Which he did before handing the rifle over to me, along with the cardboard box in which the cartridges rolled around like tiny marbles. I put the box in a coat pocket and continued listening. ‘Little knob there by the trigger guard, that’s the safety. If you see red, it means the safety is off. Action there on the right. Snap it back once and you’re ready to go. Then just keep on pulling the trigger. Savvy?’
I shouldered the rifle and went outside to the gray-green and muddy lawn. I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. Stewart was smiling and now his hand was extended.
‘OK. Now that you’re on your way, good luck,’ he said.
I squeezed his hand, feeling the roughness of his skin. ‘Thanks again. And I certainly won’t forget you. Not for a moment.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Now get your ass in gear before the bad guys show up.’
He went back inside and closed the door. I moved as quickly as I could, slipping my way through the mud. I went past the barn and reached the wire fence. I hesitated to touch the wire, seeing how it was secured to each post by an electric insulator. If it was on, it sure could give me a tingle, I thought.
Too late to doubt Stewart now. I grasped the fence, felt nothing except the coldness of the metal strands, and I climbed over. Nearby was the old rusty bathtub, just like Stewart had described, and there was the path, leading up to a hill, a hill nearly covered by pine trees and a few oaks. I started up the path and began huffing with exertion, the rifle bouncing on my back, the rolled-up blankets tugging me a bit off-balance, the spare cartridges rolling around in the little cardboard box. I puffed some more and then the path leveled out. Almost there, the top of the hill. And what had Stewart said? From the hill, on the other side, the highway would be in view. And from that point, about ten or fifteen minutes to reach the road. Ten to fifteen minutes away from being picked up by a convoy, from being saved and having a good meal and a hot shower, and being able to tell somebody, anybody, what I had seen and what I had done, and to get a world of hurt to descend upon the traitorous Peter Brown—
I stopped and moved to the left, past some low brush, which I pulled aside. I heard the sound of engines. I dumped my blankets, pulled the rifle off my shoulder and, remembering again what Stewart had said, snapped back the bolt. And then I checked the safety. No red showing. Safe, then. I placed my arm through the leather sling and brought the scope up to my eye, and the house and buildings and muddy field below me came into close-up. A pickup truck and minivan with every window busted out were parked by the house. I breathed in and out, watching what was going on through the small rifle scope, the black cross-hairs sight superimposing itself over everything I watched.
Five guys in fatigues and carrying weapons were milling around the yard, and one of them started pounding repeatedly at the kitchen door from which I had exited just a few minutes ago. Stewart appeared soon. I could see that they were talking back and forth and Stewart was shaking his head. He stepped out into the yard, talking some more. Two of the guys were leaning against the fender of their pickup truck, ignoring the discussion going on between Stewart and the man I guessed was the leader. The rifle scope shook some as I recognized the guy. One of my escorts, back at the militia camp. Swell.
The door to the house opened again and Stewart turned round, his face screwed up with anger as Tucker barreled out of the house, followed shortly by Jerry. Stewart pointed to the house but Jerry ignored him and went over to the militia guy, tipped his head back and said something to him. For some reason, the fellow looked embarrassed. Tucker the dog went over to the two guys resting against the pickup-truck fender. One of them bent down, picked up the spaniel’s tennis ball and tossed it down the driveway. The dog went after the bouncing ball with joyful enthusiasm.
‘Careful, Tucker,’ I whispered. ‘You’re playing with the enemy.’
The militia leader seemed now to be talking louder to Stewart, jabbing his finger at Stewart’s chest, and Jerry was beside him as well, tugging at the militia leader’s coat. My mouth got dry and I thought of the water bottle that I had inside my coat. But I dared not move, not while I was watching what was going on. Now the militia guy was poking Stewart hard, forcing the older man to step back.
And then it went to the shits.
The militiaman—by now looking seriously irritated -pushed Jerry away with one hand, causing the kid to sit down hard in the mud. Stewart rushed forward but the militia guy had already unslung his rifle and now he swung it at Stewart, catching the older man in the jaw with the weapon’s heavy stock. Stewart fell down to lie splayed out in the mud as Jerry sat there, bawling. Even Tucker had stopped playing and was looking around him quizzically, as though he could not believe the stupidity and hatred in the human race.
When the militiaman raised his rifle and aimed it at Stewart, I flicked the little knob on the side of the Remington with my thumb. And shot him.
~ * ~
I couldn’t tell you who was more surprised. Me, the militia guys or Stewart. The report was quite loud and since the Remington was a .22 the recoil was non-existent. I wasn’t even sure if I had hit the son of a bitch, but I kept on firing, aiming at the running and hiding members of the militia group and then popping a few bullets into their vehicles for good measure. I kept on firing until the trigger suddenly got stiff and unyielding, and I realized that I had blown through all twelve rounds. I did another quick scan of the scene through the telescopic sight and saw Stewart and Jerry and Tucker racing back into the house. I moved the rifle, the view shaking some now as I realized what I had just done. I couldn’t make out any of the militiamen, not at all. Then came a flicker of movement, and gunfire crackled and stuttered from the yard down below me. I moved back into the brush, breathing hard, remembering the quick lesson I had gotten from Stewart. The magazine tube came out with a snap and a twist, and I took the cardboard box of cartridges from my pocket. Two of them fell on the ground and, swearing, I scrabbled among the leaves and dirt to retrieve them. This was no time to waste ammunition.
Counting slowly—I wanted to make sure I put in the correct number—I reloaded the magazine tube, replaced it in its position beneath the gun’s barrel, and put the few remaining cartridges back into my coat pocket. I snapped back the action and then squirmed my way back to my shooting spot. Through the scope I saw movement down below: a line of militiamen were coming up the hill toward me. I fired three times more and then ducked and crawled out of there as they returned fire in a rapid sequence of loud booms, punctuated by the frightening sounds of rounds coming in over my head and slamming into branches and tree trunks. They sure as hell weren’t firing .22s.
I paused, just long enough to gather my thoughts and an extra breath or two. Then I resumed running.
~ * ~
I got back on the path quick enough. A small rational part of me understood that this wasn’t a good idea, being out in the open like this, but I knew I had no choice. My goal wasn’t to sit in the woods and play at being sniper. My goal was to haul ass to the highway, and if that had been my only intention, I wouldn’t have shot at those clowns back there. That had been stupid. That hadn’t been rational. I should have gone quietly on my way. But, damn it, I was glad that I hadn’t been rational. I was glad I had stayed and had shot at them. And as I’d been shooting, I’d wanted to shout at them as well: ‘How does it feel, being on the receiving end of gunfire? How does it feel to hide and cower? How does it feel?’
Somehow, I think they were pissed.
There were distant shouts back there, and some more gunfire, and I ran hard, branches and brambles snapping at my face and hands. For the first few minutes I was at an advantage, slight as it was. They couldn’t be sure if I was up on the hill, hiding and waiting, trying to snipe at them. So they had to take their time coming up that rise and keep their heads down. I stopped and fired off a couple of rounds into the air, hoping the noise would slow them. My breathing was racing so hard that it felt like I had little razor blades inside my lungs that lacera
ted me with every step. Then I fell flat on my face.
I rolled over, saw the exposed root that had tripped me up. I got up from the cold ground and winced. My right ankle was sore. Damn. Time to slow down, just a bit. I picked up the rifle and continued running at a more cautious pace, making sure I took a few extra seconds to dodge the rocks and tree branches that were now threatening to kill me by tripping me up and offering me to the militiamen I had just been firing at.
Some more shouts and shots behind me. The path widened as it passed a knoll of gravel and rock, and below me, in the distance and beyond another line of trees, was my Holy Grail, my Place in Paradise, the Prize of Prizes: the stretch of asphalt and concrete that was the interstate highway. To celebrate what I had just seen I turned around and fired a couple more shots into the woods, just to let my pursuers know I was still alive.
And I kept on running.
~ * ~
About ten minutes later I slogged through a drainage ditch at the side of the highway, soaking my legs up to my knees, flailing through some cattails growing in long brown stalks beside the muddy water. I went up the grass embankment, breathing hard again, the rifle slippery in my hands. The highway: two lanes right in front of me, then a grass median strip, then another two lanes.
And bless every one of us, some distance toward the west were three Toyota Land Cruisers, parked by the side of the road, all painted white and one with the UN flag flapping from a radio whip antenna at the rear. There seemed to be someone standing beside an open door. I actually choked up for a moment, as if I was seeing the familiar red and white maple-leaf banner out there in the distance, offering me safety, offering me sanctuary from the murderous men behind me. I stood, took a couple of deep breaths, and—
Whee, whee! Rounds went blasting over my head, followed immediately by the sharp cracks of gunfire. I had been spotted, and then some. I ducked and ran as fast as I could across the pavement, dodging back and forth, and I made it to the grass median. More gunshots and then my feet were slapping on the pavement of the second stretch of highway, and I didn’t try to make it fancy or pretty as I flopped to the ground and rolled down the other embankment, right into another drainage ditch. My breathing was harsh and spit was running down my chin. I dumped the blanket roll and edged up to the edge of the embankment, peering through the tall grass. Across the way I saw uniformed and armed men heading out into some sort of skirmish line. I put the rifle to my shoulder, aimed through the scope at some guy with a gun, and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. I looked at the bolt. Wide open. Out of ammunition.
‘Shit,’ I whispered, slithering back down into the cold water of the ditch. I fumbled through my coat pocket, took out a now-soggy cardboard box of .22 cartridges. Some shouts came at me from across the highway. The box felt dangerously light. I popped open the flap and poured out the tiny cartridges into my dirt-covered hand. Six. Just six shots left. Not even one more, to make it a lucky seven?
I went to work, trying to ignore the yells from the militiamen scant meters away from me across the lanes of the deserted highway. Deserted—except for those three vehicles waiting for me. I spared a quick glance up the highway, but the UN Land Crusiers were hidden by brush from this angle. I could barely make out the blue and white UN banner. I reloaded the tube magazine, put it back into the Remington with shaking hands, snapped the bolt back in and then squirmed my way back up the embankment. Still some movement, heading off in both directions. For a militia, these clowns weren’t half bad. I snapped off two shots and then ducked again as return fire went whistling over my head.
I stayed bent over, started moving as fast as I could, my feet slopping through the mud and water of the drainage ditch. More gunfire, and then a shout, heard clearly: ‘Might as well give up now, UN man! We’ve got you smoked!’
I decided it was time to start talking as well, but not to them. If I was lucky, the three UN four-by-fours up ahead were guarded by cousins of Charlie, our Marine escort from such a long time ago. I didn’t want any misunderstanding as I blundered my way toward them, carrying a loaded rifle in my hands.
‘UN coming in!’ I yelled. Then I remembered a code phrase I had learned back when I’d thought I could make a damn difference in this damn country, a code phrase of identification. ‘This is Geneva, Geneva, coming in!’
Finally the brush gave out and there I was. The three Toyota Land Cruisers were all parked on the side of the road, in a row. And if I could have cried, I would have started weeping.
For all three vehicles were abandoned, shot up, tires flattened and glass shattered. Even the UN banner was torn and burned, and judging by the rust around the bullet holes and shrapnel gashes, these Land Crusiers had been here for a while. What I’d earlier thought had been a person was just a coat, hanging from the side of an open door. The place was deserted.
Abandoned. Just like me.
~ * ~
CHAPTER TWENTY
But I wasn’t ready to give up, not yet, especially since those fine fellows out there who were hunting me probably had plans for my capture, trial and sentence. Plans that all ended up with me getting shot in the back of the head on this stretch of American highway in about five or ten minutes.
I kept my head down, looked through a Land Cruiser’s smashed windows and open doors, hoping I could find something, anything, to help me out. Perhaps a radio with its batteries still working, maybe even a weapon left behind by one of the military escorts. I peered through the open doors and rummaged among the wreckage, trying to ignore the rusty stains on the tom upholstery, the remnants of bandages and some tom clothing.
Nothing.
More gunshots, and a thonk! as a bullet struck metal. I got behind the middle vehicle and fired off a shot in reply. How many left? I counted back. Just three. Damn it, just three.
‘Hey, UN man, we’re gonna get ya! Just a matter of time!’
Another shot, coming from further up the highway. Damn it all to hell. They had me surrounded. I looked at the only path remaining open for me, to the right of the vehicles and leading away from the highway. But there were no woods or shrubbery there, just a knee-deep swamp of cattails and other growing things. If I started slogging through there, they would—
Thonk, thonk! More incoming gunfire, and by instinct I fired three more times — and then felt the stubborn weight of the dead trigger.
Empty.
I squirmed away toward another vehicle that had its rear door hanging open. Crazy, random thoughts were galloping through my mind, everything from simply hiding under one of the shattered Land Cruisers to trying to jump-start one of the engines and maybe make my escape that way. But I didn’t think I would have the time to learn the intricacies of how to jump-start a shot-up Toyota four-by-four.
I looked into the rear compartment. More bloody bandages, an open first-aid kit, and attached to the side wall, above the tire well, a bright orange plastic box, secured by straps. I unsnapped the box and sat down on the ground, with a rear tire against my back. I opened the lid—and nestling there was a flare gun, with three cartridges. I pulled out the gun, popped open the barrel, and slid in one of the fat flare shells. I snapped the damn thing shut, looked at the instructions pasted into the lid of the container—which looked to be about twenty paragraphs of fine print with illustrations in orange and red. Sorry, no time. There was a hammer just above the gun’s handle, which I pulled back.
I wiggled my way below the Land Cruiser’s undercarriage, holding the flare gun out in front of me. The shooting had stopped for just a moment, and across the other lanes I saw figures scurrying forward, coming up the embankment. Somebody yelled out something and a line of about six or seven militiamen came up from the other side and started trotting across the asphalt lanes. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger of the flare gun. There was a pop! and a loud whoosh! as the flare, bright orange and red and almost too bright to look at, shot out from the wide-mouthed barrel and went across the highway, trailing sparks and sm
oke. The approaching gunmen scattered as the flare actually bounced twice on the asphalt before burying itself into the far woodline and brush.
Then I heard something.
More shots, and a couple more yells. I was breathing really hard now as I squirmed my way back out, banging my head against a piece of the four-by-four’s transmission. I tried to listen even harder, but all I could make out was the pounding of blood in my ears. I sat up, looked about me. Samuel’s Last Stand. If my father was lucky, maybe he’d find out in a week or two. Maybe.
What now?
Trust, I thought. Trust in what you heard.
I reloaded the flare gun and this time, instead of pointing it at my pursuers, I aimed it straight up into the sky. Another satisfying pop! and whoosh! and the orange-red flare went way up, almost as bright as the sun to look at. It seemed to go up a couple of hundred meters before arcing over and falling back to earth. Another couple of thonks! and some glass from a side window fell into my lap.
One more time with the flare gun, and even though the cartridge was as fat as a child’s fist my hand was trembling so hard that I could hardly put it into the barrel or breech or whatever it was called. I spared another quick glance, saw more figures coming my way, less than a hundred meters, closing in from both sides. Again, I thought I heard something.
Dead of Night Page 25
