Vultures in the Playground

by A. Sparrow

  They passed through a door at the end of the hall into a workshop littered with the carcasses of mixing boards and monitors. Voices rumbled in the hall they had just left. They ran towards an ‘Exit’ sign.

  Archie touched the door handle. “Where does this lead?”

  “The rear of the complex, and our backup generators.”

  Archie opened up the door. It was getting dark quickly. Dark swirls of cloud mingled overhead. Bats looped around flickering lamp posts.

  “Halt! Who go dare?” A man stood at the far end of the alley, trembling. He braced a rifle against his hip.

  “That’s George,” whispered the tech. “One of our security guards.”

  “Well, you tell George to—”

  An unseen burst of automatic weapons fire made George dance like the scarecrow in Oz, before he crumpled to the ground.

  “Yikes! Come on!” Archie dashed across the alley into a generator shack – a roofed shelter with vented brick walls that served as baffles to ventilate and deaden the sound of the massive generators. An elevated fuel line ran overhead to a huge tank of diesel at the edge of the compound along a chain link fence.

  “Man, you guys are serious about keeping your broadcasts going.”

  Tracers flashed down the length of the alley, just as Arcadio made it inside. A line of gouges tattooed the metal skin of the Broadcast Center. Bits of concrete block shattered and sprayed them with grit.

  “Keep down,” said Archie. “We need to get out of here or else we’ll be cornered. See any way through that fence?”

  “There is no gate here,” said the technician. We have to go down the alley.” He started to leave the shed.

  “No!” Melissa hauled him back by his shirt-tail as another flurry of bullets chewed up the low wall fronting the shed.

  “Over the back wall,” said Archie. “We can work our way down shed by shed.”

  Melissa went first, vaulting over the wall in one smooth motion. Arcadio followed, all frantic and skittering, shoving one foot into a baffle to boost himself over. Tracers cracked through the opposite wall and plonked into the generator. It started bleeding oil. The technician looked at Archie.

  “I will stay,” he said.

  “You can’t stay! Those guys aim to kill us.”

  “It’s not my problem. I’m not with you all.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  The door they had just emerged from squealed back open and the guy from the Miramar washroom stepped out in the alley and stood there calmly, looking both ways up and down the alley. He flashed a hand signal to someone down the end of the lane where George, the guard, had been hit.

  Archie had a clear shot through a gap in the generator housing and out the alley side of the shed. He flipped the selector toggle to ‘F,’ and lined up his nemesis in his sight, like he supposed to be the proper way.

  “Archie! Come on! What are you waiting for?” Melissa hissed from the next generator shed.

  “Shush!” he said.

  His hand shook. The barrel wobbled off-line till he rested it on the metal. With just one little pull, bits of metal would fly out and splinter that man’s bones and shred his organs. Archie just couldn’t bring himself to do such a thing to another human being, no matter how evil or eager to return the favor.

  Arcadio’s cell phone buzzed in Archie’s pocket.

  The man across the alley dropped into a crouch and sent a good ten bullets slapping across the diagonal into the generator shack. Most cracked into the cement or ricocheted off the generator. But Archie heard a grunt and a wheeze beside him. At least one bullet had penetrated the technician’s chest.

  Archie wanted to help the man. He really did. But he saw the shooter pop out a magazine and he took off over the wall, somehow summoning almost as much lift as Melissa had. He landed hard on the other side, phone still buzzing and scooted around the front and into the next shed.

  “Archie! Answer your phone!”

  He picked up. “Hello?”

  “Yes, Dr. Parsons. This is Octavio speaking.” His tone of voice was much more reserved and polit. “I … eh … spoke with the President, and he … instructed me … eh … it seems that we might be able to arrange for some assistance.”

  “Arrange? We need help right now.”

  “Yes, I understand. These … arrangements … are underway as we speak. For verification purposes, once our people come onto the scene I would like you to remember a certain code phrase.”

  Melissa popped up and pumped a series of handful of shots into the alley.

  “Oh my … may I ask … what is this I am hearing? Is it shooting?”

  “You bet your ass it’s shooting. These fuckers are trying to kill us. That’s why we need help now. And I mean now!”

  “Boy, this baby’s got a kick,” said Melissa. “I’ll need to brace myself better.”

  “The code phrase is: ‘Brandywine Tomato.” Do you understand me? Repeat this phrase our people will know that it is you they are dealing with. Can I hear you say it?”

  “Brandywine Tomato.”

  “Very good! I—”

  Tugga-tugga-tugga-tugga-tug!

  Bits of concrete block splintered off and peppered his face.

  “Oh my. Take care now… and good luck,” said Octavio. “I hope to see you … soon.”

  “Where’d he go? Where’d that guy go?” said Archie, re-pocketing Arcadio’s phone.

  “I don’t know,” said Melissa. “I ducked down and he was gone.”

  “We’d better keep moving.”

  A brittle CRACK! Something sparked off one of the generators.

  “Where the hell is he? That’s gotta be him shooting at us.”

  Arcadio popped up and sent four quick rounds down the alley. Someone returned the favor with a burst of full automatic, shattering more concrete block.

  Archie checked his machine pistol, making sure it was still set to fire. Suddenly, the lamps in each generator shack, which had been flickering in the dusk glared in full.

  “Goll dang. That’s the last thing we need.”

  But the alley was now illuminated by flood lights, leaving them at no disadvantage with regards to visibility.

  A dark figure darted wide towards the fuel tanks. Melissa aimed her pistol and shot twice. One of her rounds clinked into the side of one of the tanks. The figure dove behind a brush pile.

  “Did I get him?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Archie. “But you sure got the tank.”

  Diesel began to trickle in a thin stream down the side.

  “Oh-oh.”

  “One is coming. We need move,” said Arcadio.

  They left the shelter together and darted towards the last generator in the row, only to find Mr. Hodges standing there with a sawed-off shotgun leveled at his hip.

  Archie and Melissa dove to either side as Arcadio came up behind them, unaware. He took the full brunt of Hodges’ blast. Archie tried to fire his weapon. Nothing happened at first, and then half the magazine suddenly burst out of it, spraying across Hodges’ legs. His shotgun went off again as he fell, blasting the tin roofing overhead. He groaned.

  “Melissa? You okay?”

  “Caught some in my side.” She gasped. “Man, that stings!” She gasped. “Check on Arcadio. It didn’t look good.”

  He crawled over to Arcadio, who lay in a spreading pool of unchecked blood. He had massive wound in his mid-section and was already heading into shock.

  “Oh Jeez. Arcadio! I’m so sorry. We never should have dragged you into this.”

  “Is my choice,” said Arcadio, weakly. “Is … better choice.” His mouth went slack.

  “Oh God!”

  Hodges’ writhed on the concrete pad, banging his elbow against the generator. Melissa had her pistol aimed at his head. She glowered like a she-demon.

  “Melissa, no!” Archie lunged and pushed the pistol away.

  “He killed Arcadio!”

  “No reason for anyone
else to die.”

  Hodges was hit in both legs, but his left thigh gushed with arterial blood. Archie undid his belt.

  “Archie, really?”

  “A quick tourniquet could save him.”

  “But this man shot Arcadio!”

  Archie’s brow furrowed with torment. “We can’t just let him die … for no good reason.”

  A shadow fell across the generator block. “How noble. Would you have done the same for me, I wonder?”

  ***

  Melissa dove into the alley and rolled. White’s first shot caught her in the ribs. His second and third shots missed. He never got off a fourth.

  Archie whipped up the machine pistol and let loose, shattering White’s hand and knocking free his gun. White screamed and dropped to his knees, clutching his injured arm to his chest.

  Archie scrambled out of the shed. “Melissa? You okay?” She was gone. A trail of blood spatters led across the alley, into a strip of shadow. She was hobbling away, hunched over, around the corner of the building.

  The lights blinked out, not just on the compound but in a wave of darkness that swept over most of São Tomé town in the distance. Archie followed after Melissa, touching the wall of the building as a guide until his eyes could adjust.

  Tracer fire zipped down the alley, first one way and then from another source, angling across. Several ripped into the leaking diesel tank. An orange flame appeared on the side and began to spread.

  “Oh, fookin’ bloody hell!” said White, lurching out of the generator shed, his damaged hand tucked under his good arm like a broken wing.

  Archie ran down to the end of the building, chased by a rifle burst that pounded across the thin metal cladding.

  The last, undamaged generator kicked in automatically. The lights flickered back on as Archie turned the corner. He glanced back to see White coming after him, but he was unarmed.

  “Melissa?”

  “In here,” she said, her voice quavering. Her voice had come from a shipping container that had been converted into sleeping quarters for the duty staff on call. Light from the slowly spreading diesel conflagration lapped at the white-painted steel. Flames had consumed the pooled fuel at the base of the leaking tank and were climbing up the side. It was like watching an explosion in slow motion.

  Archie entered the container through a door that was swinging in the breeze. The room held two small beds, a knotted bed net dangling over each.

  He found Melissa huddled in the corner atop a heap of dirty laundry. Her chin drooped. Sweat glistened on her brow. She had her pistol propped on one knee, but was having trouble holding it up. “Sorry I ran. But it hurts so bad, Arch. I feel dizzy … and … I’ve got the chills.”

  “Where’d he get you?” The glow intensified as the entire tank became engulfed in flames like a giant tiki torch.

  “My side. I—” Melissa’s eyes popped open wide. “Archie, behind you!”

  Something whipped over Archie’s face and pulled tight, cutting off his breath. He reached back, but was unable to latch onto his attacker, who tightened the loop with his one good hand. But he was terribly strong for his size.

  Archie watched the pistol quiver in Melissa’s grip, but his body screened White from her gun. He tried to gasp but there was no way for a breath to enter. His peripheral vision shrank, spiraling in like the walls of a dark tunnel. His arms flailed.

  His hand collided by chance with White’s bloody wrist. He grabbed on and slid his grip over his shattered hand and squeezed. His shattered knuckle bones crackled. White screamed and lost hold of the garrote. The pressure on Archie’s wind pipe eased. He wheezed and took in a lungful of life-giving air.

  He swiveled around and butted his head into White’s chin, driving him against a wall. They collapsed onto one of the beds, ripping a bed net, hook and all, out of the ceiling in a shower of gypsum.

  Archie wriggled free of the garrote and threw his weight over White. It was like wrestling a hyena. He had a slight frame compared to Archie, but was so wiry and quick and strong. Somehow, Archie managed to wrap a loop of bed net around White’s neck and twist.

  “Stop, or I’ll choke you.”

  White heaved and writhed under Archie’s bulk. A knife appeared in his hand, almost as if by a conjuring trick, but Archie managed to pry it free and slap it away off the bed before White could flick it open. He twisted the net another revolution.

  “I mean it! Stop fighting. Let’s talk about this.”

  White kicked and grunted and squeaked. Archie glanced over at Melissa. She had lost consciousness. Her gun lay beside her on the painted floor. There was no way he could reach it without letting White go free. He twisted the net yet one more turn, easing up only when White’s muscle tone appeared to slacken.

  The instant he let up, White’s body heaved explosively and they tumbled off the bed together. White clawed at his face but Archie hung on, maintaining the pressure on his neck until White had no more fight left in him. His body went still.

  The sickest feeling came over Archie. He crawled back up onto the bed and sat, trying to regain his breath. Flames had spread along the fuel lines to the generator shacks now. Sirens sounded. A pair of military trucks came roaring down the alley through the flames. A squad of soldiers disembarked and worked their way down the line of sheds, awash in fire glow.

  Melissa groaned in the corner. Archie scrambled to her side and checked her pulse. It was quick but strong. He pulled up her blouse and checked her wound. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, but there was not much he could do but keep her still so as not to disrupt any clots.

  He glanced back at White. His corpse made for a chaotic and horrific scene with one leg propped up the side of the bed, and his head all twisted up in the net like a spider’s prey. Archie had the hardest time fathoming that he was responsible for this man’s death. He had never killed a man before, at least, not so directly. Pangs of guilt and remorse clashed like oil with water against a perverse pleasure and some simple relief.

  He went over and lifted him onto the bed, untangled the net and arranging him neatly. He slipped an oblong wallet out of White’s back pocket. The man carried no credit cards or driver’s license. Nothing bore his name. It held only cash and a photo of a young woman holding a gap-toothed little girl with beads in her braids.

  He felt for White’s pulse, finding no evidence of a beat. He sighed, looked out at the rising flames, interlocked his fingers and began chest compressions. At the count of thirty, he paused and tilted White’s his head back and driving two strong breaths deep into his lungs. What the man really needed was a defibrillator to get his heart going. All Archie was accomplishing was deferring cell death. Nevertheless, he resumed the compressions.

  At the next count of twenty-four, three São Toméan soldiers came storming up to the open door of the container. Lights attached to their rifles converged on his face.

  “Identifique-se! Seu nome!”

  “Arch— I mean … Brandywine,” he said, hoarsely. “Brandywine tomato.”

  Chapter 37: Ambulance

  Ensconced in a cave of clean linens, pastel walls and jiggling, dangling medical gear, Melissa awoke under Archie’s watchful gaze. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. Dried tears crusted in their corners. Though her hair frizzed out every which way, she had never looked more beautiful and alive.

  She lifted her head. “What the …?”

  “Sshh! Lie back down,” said Archie. “They don’t want you moving around too much.”

  “What is this place? I thought I was napping in Mr. Hodges’ boat. Why is it … so cold in here? What’s this … stabbing?”

  “We’re taking you to the hospital for surgery.” Archie reached for another blanket, shook it open and draped it over her.

  “Oh. Now I remember. I got shot. That’s why it hurts so much.”

  “You’re in pain? I can get them to give you more morphine?”

  “Not yet. I want to know what’s what. Are we safe now?”


  “Yeah. We’re safe.”

  “So the President came through?”

  “He did.”

  She shifted her weight on the stretcher, grimacing with every twist. “Why did they strap me down so tight?”

  “To keep you still. If it gets bumpy we don’t want you tumbling around, do we?”

  “Jeez … maybe you should ask for that morphine now. This is ….” She winced. “Pretty sharp.”

  “Yeah, you’re pretty messed up inside. Triage doctor says that you’re probably gonna lose a kidney, and maybe a rib or two, but your liver’s gonna heal up just fine on its own.”

  “Lose … a kidney?”

  “Don’t worry. That’s why God gave you two. Heck, I’d give one of mine if there was any chance of it matching.”

  “But … this is the Third World, Archie.”

  “Huh?”

  Melissa looked alarmed. She lifted her torso up as far as the restraints would let her. “The hospitals. They’re not up to western standards. Right? I mean … what if I need a transfusion? They might not even screen the blood for HIV.”

  “That’s not gonna be an issue, Melissa.”

  “Are the hospitals in São Tomé that good?”

  “Nah. The hospitals in São Tomé suck. Not for lack of trying. It’s a resource thing. They’re understaffed, underequipped and undersupplied, but you’re not—”

  “Yeah, but isn’t that a problem? I mean, if they’re gonna do surgery on me.”

  “Oh no. You’re not getting your surgery done in STP.”

  “Huh? Then where the heck are they taking me in this ambulance?”

  “This is no ambulance, Melissa. This is a Medevac flight. We’re heading for the number one health system in the entire world.”

  Her eyes crossed slightly as her groggy brain calculated a guess.

  “Massachusetts?”

  “Nope. France.”

  Chapter 38: Damage Control

  Gus sipped sweet tea with Harry in the middle of a cavernous tractor barn. A long table had been set up in the center of a metal floor that had been swept clean but still smelled faintly of manure. A row of high-speed floor fans sent hats flying and comb-overs flapping and kept the dust and straw in constant swirl.

  The damage control session was being held forty miles outside of Houston along Country Road 216, just outside a little town called Hungerford. Nothing but fallow fields for a mile in any direction. Like bastard stepchildren, headquarters wanted them out of their sight after their latest bungled op.