by Nick Cole
‘Savages!’ he thought, and spit bits of tobacco out onto the forest floor.
The afternoon was ending. Shadows long and blue surrounded his company.
How much longer can I push them? They are cold and hungry and if they miss a sign or the makings of a trap . . . then disaster.
He told them to make camp. They would sleep until morning and be fresh for the trail.
Besides, the savage and the girl are running into the poison lands where no one may go and live long. They are up against a wall. They will have to turn or stand and fight.
He thought of his lacquered box of weed. Since they are camping, he reasoned to himself.
“Be careful who you love,” he mumbled and set to loading his pipe.
Chapter 49
The next day, Shao Fan watched the old house as his men entered it. The day was hot and the air smelled of pine and mustard.
Spring is upon us.
Think about this business, he chastised himself.
They’d risen early and the sleep had done them good. They’d picked up the trail of the fugitives in the first light of the cold and misty morning and followed them down into the hot valley.
They are heading for the coast road, Shao Fan told himself all along. Which seemed a good thing, at least as far as he, Shao Fan, was concerned. He could increase speed, now that their prey’s options were narrowing between the sea and the mountains.
But in the dry and dusty ruins south of Carmel, the trail drew them to an old “mansion.”
‘Perhaps they were not aware of our pursuit after all and have stopped to enjoy rest and forbidden pleasure,’ thought Shao Fan.
The two scouts, long knives in hand, crossed the open yard and entered the rotting house through two separate broken windows. The scouts thread the remaining shards of glass nicely and are in with barely a noise.
Well-trained men make work easy.
After a moment there was a creaking groan, too quickly followed by a thunderous crash. Plumes of ancient dust expelled themselves through the broken windows like smoke from the mouth of a corpse.
When the dust settled, the hunters and Shao Fan moved forward to find that the second floor had collapsed onto the two scouts within, crushing them.
‘A trap,’ thought Shao Fan.
AHEAD, THE MOUNTAINS fell down to the sea, and in glimpses the Boy and Jin caught the silver remains of the coast highway winding away to the south in the afternoon sun.
Jin smiled at him when he turned to show her the road, and in his heart her doubts and fears disappeared.
They won’t follow us much farther.
You would tell me, You hope, Boy. You hope for that.
I do.
The parachute cord is gone and my traps will be crude now. They will be wary, knowing I have skill with traps.
They don’t know I am out of the parachute cord.
The Boy stopped occasionally to create bent limb traps spiked with sharpened stakes. He felt rushed as he worked and they were not his best. But each one would slow them down, and in time they would crawl, the more they were taught not to run.
THE FIRST TRAP took two scouts. Shao Fan was now down to just three scouts and the hunters.
An hour later, a limb snapped forward and blinded one of the three remaining scouts as stakes raked his eyes and face.
‘The man will lose an eye,’ thought Shao Fan.
I should let the hunters go and ride this savage down.
But how many will you lose?
And Shao Fan found that he did not care. He wanted to be finished with this, as he was finished every time they hauled the violator aloft while the noose tightened about the neck.
No screams.
Just the dance.
Finished.
I want every time to be the last time.
But they never learn . . .
. . . so there will be no end to it.
To think that my days will always be such . . .
And Shao Fan was too exhausted and too depressed, if he were to admit the truth, to finish the thought. He assigned the blinded scout to a hunter. The man will be tied to his horse to follow along after the hunting party.
THEY AVOIDED THE next two traps now that the scouts knew what to look for.
They moved much slower than Shao Fan would like, but they had to.
THE BOY CONSIDERED the old ruins that hung over the cliff near the sea. The coast road ran like a moving snake past them and on to the south.
The Boy wanted to take the coast road now. He wanted to ride hard to the south, and in time their pursuers would turn back, or so he thought.
And what if they didn’t?
Then there would be just the road between the mountains and the sea. There would be no place to hide. Once they chose the coast road, their pursuers would ride them down and they would be left with very few options.
Ruined walls crumbled along a wide plateau that ended over the ocean in a rocky black cliff above waves that slopped in great troughs and wallops against the continent.
What traps do I have left?
How many have I taken in the traps and how many of our pursuers are left?
How many traps will I need to make until they lose the will to follow?
How many traps until they are too angry to stop?
If we ride the coast road, they’ll follow and follow quickly. They’ll know we can only go one direction and if they get close enough I won’t be able to stop and make traps. So it is in their best interest to get close, to show me they are close.
They heard the surf boom distantly below the cliff as it smashed itself into the jagged rocks. It was late afternoon and the sun was falling toward the ocean.
The Boy and Jin walked the ruins, crossing through a crumbling lobby where a large and tattered canvas hung on the wall. In the sooty picture, windswept eucalyptus trees twisted in the nook of a hill as tall grass bent toward a horizon of blue skies and soft white clouds. And though the sea was not represented in the picture, the Boy knew it must be nearby.
Chairs and couches had long since been smashed for firewood. Beyond this there was a large swimming pool, cracked and empty. Dirty rainwater had collected in its depths. Wild palms had erupted through the crumbling pavement. Beyond all this was the main building, every window empty, every door missing. There were long, dark halls along which rotting hotel rooms, forever waiting to be occupied, stretched off into the darkness.
‘We could make a stand here,’ the Boy thought.
We will make our stand here.
Two knives.
One tomahawk.
One rifle.
Cartridges.
You take everything with you.
They wandered to the back of the ancient ruin, crossing long, dark hallways of disintegrating carpet and mildewing rooms. At the end of it all they came to a great room that overlooked the ocean. Out to sea, the water and waves raced off to the south.
“Wait here,” he said to Jin.
“No. I want to come with you.”
“I’ll be fine. I just need to see what’s above us.”
“Then . . . so will I.”
Above they found two more floors, the same as the first, clotted with rotting furniture along their long halls, and at the top a door led out onto the roof. The roof was littered with palm fronds by countless storms.
“We will fight them from here.” Then, “Once they are all dead we will be free to go where we will.”
Jin nodded. The wind pulled at her long hair.
“I . . . believe you.”
In the hours that followed, they stripped electrical wire and cables from inside the walls. They found ancient metal fixtures, rusting and jagged.
There were no weapons.
No propane tanks that had not long since been gouged.
No firearms to find.
No knives to loot.
But still they made traps.
Traps where a floor might fall from above if a certain p
illar was loosed by a taut cable disturbed in the debris.
Traps where boards fitted with jagged rusting metal might snap forward as a careless foot dragged electrical wiring along its path.
They blocked the entrances to the second floor so that the entire first floor would have to be traversed before ascending to the next floor. They did the same for the second and finally the third.
They were sweating hard and the Boy felt his strength fading as they hauled out ancient rotting furniture and stuffed it into the stairways, blocking off all avenues of approach other than the one the Boy had decided the pursuers must choose. After this, he turned to making barricades where he could shoot with his rifle down the long dark hallways as the enemy threaded the gauntlet of traps.
‘I wish I had both arms,’ he thought, the dark outside telling him night had fallen. Jin’s face, shining in the light of their torch from the sweat of her exertions, came close to his.
“Now, I . . . am your . . . left.” She touched the withered arm he had hidden and protected and cursed his whole life.
I must have said that out loud. I am very tired.
Together they built the last barriers.
It was late when they settled in the farthest room beneath the roof. A once-grand suite. They had a small fire and Jin made rice in her wok. There were eggs also. And tea.
They made love. He held her close and she whispered over and over in his ear that she loved him.
That she loved Broken Feather.
LATER, AS SHE slept he thought of the feather in Sergeant Presley’s pack.
She is my left arm now.
My left side.
Me.
Broken Feather.
He slept for a while and when he awoke it was still deep night.
There was a little more to do.
Jin did not wake as he took his charcoal and a small torch. For the rest of the night he worked at the faces he sketched near the traps. Or sometimes along a mildewing wall where he would get a good shot from the barricades.
Something to distract them from his traps and hiding places.
It was just before dawn when he left to feed Horse. He gave Horse water and walked him down onto the beach. He whispered the things he always whispered to Horse. Things that made Horse feel good about himself.
Vainglorious things.
He staked Horse in the tree line beyond the beach to the south. There was a little water and grass. If they didn’t make it, in time Horse would pull free. Be free.
He patted Horse one last time and looked deep into the eyes of his friend.
Trying to read his mind as he’d always tried to do.
Failing as he’d always failed.
He returned to their bed and lay down, taking everything in. Listening to the morning. The offshore wind, smelling of salt and fruit. The gray light turning to gold. The old place.
They were coming now.
In sleep Jin drew closer to him and murmured something in her dream.
“Now I am your left.”
Chapter 50
The Boy watched them from a corner window on the third floor. He saw the hunters coming along the trail left by Horse. They scanned the stumps of chimneys and overgrown lots, wary that he might snipe at them from the tall grass beyond.
They’ll come to this old place from Before.
He watched until they disappeared in front of what was once the lobby. The place of the dirty canvas picture.
SHAO FAN CALLED for a halt. The thick silence of the heat and loneliness of the place was broken by an offshore breeze, dull and sweet, sweeping through the high eucalyptus trees along the road.
He’ll be inside. The savage and his traps.
He’ll be watching us, even now.
Shao Fan knew there would be traps. But his men, his hunters, knew how the savage worked now. They’d be alert. They’d know what to look for.
So, they had to go in. All race transgressors must have their appointment at the crossroads.
Shao Fan signaled two men. The last two scouts.
They rode up to him and he whispered instructions. Moments later they were off to the south.
Shao Fan dismounted and signaled his remaining men to do the same.
They brought their breech loaders.
THE BOY TOOK his first shot as the hunters exited the main building. He shot from the corner window of the third floor looking down on nine men as they crossed the crumbling pavement near the cracked and broken swimming pool.
He rested his gun on a platform deep inside the shadows of the room.
The shot hammered through the silence and the men scrambled for cover.
Just one shot. Then move to a new position. Just like you taught me, Sergeant, even though you said there would never be a need because all the “ammo” was used up killin’ ourselves. Still, I’d wanted to learn and you’d showed me.
I think it was a way for you to pass the time and teach me the only thing you’d ever known, and not think about the past.
He withdrew into the dusty shadows of the old room and heard them calling out to each other below. Beneath that, he could hear the dy-
ing man.
He found Jin at their camp on the third floor.
“They’re here.”
She nodded and said something in Chinese.
“I want you to go to the roof now. Block the door with the broken concrete I left there. Don’t open it until you hear my voice.”
She nodded and he led her to the access stairwell that climbed up to the roof. She turned back to him, the broken feather in her hand. From it dangled a small leather thong. Quickly she reached up and tied it into his long hair.
He watched her ascend the steps and push on the rusty door. Bright light filled the dingy gloom of the stairwell. She glanced back at him and he silently beckoned her to close the door, wishing she didn’t have to. Wishing they could be free of this day.
If wishes were fishes, Boy, beggars would ride.
Yes, you said that also, Sergeant. You would say it to me now.
The Boy made his way down to the first floor, all the while avoiding his traps. He took up a position behind the first-floor barricade at the end of a long, dark hall. The other end led to the pool area.
They would come through the hall from there.
In his mind he traced their route. They would funnel into this corridor as they found the other corridors were blocked and trapped.
Take a shot and move to the second floor. Be disciplined in this.
He waited, hearing nothing.
Maybe a mouse moving along the rotten baseboard.
In time he saw a dark figure detach itself from the shadows at the far end of the hall. The light from the corridor outlined the silhouette of a man carrying a rifle at the ready.
The Boy transitioned the rifle across the sacking he had laid for a rest atop the barrier, letting the sight fall on the outline of the man down the hall.
He heard a crash from somewhere in another part of the building and then a man was screaming in Chinese.
The swing trap.
When he looked again, the shadowy figure at the end of the hall was gone.
Maybe he was on the floor and crawling forward?
The Boy waited and watched.
A low rumble and then a loud crash in another hall told the Boy someone found the collapsing-wall trap. He heard no scream or cry for help this time.
There wouldn’t be. The wall should have fallen on the intruder’s head. He was either unconscious or dead.
But I don’t know that for sure.
There were nine and now three were down. That made six.
Maybe.
The shadow detached itself from the wall again and moved right into the sight at the end of the Boy’s rifle.
Without even thinking the Boy fired, flinging the man backward and out of sight.
Blue gun smoke mixed with the dust and heavy heat.
Five.
On the second
floor, the Boy moved fast and he knew they could hear him below.
Good. They’ll think they have me trapped. Maybe they will become careless.
He thought of Jin on the roof.
The traps here on the second floor were deadfalls, sure to break a leg or pierce a man through with the stakes he would fall on below.
He took up his place behind the barricade at the far end of the second floor.
He listened, willing himself to slow his ragged breathing.
Almost there.
You would say, You think so Boy? Or do you hope so?
Both.
One of the Chinese climbed through an open window behind the Boy as he watched the dark corridor. The Boy didn’t hear the intruder until the man softly brushed against something just as he hoisted his body through the window.
The Boy set his rifle down and whirled with his tomahawk out. The man climbing through the window rolled just as the Boy raised the axe and struck. The head of the tomahawk buried itself in rotting wood and crumbling drywall.
The man cried out in Chinese and an instant later, far off, as the Boy dragged the axe out of the wall, he could hear running feet at the far end of the second floor. The sound, hollow on the rotting wood and disintegrating carpet, beat out an urgent approaching staccato.
The man in the room had his knife out, waving it back and forth between the two of them. He was smaller than the Boy and there was fear in his eyes.
The Boy rushed him, slamming his body into the man. They fell to the ground slick with sweat as the Boy pinned the man’s knife hand with the flat of his tomahawk, leaning hard into the Chinese with the bony, withered side of himself.
The man cursed, almost whining.
The pounding footsteps coming up the hall disappeared in a crashing wave of snapping boards as the floor fell out beneath them. There was a brief cry and a sickening bone-snapping sound, loud and clear.
The Boy slammed his head into the face of the man beneath him and a spray of blood erupted from the smashed face. Instinctively, hands moved to cover the broken nose.
The Boy rose, his tomahawk swinging back above his shoulder, then his head, and a second later slammed the axe down through the man’s sternum. There was an umpf of escaping air and the sound of breaking bone.
