The Price of Freedom

by Chris Kennedy

  Boom!

  They disappeared. By now, the troops on the ground had decided something was wrong with the tank, and they began firing at me. What little I could hear sounded like a gently falling rain as the turret traversed back to the front and settled on one of the pillboxes.

  Boom!

  It evaporated in a cloud of white powder that could have been a snowstorm. Or a bag of cocaine thrown up in the air—something the men inside it might have been more familiar with.

  The men were already running from the other pillbox as the turret traversed across the street. I fired the machine gun into it, just to make sure, then began firing indiscriminately at the men in the area. Some ran; others continued to fire at me and were turned into red mist. I wasn’t really into random slaughter, even of Obsidian troopers, so I didn’t shoot at most of the ones running away. Especially if they’d thrown down their weapons. Usually.

  When it looked like the battle was won, or at least there were no more Obsidian troopers firing at me, and I could declare victory, I slid into the driver’s seat, engaged the engine, and turned the tank to face the canal, then I opened the escape hatch, put the tank in gear, and released the brake. The tank leapt forward, and I slid out of it as it roared toward the water, thanking the nice folks at Teledyne who’d toughened my skin so I didn’t turn into road pizza as I was pulled along until I could drop the rest of the way through the narrow hatch.

  Several of the Obsidian troopers had stopped to watch the tank as it plunged into the water, so I scooped up a rifle I found close by and fired a few rounds over their heads. They began running again.

  Turning, I could see two figures at the apex of the bridge, backlit by a glow behind them. I hadn’t noticed in the earlier excitement, but there were a number of fires burning on the other side of the river. There had probably been explosions, too; I just couldn’t hear them over the explosions I’d been making. They’d probably started blowing things up as I climbed into the tank, which was why the guy had been yelling. Now, though, it was down to the three of us, and I wasn’t a fan of those odds. They began jogging down the bridge. As it was about a thousand feet long, they did it normally. No sense in wasting their boost, when it was probably obvious to them that a Specialist had torn into their normal troopers at the same time they’d done it to ours.

  I didn’t waste my boost, either, as I ran to the remaining pillbox and got behind one of the machine guns. It didn’t take long for them to come into range—even without boost. Agents and Specialists can run a lot faster than un-augmented people.

  There was no sense firing at long range; they would have dodged the bullets. I waited until they were off the bridge and almost to me, then I boosted as I aimed and mashed the trigger. They dodged, as I knew they would, boosting and going in opposite directions. Happily, they’d done as I expected, and I had a pretty good idea of their boost abilities. While the male would have escaped a normal trooper, he didn’t escape me. His movement, which would have been a blur to a normal man, was easy for me to keep up with. As I had already led him enough, I walked the bullet stream back into him. The asshole had a moment where he almost dodged back away from the bullets, but then the first one hit him, and he lost his balance and tumbled. He was going too fast to catch himself, so he tried to turn the fall into a controlled roll, but the bullets caught him before he could pop back up. I hit him eight or nine more times, just to be sure.

  That was almost my undoing, because as soon as she realized she wasn’t the target, the woman bee-lined for me. I saw a flash heading toward me and barely dove out of the way in time. As I dove, the shirt I was wearing blew open and snagged on the back of the machine gun, spinning it around as I passed it.

  I heard a scoosh! and a sizzling sound as I hit and rolled, then I came up in a fighter’s stance as I spun around. The woman had, apparently, been coming straight for me, and when the gun spun, she’d been traveling so fast, she’d impaled herself on it—the barrel had entered her stomach and was protruding from her back.

  The woman looked down at the weapon with her mouth open. Apparently, Agent training helped them deal well with pain as she didn’t scream or even wince; she simply looked at the gun in shock and horror, then tried to push herself back off the mount. I admit to having paused when I saw her—it’s not every day you’re saved by a machine gun that way, and it was a fairly horrific sight—but her movement shocked me back into action. Why wouldn’t she just die?

  I grabbed one of the rifles lying in the bunker and aimed at her. She heard the click as I snapped off the safety and looked up at me. Our eyes met, and she nodded once, admitting defeat, then closed her eyes in acceptance. I fired once, and she slumped off the machine gun and fell to the ground. Not taking any chances, I walked over, staying out of range of her arms and legs, just in case, and shot her in the head twice more. She stilled.

  A man grunted, and I looked up and saw the other Agent staggering toward me, the lower half of his body soaked in blood. Somehow, I’d missed hitting him in the chest or head, and he was still alive. I finished him off—he was only surviving on boost—then surveyed the scene. Some days, it was better to be lucky than good.

  It was, however, always better to be lucky and good in this Fallen World.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I walked across the bridge, taking my time and trying to look as inoffensive as possible. I needn’t have worried about it; there wasn’t anyone at the other end worried about stopping me. Or stopping a full-out Obsidian offensive, had there been one, either.

  The forces there had been decimated, similar to what I’d done to the Obsidian forces at the other end of the bridge. Most were dead, although some were only wounded. A few were walking in from the jungle where they’d fled when the Agents showed up. I organized them as best I could, then brought two squads with me back across the bridge, mostly through force of will and constant threat of dismemberment. Having already watched most of their friends get killed, the threat of death no longer held the same stigma it probably held yesterday afternoon. I also found a radio and told the director to send more men. He wasn’t happy that I hadn’t saved a few more of the initial troops, but he was happy to send more of them to claim the northern bank of the river.

  I helped set up a couple of defensive positions for the two squads, then I left. Based on my talk with the director, it would be a while before they attempted to take back the Gatun Locks. He asked me to stay and assist in the assault, but I had a mission to accomplish and didn’t much care who ultimately ended up controlling the canal. I might have before the companies started nuking each other. Now? Not so much.

  It was all I could do to find a small boat and navigate up to Gatun Lake where Jimmy was anchored just after the sun came up. I waved to him, staggered into bed, and had a good day’s sleep, followed by a good night’s sleep. I woke up the next morning famished. As it turned out, I’d been nicked up plenty in the various firefights and wrestling matches I’d been in—it’s hard not to when you wrestle inside a tank—and my body had used up all its stores healing itself and recovering from boosting. I was so hungry, it wasn’t until the third MRE that I actually began to taste what I was eating.

  At which point I stopped as I couldn’t gag down any more of the veggie omelet. Although they were supposed to be “new and improved,” the vomelet meal was still the most disgusting thing ever to be dehydrated and shoved into a box. I had dreamed, several times in the past, about finding its creators and having five minutes alone with them in a locked room. After gagging on it again, I changed my mind. I’d need at least seven minutes.

  I had Jimmy let me off at Paraiso, which was a small town just north of the Pedro Miguel Locks. I took two pistols and two rifles, and left the rest to Jimmy. I didn’t want anyone on the Teledyne staff seeing me and reporting that I’d come back this way. As far as they knew—and what Jimmy would tell them—was that I’d gone north, looking to steal a boat and proceed on my mission.

>   But I didn’t really want to go north into Obsidian territory by myself if I didn’t have to. It seemed riskier than it needed to be. When we got gas for the yacht, the guy at the pier had mentioned their fuel came from a plant in Colombia; I figured if there was a plant there, and they were shipping gas around the Caribbean, it would be easier to catch a ride on a tanker to what used to be America. Hell, for all I knew, they might have a ship going to Philadelphia that I could catch a ride on.

  Life was good. I stole a car and filled it up with gas. After I paid the attendant—money still worked in and around Panama City, due to the influence of Teledyne, although the locals would have preferred bartering or gold—I asked him how to get to Colombia. He pointed to the east and said, “Highway One,” with a big smile. I proceeded down Highway One and crossed most of eastern Panama—about 120 miles of it—until I got to the village of Yaviza. There, the road ended.

  Not “ended” as in, “it went from a highway to a state-maintained road,” or even as in, “it went from a paved surface to a dirt road,” but as in, “it stopped when it got to the river.” There was nothing but jungle on the other side of the water.

  “Where is the road to Colombia?” I asked a man walking past as I looked at the river.

  He laughed, hard, and kept walking. He was still laughing a block later as he turned the corner.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked a kid who had come up to look at my car.

  “You asked where the road to Colombia is,” he replied. “That is funny.”

  “Why is that funny?”

  “Because to hear the adults tell it, the government has promised to finish the road for 100 years but never has. Then Teledyne said they would when they came in, but they haven’t done it, either. We are always promised, but no one ever makes it. Every once in a while, people get here and find out the road doesn’t exist, then they have to drive all the way back to Panama City.”

  “Well, shit,” I said. “How does someone get to Colombia then?”

  “I can take you,” a man fishing from the wharf said.

  “Is there a road?” I asked.

  “Nope. There aren’t any roads to get to Colombia.”

  “How are you going to get me there, then? Walking through the jungle?”

  “No. We will go upstream by boat, walk a little, then boat back downstream. It is only 30 miles to Acandí as the toucan flies, not that the road or path goes that straight. We can leave tomorrow morning, and I can have you there by late afternoon.”

  “You will?”

  “Sure,” the man said. He smiled. “But it will cost you.”

  Nothing is free in this Fallen World.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It ended up costing me one of my pistols and one of my rifles—and half my ammo—although Pedro did put me up for the night and feed me breakfast and dinner. Neither was fish—or MREs—so it was a welcome change. I tried to sell him my car, but he just laughed and asked what use he’d have for it.

  While we chatted, he confirmed what he’d said earlier—if anyone ever asks you if you can drive from North America to mainland South America, it’s a trick question. The answer is “No.” While you ought to be able to drive from one to the other, there aren’t any roads that go from Panama to Colombia anywhere. Maybe next century.

  We got an early start, hitting the water just as the sun rose. We got everything into the small punt the man owned—he called it a cayuco—and he had me sit down inside it. Although it looked like something a five-year-old might have carved out of a tree trunk, it was wide enough to be stable in the water, although it dipped down dangerously when I got in.

  “You are heavier than you look, Señor.”

  “I get that a lot,” I replied. “It’s all the muscles.”

  He looked skeptically at me. “If you have extra things you don’t need, it would be better to leave them here. We are overloaded.”

  I held out my bag so he could see into it. “See?” I asked. “I’m not carrying anything I don’t need—I’m just heavier than I look.”

  “Okay,” he said finally. “We will manage. I hope. We may have to carry the boat through some of the shallower places.”

  I shrugged. I was strong and could carry the boat if needed. Once we were loaded, though, we didn’t go anywhere. “What’re we waiting for?” I finally asked.

  “I want it to be a little bit brighter before we start.”

  “Won’t that make it hotter?” The heat and humidity were already hitting me like a wet blanket; I didn’t need any more heat.

  “Yes, but it will allow me to see the snakes in the trees above us so that I don’t go underneath any of them.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because some of them will drop down into the boat with us.”

  “What!?”

  “Sí. It’s true. I would rather not have them do so.”

  “Me either.” He went on to explain that both poisonous snakes and constrictors would do so. I didn’t want to share a boat with either type, so I was happy to wait until the sun rose a little higher.

  “You may also want to keep an oar handy,” he added. “Sometimes, some of the ones that swim will try to climb into the boat.”

  I looked over the side; the water wasn’t very far below the level of the boat’s gunwales. I pulled out my pistol. “Oh, no, they won’t.”

  He smiled. “Please don’t shoot that in the boat. If you put holes in it, we will both be swimming with the snakes. I would rather not do so.”

  That was worse. I grabbed an oar and stood by, prepared to repel boarders of any species. My eyes searched the water nearby, and I twitched back and forth at any motion I saw out of the corners of my eyes. I hated snakes.

  He grabbed the sides of the boat as it rocked precipitously. “Perhaps it would be better if you let me deal with them. If you flip the boat over, we will also be swimming with them.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry,” he added, “I can usually see them coming, and most of them won’t try to take on something as big as the boat.”

  I tried to calm myself while remaining vigilant, but I kept wondering what size a snake had to be to want to take on two grown humans in a dugout boat. I shuddered. And if we had to carry the boat through shallow places? That took on a whole new—and terrifying—meaning.

  Pedro started the little motor, and we crossed the river and headed up one of its tributaries. The day got hotter, and I may have faded out for a while, despite my desire to ensure a snake-free boat, but Pedro kept going upriver like it was something he did every day. For all I knew, he did.

  The river got more and more shallow as the terrain grew hillier around us. Finally, the boat grounded, and Pedro sighed. “We walk from here,” he said.

  “Why the sigh?”

  “I had hoped to make it a little farther upstream, but unfortunately, the boat needs too much water with you in it.” He shrugged. “No matter, it is not much more than five kilometers from here.”

  “To Acandí?”

  Pedro chuckled. “No, to where we get my other boat and go down the river again.”

  We towed the boat a little farther upstream, then beached it at a campsite that had seen some use.

  “Stay here much?” I asked.

  He grunted noncommittedly as he tied the boat to a tree, then he nodded toward the jungle. “Follow me and stay close.”

  I stayed as close as I could, without being so close that the branches he let go of hit me in the face. After the first one whacked me in the mouth, anyway. I hated the iron taste of my blood almost as much as I hated snakes.

  Pedro’s five-kilometer hike through the jungle was anything but easy. I mean, I thought I was in great shape, and a three mile walk was nothing…until you saw the first half of it was uphill at a significant angle, and the other half was downhill at the same gradient. Keeping up got a lot harder than I’d expected.

  “Are you part mountain goat?” I finally asked in frustration. I mean, I
’d been modified to do things like this, and he hadn’t.

  The man chuckled. “No, I’m not. I’ve just done it a number of times, and usually I’m carrying things. It is easier to do it unburdened.” He took off again before I could ask what granny needed that he had to carry over the river and through the woods.

  Shortly after this, we reached another clearing, similar to the one where we left the boat. Another boat was tied up here, and there was a large pile of something hidden under a tarp. The wind had blown up one of the corners, and he walked over and weighted it down. I looked away, pretending not to see the white, plastic-wrapped packages underneath. It wasn’t any of my business.

  He turned to me and raised an eyebrow as if to see whether there would be any problems. I noticed his hand was casually placed near his pistol holster. I kept my hands well away from mine and shrugged. “I didn’t see anything,” I said, “and even if I did, I don’t give a shit. A man’s got to feed his kids somehow.”

  “Yes, he does,” Pedro replied. He nodded once and turned to walk over to the boat. He untied it and turned back to me with a smile. “Even if he doesn’t have any kids at the moment.” He waved toward the boat. “Ready to go? We will probably have to walk it down the hill a little way before we can get in.”

  I nodded, and we set off. We walked almost half a mile before we found enough water to float the boat with me in it, then we climbed aboard and set off again. We made faster time going downstream, and the creek quickly became a stream, then a river as it flowed to the ocean. It merged with another river and became quite large before arriving at the town of Acandí and the Gulf of Mexico.