

  The girl didn’t answer.

  “What about your radio?” he asked. “You’re just going to let them drive away with it?”

  “What are you doing?” the voice asked.

  If Jocelyn sent them, I can’t let them just leave. They might be my only chance.

  “Does the phrase friendly fire mean anything to you?”

  And I’m better off if I let them just drive away?

  “Good point…”

  “Well?” Mason said. “The radio’s in that truck. If you let them go—”

&nb
sp; “Shut up,” the girl said.

  “You scared?” When she didn’t answer, “It’s okay to be scared. I would be.”

  He might have eventually managed to talk her into it, but before he could, the F-150 began moving.

  Oh, dammit.

  “You’re gonna let them just leave?” he asked, not quite able to hide the desperation in his voice.

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” she said.

  Mason sighed, and thought, Dammit, as the truck vanished into the horizon. Slowly, the sound of its engines faded with it, until he could barely hear it anymore.

  “Got any other bright ideas?” the voice asked.

  One…

  “I met him, you know,” Mason said. “Mercer. Your Dear Leader.” When she remained quiet behind him, “What a piece of shit.”

  “Mercer’s a great man,” Freckles said, with just enough of an edge to let him know he’d struck the right nerve.

  “Careful, watch your step,” the voice said. “One wrong move…”

  But he couldn’t stop. Not now.

  “Not much to look at,” Mason said. “When I first saw him, I thought he was the janitor.”

  “Oh ho. Hit them below the belt!” the voice said.

  “Kinda looked like a pervy uncle—”

  “Shut up,” the girl said, and he felt a rush of air as she stabbed the rifle forward to poke him in the back and he thought, Now now now!

  Mason spun and swept his bound hands diagonally from bottom to top—

  Crack! as the rifle went off so close to the back of his skull that he was shocked there wasn’t a hole in it or that he could even still hear at all, even if all he heard was an intense buzzing that seemed to vibrate along every bone in his body. Before she could pull the trigger a second time, Mason was almost completely around and batting at the barrel of the rifle with his wrists.

  Crack! as she pulled the trigger again (Christ! How’d she reload the bolt action so fast?), except his skull was still pulsating from the first shot, and he barely felt the second one.

  Mason launched himself into her like a rocket, slamming the top of his head into her stomach—heard her grunt against the impact and the voice shouted, “Bingo, bango, you got her now!”—and kept pushing with his legs until they had both collapsed to the ground with him on top.

  “The rifle!” the voice shouted. “Get the rifle!”

  She still had a grip on the weapon, but only with one hand now, and even with his hands tied he was so much stronger that he easily wrestled the rifle away from her. There was no time to turn it around and use it, so he tossed it to the side by the barrel.

  He pummeled her to the ground with his body, using his weight to his advantage, while she punched at his face and chest and everywhere else she could reach. But Mason was fully charged up on adrenaline, and he didn’t feel any of the blows regardless of where they landed. Either that or she just didn’t have a lot of power in her fists, at least not enough to stop him from reaching down and grabbing the Colt 1911 out of her hip holster.

  “Fuck, shit, stop it!” he shouted.

  Mason jerked back, actually heard the swoosh! swoosh! of her fists missing his face by inches, while her body continued thrashing under him.

  He didn’t need free hands to hold the pistol and cock back the hammer, and the overly loud click! was probably the most satisfying sound he’d ever heard in his life.

  FIVE

  “GODDAMN, kid, how old are you?”

  “Screw you!”

  “That’s not nice. Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?”

  “Didn’t your parents slap you for being so ugly when you were born?”

  “Good one!” the voice cackled. “She got you there!”

  Don’t encourage her.

  “I can’t help it if I appreciate a nice burn.”

  Mason held the 1911 in both hands and pointed at her while spending a second looking around for the rifle that he’d tossed, but he must have really tossed it far, because he couldn’t see any signs of it.

  “I guess you don’t know your own strength,” the voice said.

  I guess not.

  The girl had pushed herself up onto her elbows, not that she had very far to go. She had fallen on the pack strapped behind her, and it now kept her propped up like she was lying awkwardly on a log.

  Mason took another second or two to peek out of the tree line to make sure the truck was really gone. He couldn’t see it or even hear a peep from its engines, which meant whoever had absconded with the vehicle had hauled ass. What were the chances they would return? If they had been from T10, maybe Jocelyn would send them back for a more thorough search. Then again, considering just how much (Yeah, right) affection Jocelyn had for them, he wouldn’t be surprised if she quickly crossed him off as a lost cause.

  “You’d do the same to her, admit it,” the voice said.

  Mason couldn’t disagree, and turned back to the girl. “What’s your name?”

  She hadn’t moved from her spot or tried to get up in the split second he had looked away. “Which part of screw you didn’t you understand, asshole?”

  “Let’s be civil, kid. If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I should have shot you when I had the chance.”

  “I get that a lot. But I’m still here, winning.”

  “You’re short.”

  That caught him by surprise. “What?”

  “You’re short,” Freckles repeated, but there weren’t any traces of humor in her voice; it was as if she was stating a fact that he might not have been aware of.

  “Shows what she knows,” the voice said. “We both know how short you are.”

  He snickered in an attempt to convince her he was beyond insults. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “You also have beady eyes,” she said.

  “Beady, huh?”

  “Yeah. Beady.”

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Is that it?”

  “What’s it matter to you? You already killed Jim and Willis.”

  Jim and Willis?

  Ah. The ones Lyle wasted; of course.

  “I told you, that wasn’t me,” Mason said. “I didn’t make the call, and I didn’t pull the trigger. I was just along for the ride. Like I keep telling you, I’m new around here.”

  “Whatever,” Freckles said.

  “That doesn’t make any difference to you?”

  “Why should it?”

  “Because the most you can get me for is being at the wrong place at the wrong time. No court of law would convict me.”

  “At least not for what happened today,” the voice said.

  What she doesn’t know…she doesn’t know.

  “That makes sense to you?”

  Mostly…

  “I don’t care,” the girl was saying. “You were there. You’re one of them.”

  “One of who?” he asked.

  “An asshole.”

  Mason chuckled and waited for her to add something else—maybe another insult about how ugly he was, or combine short with ugly—but she didn’t. Apparently she was done.

  So he crouched in front of her, keeping at least five feet of space between them just in case she made a last-ditch effort to get back the upper hand she’d lost. “I don’t wanna kill you, kid.”

  She continued staring lasers at him, but it didn’t do anything to diminish the fact that she was just a kid underneath all that camo paint on her face.

  “This would be a first, wouldn’t it?” the voice said.

  The first what?

  “Killing a kid. Even for us.”

  And that was all she was. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Maybe not even that. It was a byproduct of the new world—you grew up fast, or you didn’t bother. There was no in between. The weak perished and the strong survived. Mason knew that without a shred of doubt, and he had put himself in a position to be strong because he couldn�
�t afford to be anything else, especially since genetics had already handicapped him from the crib.

  “What’s your name?” he asked again.

  She didn’t answer.

  “She’s a tough one,” the voice said. “No wonder you thought she was Ange. They could be sisters.”

  No, they couldn’t.

  “Maybe not physically…”

  Maybe not anything.

  “And yet you still called her Ange, didn’t you?”

  Mason ignored the voice, and said, “I’m Mason.”

  “Who cares?” the girl said.

  He couldn’t help but smile that time. “You’re right. Who cares.” He adjusted the gun in his hands a bit. “We’re going into town and I’m going to get some brownie points for bringing you in. Should make my new boss happy. She’s kind of a bitch, so I’m hoping to get on her good side.”

  Freckles didn’t say anything. Either she didn’t understand what he was saying, or she didn’t care. He thought it was probably a little of both.

  Mason got up and walked backward until he had put another five feet or so between them. “Your knife.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Your knife. Take it out and throw it to me.”

  She reached for the knife, took it out, then tossed it about two feet short. He didn’t know if she had done that on purpose, not that it mattered. She hadn’t gotten off the ground, and all he had to do was extend one leg and rake the blade over with one of his shoes.

  Mason kneeled, then put the gun down and reached for the knife, their eyes locked the entire time. “Ten feet,” he said.

  “What about it?” she said.

  “That’s more than enough distance for me to pick up the gun and shoot you, in case you were thinking about trying anything while I’m using the knife. Unless, of course, you think you’re the Flash or something.”

  “Who’s the Flash?”

  “You don’t read comic books?”

  “I’m not a stupid nerd,” she said.

  “Another good burn!” the voice laughed. “I like this kid!”

  Mason grinned outwardly and angled the knife until he could slice the zip tie around his wrists with a few quick strokes. He sighed with relief and quickly picked the gun back up. She had watched him cut himself free, but she never made any attempts to escape or lunge for the weapon. Of course, in order to do either of those things, she would have had to struggle up from her awkward position, a difficult feat with that heavy pack weighing her to the ground.