Free Short Stories 2013

by Baen Books

  Several members of the hospital staff were clustered nearby, watching us. It was a small town, and everybody knew my foster father. They were all stunned by the senseless act of violence that had ripped our little community. I gathered up my courage, and headed for the door.

  There was only one bed in the room. A bank of archaic instruments were beeping and clicking behind it. Doctor Smith nodded at me, placed his clipboard down on a small table, and silently left the room. The doctors had done everything they could, but the thugs that had attacked my father had been thorough. If Gideon Lorenzo lived it would be a miracle. Tubes and mysterious bags descended from the ceiling. Through the tangle, I could make out my father.

  “Dad?”

  “Hector…” he wheezed. His bandaged head tilted slightly in acknowledgement.

  I moved to his side. He looked bad, with great dark circles around eyes so laced with blood that I couldn’t help but blink in sympathy. Always an amazingly strong man, it was shocking to see him in this state. I felt like someone had punched me in the throat. He was a good man, an honorable man. The idea of him being mortal had never entered my mind.

  “I’ve got to tell you something…”

  I waited, hot tears streaming down my face. This was the man that had taken me off the streets. This was the judge that sent the miserable wretch that had been my real father to prison. The Lorenzos had taken me in, welcomed me into their happy home, let me know what real family and loyalty was like. And now he was dying.

  “What, Dad?”

  “I’m worried about you...” His voice was barely a whisper. “I see things... in your future. Bad things.” I wiped my running nose on the back of my hand, and leaned in close. His red eyes were open wide, staring right through me. “You have a streak in you. You’re good, but you have... an evil inside. Don’t let it out. Please, whatever you do, don’t let it out.”

  “I won’t.”

  I flinched involuntarily as his hand clamped onto my arm, suddenly strong.

  “Don’t avenge me. Leave it to the law, boy,” he hissed. “Don’t let the evil out...”

  Then he was gone.

  I stumbled back, crashing hard into the wall, instruments scattering across the floor, the strength gone from my legs. The machines began to scream and nurses rushed into the room. The wall was hard against my back, and the floor was cold beneath my legs. Bob was a hulking shadow in the doorway. A doctor began to pump his hands up and down on my father’s chest. I heard a wailing as Mom arrived, her hands pressed to her mouth, but the noise still coming through. I wanted to move to help her, but my body wouldn’t respond. Her scream was the word no, over and over.

  My ears were ringing.

  ####

  2:38 PM

  My ears were ringing.

  Where am I?

  “Lorenzo! Come on!” Someone slapped me in the face. Hard. “Move, damn it!”

  I woke up, and everything hurt. I was on my back, at an awkward angle, the Ithaca under me, stabbing me in the kidneys. It was hard to breath and the air was choked with dust and smoke. I raised my shaking hands in front of my face and saw that they were covered in blood and I had no idea if it was mine.

  “What the hell was that?” I blurted, sitting up, and feeling something grate unnaturally in my chest.

  “The Cubans are dropping mortar rounds right ahead of their advance.”

  “They can do that?” I quavered as Carl pulled me up.

  “Apparently. Good thing they missed. Can you move?”

  “I think so.” Pain was shooting through me, but everything seemed to be connected. The house that I had been hiding in was... gone. “That was a miss?”

  The area was now overlaid in swirling dust and smoke from the burning BTR. That mortar round had raised a mess. I could see flashes of movement through the fog, but I was lucky to see ten feet. This was our chance. We had accomplished our mission and gotten the Cubans to abandon their post. “Carl, head for where the technical was. Let’s hitch a ride.”

  “Good idea,” he coughed as he inhaled a lungful of particulate. He pulled a black bandana out of his pocket and quickly tied it around his face like some bandito. Nice. I started toward where I thought the intersection was. Carl grabbed me by the shoulder, turned me 180 degrees, and shoved. I had really gotten turned around.

  It hurt to move. It hurt more to breath. I was confused and disoriented, but I would be damned if I was going to die in this forsaken hell-hole. I hefted the shotgun and ran through the rubble and over the occasional body. This dust screen was going to settle fast.

  It was like something out of a nightmare. Shapes appeared only to fade away through the haze. I slashed my leg open on a protruding piece of jagged rebar, scattering red droplets that disappeared into the ground like it was covered in sawdust, but I couldn’t even think of slowing down. A rebel materialized in front of me, and I instantly shot him through the heart with the 12 gauge. More men were moving to the side, and I fired at them as I sprinted past until the firing pin landed on an empty chamber.

  Then we were out of the cloud, but we were in the open, running down the middle of a dirt street. My eyes gritted in their sockets, locking onto the technical, now only twenty meters away. A rebel was charging straight at me, a machete held high overhead, spittle flying from his lips. He was screaming something.

  I tossed him the Ithaca. He caught it, looked at it in surprise, and then I crashed into him with my shoulder, bowling both of us to the ground. My combat knife was already coming out of the sheath as we hit. He screamed as I drove it between his ribs, but he still struggled to bring the machete into play.

  Carl stepped past me, Aug shouldered, and opened fire on the Toyota. There were two men in the back, and both of them shook as the angry Portagee put bullets into them. The driver’s window shattered as Carl shifted targets.

  The rebel and I rolled across the ground, locked in a dance to the death. I blocked the machete with my forearm. It cut deep, but he didn’t have the room to swing it. I pulled the knife out, and slammed it in again, and again, and again. Finally, he quit moving.

  “Lorenzo, quit screwing around!” Carl shouted, as he scanned the wall of dust and flames. “We’ve got to go.”

  I rose, panting, and sheathed the still bloody knife. Angry bullets whined past my head as more rebels saw us. “I’ll drive.”

  “No, I drive. Nobody can catch me.” Carl answered as he opened the Toyota’s door, grabbed the dead driver, and hurled him out. “Get on that gun!”

  I vaulted over the side of the pickup bed, landing on a pile of hot 12.7 brass. Carl revved the engine. Then the smoke wall opened and a great screaming beast roared through, muzzle flashes erupting from its machinegun.

  “BTR!” I screamed as the APC rolled over a knot of rebels. But Carl was fast. He slammed the Toyota into gear and put pedal to metal. I slipped on the brass, and bounced off the truck bed walls as Carl cranked the wheel and took us through the rubble. I looked up in time to see an unlucky rebel bounce off the front fender and fly through a scrap-wood shanty.

  Bullets puckered through our technical as we tore down the street and right through the militia. The remaining windows shattered. Carl bellowed in rage and pain as something struck him. I crawled up to the DhSK, but it was empty, with the feed tray cover locked open. I yanked the Browning 9mm from my holster and fired at the rebels one handed, the other holding onto the rollbar to keep from being tossed out.

  We seemed to be going unbelievably fast.

  The BTR was right behind us. For being so big, damn that thing was quick.

  “Get on that gun or we’re gonna die!” Carl yelled, as he cranked the wheel and we took a corner far too fast.

  THOOM

  The 37mm cannon round flew past and most of the marketplace disappeared. The shockwave rocked the little technical onto two wheels, and then back. I spotted a big, green ammo-can and opened it. There were the huge 12.7 rounds, linked in a rusty, metal belt. I hoisted it out, put the belt
in place, slammed the cover down, and yanked back on the charging handle.

  I swiveled the DhSK around, but the BTR hadn’t followed us around the corner.

  But there were plenty of other targets.

  I opened fire on random MLC rebels as we drove by. The muzzle blast from the big Russian was like a mushroom cloud. The recoil shook the Toyota down to its suspension. Carl took another corner, trying to head south, out of the city, but the streets were a maze.

  Suddenly the brakes locked up, and we slid to a halt. I had the gun trained to the rear, and craned my neck around to see what the problem was.

  The road was on fire.

  For a good thirty feet, the road was nothing but a blazing oil slick, with flames taller than I was. This had been the source of the great pillar of smoke that we had homed in on to get to the marketplace. It must have been some sort of gas station before the rebels had blown it up. There was no other way past.

  I turned back. The way we came from was swarming with rebels, looking like ants. A bullet sparked off the Toyota’s tailgate. Ants with AK-47s.

  The tail lights lit up, signaling that we were in reverse. Another bullet smashed one of the lights. We started back toward the pile of rebels.

  “Carl? What are you doing?” The only remaining taillight shattered. Another round cut a chunk from my ear.

  “We need a running start.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me...” I laid on the DhSK like it was the hammer of Thor, sweeping it across the street. It ain’t pretty what one of these things does to a human being. I held the trigger down, the concussion so deep that I could feel it vibrating the jelly in my eyes.

  Carl stopped, ground the transmission, and floored it.

  I dropped down, threw my arms over my head, and tried to think happy thoughts.

  Fire. Everywhere. Holy s***.

  It was hard to explain. I opened me eyes, and could see it, like it was a living thing, coming up over the edge of the truck, leering down at me, hungry and angry. The heat hit like a sledgehammer, evaporating all of the moisture from my skin. I held my breath, but could feel the poison crowding up my nostrils. It wanted to eat me.

  Then we were through.

  I jumped back up. The DhSK’s wooden spade grips were on fire. I smothered them with my shirt. The Toyota’s paint was burning, the wind quickly beat it out.

  Carl turned back around and looked at me through the shattered rear window, beady eyes gleaming through a layer of soot over his bandito mask, and said, “Hey, Lorenzo, your hair’s on fire.”

  Well f*** me. I rubbed it out.

  This road seemed to lead to the edge of town. I could see down it, a straight shot, and in the distance was open country and room to run or hide. Carl shifted gears and we continued to accelerate.

  Then I saw it.

  The BTR was running parallel to us. It was one street over to the right, separated from us by a single row of mud houses and shacks. The grey hulk was going to intercept us. The Cubans inside opened up through their firing ports. Most of the rounds smashed into the buildings, but at each gap, some passed through. Tracers stabbed a dotted line across the road.

  Two could play that game. I grabbed the smoking handles and swiveled the DhSK.

  “Hey!”

  “Yeah!”

  “BTR on our right. Will 12.7 pierce their armor?”

  “Hell yeah! They’re light plate.”

  I wasn’t going to try to time it between the houses. We were almost out of town, and I didn’t want to square off with this thing in the open. I mashed the butterfly trigger down.

  The DhSK roared. Homes disintegrated as we played tag to the death with the Cubans at fifty miles an hour. The mighty 12.7 rounds crashed into the monstrosity, zipping right through the armor and through the crew inside.

  The BTR swerved hard toward us, smashed through a house, actually got some air, and careened onto our street. I kept the DhSK on it the whole time, stitching it from end to end, opening it like a teenager shooting a pop can with a .22. The BTR continued on at an angle and smashed through another house and disappeared onto another street.

  “I think I got him!”

  “No.” Carl pointed out the window. The BTR was now traveling down the street to our left. The 37mm cannon was rotating toward us. I cranked the DhSK back around and opened fire, bouncing wildly as the Toyota careened down the rutted road. Carl stomped on the brakes. I flew forward and smashed into the cab as the cannon bloomed flame. The round narrowly missed us and a pile of shanties exploded into flames and shrapnel.

  I spit a mouthful of blood onto the roof and shoved myself back onto the machinegun. The BTR was slightly ahead of us on the next street over. Carl suddenly accelerated. Somehow I knew exactly what he was doing. I cranked the DhSK around toward the front.

  Carl swerved, crashing us through a fence made of sticks and cardboard. A pile of chickens fell victim to the Toyota, and suddenly birds and feathers were flying everywhere. We seemed to be airborne for a brief second, then the tires struck earth, and we were behind the speeding BTR.

  I mashed the spade grips, the sight lined up on the rear end of the BTR. The muzzle brake reverberated painfully off the Toyota’s roof. Carl stuck his fingers into his ears, and steered with his knees. Round after round ripped through the armored vehicle from end to end, and it careened wildly to the side and crashed into a ditch, flames suddenly licking out of its ports.

  Carl pulled his fingers out of his ears, put one on the wheel, and one on the gear shift, and hammered the little Toyota forward. We zipped past the now burning BTR and toward freedom. A hot wind struck my back as it exploded behind us. Another black, oily, cloud was rising above Sweothi City as we sped onto the highway and past the sign pointing toward the Congolese border.

  2:52 PM

  ####

  The man looked up at me in fear, as he thrashed against the duct tape that held his wrists to the heavy chair. The old warehouse was deserted and I knew that nobody would hear him scream. “Please, come on, man, don’t do it!”

  I held the syringe up to the flickering fluorescent light. “You know what this is?”

  “No please, come on, I’m begging you.”

  Did my father beg? No, of course not.

  “It’s heroin. Mostly. The rest is drain cleaner. The heroin is to make this plausible. You’re just another scumbag junkie, got some bad stuff, had an overdose. There won’t even be an investigation. The drain cleaner is so this will hurt. A lot.”

  “You can’t do this. T-Bone will kill you. He’ll kill you, man!” the thug screamed.

  Did my father threaten violence? No. I’m sure he hadn’t. He was a man of peace and justice.

  “T-Bone’s dead. I got him already. He fell out his apartment window. Landed on one of those pointy fences. Real nasty.” I gave a fake shudder. “The others are dead too. Ice got shot in a drive by shooting this morning. Little Mike is floating in the river. He fell in, couldn’t swim. Especially with those cinderblocks I tied to his legs.”

  His eyes were wide. I could smell the fear. “Who are you!”

  “A year ago, you were passing through a little place outside Georgetown. You beat a man to death. He was a good man. Why? Why did you do it?”

  “I don’t know man! I don’t remember... He had a nice watch, or something. Come on, man, he was just some dude! We didn’t mean to kill him. Just mess him up, take his s***.”

  I stabbed the needle into his arm and smashed the plunger down. I tossed the now empty syringe aside. He began to convulse as I cut the tape and stuffed the evidence into my pocket. He fell to the floor as I walked away. I shut the lights off on the way out and left him in the dark to twitch and foam. I started walking, and didn’t look back. I was sixteen years old.

  The thing is, when you let the evil out, it’s hard to put it back.

  Sorry, Dad.

  ####

  10 Kilometers east of Banti-Guonda, Congo

  December 16th, 1993


  Dreams of home. So very long ago.

  I woke up sore when I heard the sound of the airplane. The stitches on my arm, back, and legs were tight and itchy. Carl did good work. He was already awake, cleaning his Aug while leaning in the shade beneath a crumpled tree. He had a bandage wrapped around his torso, over the carpet of black hair that was his body. The ruined Toyota was hidden in the bushes.

  He squinted at me with beady eyes. “Bush plane’s coming in. You think we can trust this guy?”

  I yawned. “Yeah. He’s good people... Phil specializes in helping people move valuable things. He owes me a favor. So, Carl, you think about what you’re going to do now?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “My company’s gone. Most of us died in the coup. I don’t even know if my men made it out.”

  “They’re with Decker. They made it.” I answered truthfully. As much as I hated the man, he was extremely good at what he did. “You know, I’m now out of work myself.” I pulled a black bag out of my pocket and tossed it to Carl.

  He caught it absently, opened the drawstring, and shook some of its contents into the palm of his hand. He whistled.

  “SWITCHBLADE had a few simple rules. The leader always got a double share, and he was the only one that has access to the Swiss bank account. Since the diamond exchange crossed us, I’m pretty sure nobody got paid. So we looted some of the treasury while we were in the palace. The six still gets a double share.”

  Carl’s hand was filled with diamonds.

  “I took the liberty of lifting Decker’s shares. And to think he called me a common thief. I’m pretty sure he’ll be massively pissed when he finds out. Good thing he thinks I’m dead.” I knew that was for the best. I would gain nothing by tracking Decker down. It was time for the evil to be put away once and for all.

  “Not a bad haul,” Carl said, as he poured the diamonds back into the bag. He started to hand it back.

  “No, that’s your share. I’ve got mine.”

  “Serious?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been thinking...” I said as the bush plane approached the runway, landing gear extended. “I’m going to go on my own, form my own team. Be my own boss. But I’m going to need help. Have you ever thought of stealing stuff for a living?”