Not gonna be killed with my own knife. Not if I can help it.
“Bullshit,” said Troy.
“What was that, now?”
“I said, ‘Bullshit, you are.’”
MacLeroy bore down on him. “Say that to my face, why don’t ya? Eh, boy?”
“Deathmatch,” said Troy, spreading his arms like wings.
MacLeroy’s jaw dropped.
Troy said, “I challenge Captain Jack MackLeroy of Yuma to Deathmatch.” He got to his knees from his shins, steadying himself with his fist, before rising to his feet. “That’s one law you’ll respect, isn’t it, boy? The law of the King.”
“Don’t talk to me about respect.” MacLeroy jabbed the knife toward Troy, saying, “You don’t know nothin’ about our ways.”
“I know ‘if you refuse, you lose.’ And your men know it, too.” Troy grinned as he watched Jack’s confident smirk slip. “And how long do you think they’ll keep that secret?”
MacLeroy searched the faces of his comrades. He turned back to Troy. “I ain’t scared of you.”
“Then give me a knife, and let’s do this.”
They stared each other down, the grimy, wily-eyed Yuman and the cold, stoic Sacramentan.
“I love killing you bitches.” Troy crossed his arms. “Don’t you want to take this chance to put me in my place?”
“Gut him, Cap’n Jack,” said one of the empty-heads.
Finally, Jack MacLeroy unsheathed his own knife and tossed Troy his. The blade thudded into the dirt just in front of Troy’s feet.
Rolling his eyes, Troy ducked to collect the knife.
Instead, in almost one smooth motion, he drew his spare 9mm from his interior jacket pocket and fired a shot through Captain Jack MacLeroy’s right eye.
A moment of stunned silence followed. Captain Jack still had that stupid grin on his face.
Some things even death couldn’t cure.
When his lifeless body toppled over backward, someone screamed either “No,” or “Go.” But Troy was already gunning it.
Staying low, he crouch-ran as fast as he could toward the Quikfil, emptying the clip at the Yumans who, by now, were returning fire.
To his credit, Morris must have heard the exchange because he’d already thrown open the back exit of the gas station and started popping off shots to cover Troy’s retreat.
“Go around the front,” the Bag Man screamed in between delivering sets of three-round bursts with his M4 rifle.
Sprinting now, Troy rounded the corner and fell through the front door that Meadowlark had opened for him.
“Yuma.” Troy panted. “At least five.” He grabbed his rifle, ordering her to, “Cover the front.” Then he slid into position opposite Morris.
Leveling his rifle on an approaching Yuman, Troy picked him off with two neat shots. “Got one,” the Scout shouted.
“Me, too. Kill confirmed,” Morris shouted back.
Troy liked these odds a lot better. Three well-oiled machines from Sac could pop three or four more Yuman wastes of skin any day of the week.
He narrowly missed one of them as the Yuman ran and leapt behind an oil barrel.
“More coming from the front. Five,” said Meadowlark.
Just as she yelled, “Contact,” Morris said, “Great. We’re so dead.” He ran over to her, shouting at Troy to cover the back.
One of the Yumans yelled, “Rush it,” and Troy poked his rifle around the corner just in time to drill holes through him. But another one had been pushing his friend forward and using him as a human shield.
Troy’s clip was empty, and the Yuman was barging through the doorway, too close for rifles to be effective, anyway. The Yuman tripped over his fallen brother, though, which gave Troy the seconds he needed to grip his knife and leap at his enemy.
The Yuman threw up a hand just in time to block what would have been a fatal gash to the carotid artery. When he fell forward, screaming, he took the knife, which was embedded in his flesh, with him.
Now on top, he used his undamaged right hand to throttle Troy. He’d passed half-guard, which didn’t leave Troy with many options. So the Scout dug his fingernails into the wound on the other man’s palm. The Yuman shrieked and pulled the hand away from Troy’s reach. In doing so, his grip on Troy’s neck slackened. Troy used that opening to snap his wrist.
Throwing the Yuman off of him, Troy got up, grabbed his rifle a,d reloaded. His shot painted the gas station floor purple with brains.
But he turned too late to stop the man behind him. The Yuman must have passed through the door just a second before, but he had the barrel of his AK-47 so close to Troy that the Scout could feel the heat emanating from the metal.
Shit.
After the bang, he checked himself. No bullet holes. The Yuman dropped instead, and Meadowlark turned back to her own firefight.
Troy didn’t have time to think, let alone thank her for that. The remaining Yumans had learned and didn’t try any other suicidal ‘tactics.’ They just kept the Sacramentans pinned down.
That strategy would work eventually.
From the corner of his eye, Troy saw Morris fold inward against the wall. He wasn’t dead, though. He was laughing, saying, “The rest of our ammo is in the Humvee.” Rubbing his eyes, he dissolved into a fit of giggles.
“You’re giving up?” shouted Troy.
Morris took a moment to gawk at him. “Of course not.” He rose to a crouch. “I just appreciate a good joke, is all.”
Meadowlark loaded what Troy, by the look on her face, presumed was her last clip. He wasn’t any better off.
In the brief lull between barrages, she said, “Hell of a second Run, Sarge.”
Despite everything, Troy laughed. He fired at a Yuman who got a little too confident and said, mostly for his own benefit, “Hooah.”
The storm of bullets continued and intensified. For thirty seconds or more, it got so loud that Troy figured another dozen or so Yumans must have come up to the Quikfil to kill him.
He made himself the very same promise he’d made Aaron Barker on that day in that hospital in Bakersfield: “I’m snuffing as many as I can. As long as I live.”
But the gunfire stopped. Didn’t taper off, or anything. It just stopped.
“Oh, come on. Obviously a trap,” said Agent Morris.
Someone outside called, “Hey, come out now.”
“Right. Sure,” said Morris.
“There’s twenty of us, man. We don’t want to lose no blood out here, and neither do you. Come out with your hands up and we won’t kill you.”
“Wait.” Troy stood. He craned his neck to listen. “I think I know him.”
The voice outside sounded exasperated and exhausted. “Seriously, man. Any enemy of Yuma is a friend of ours. But my patience has its limits.”
“Agent Morris,” Troy said with a sigh and smile of relief. “I know that guy. It’s Catolico.”
“What?”
“Hector Catolico.”
Morris said, “The priest?”
Troy was already moving past him, stepping outside with his hands up.
He took a moment to look at the six or seven Yuman corpses littering the parking lot.
Waving at the group of ten armed badasses in front of him, and assuming the other ten were at the back, or scattered around, Troy switched to Spanish, “Hector, I don’t need no more holes in my ass, man.”
When the middle-aged Latino guy at the front lowered his AK, every member of his backup did the same. He replied, in English, “Holy shit, Troy?” He walked up to shake the Scout’s hand. “Still good at making friends, I see.”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Hector gripped Troy in a hug. He then asked, “Who’s your friends, bro?”
Troy turned to the side to point to the other two Sacramentans who’d since stepped outside. “Corporal Dara Meadowlark, Republic of Sacramento Army. Bernard Morris, SAC BPH. Agent Morris, sir, this is Hector Catolic
o, Holy Father of Fortaleza.” He added, in Spanish, “You’re fatter than ever, dude. Looks to me like you got more hair on your gut than your head, now.”
Agent Morris cleared his throat. “I would prefer to follow along with the proceedings, if you’d both be so kind.”
Sticking with English, Hector told Troy, “You ain’t looking so hot yourself, what with that paunch hanging over your belt and your sad, droopy double-chin.” Hector added, for Morris’ benefit, “No disrespect, but I don’t know you, blanco. Until I do, I’m talking to the man I do know. You’re on my doorstep. Law of the jungle, baby.”
One of Hector’s men ran up and said, “Padre. Got one alive by the truck.”
Hector smiled at Troy. “Consider this a welcome home present, from me to you, brother.”
The mini procession to the back of the Quikfil was composed of Meadowlark, Agent Morris, the man who’d made the discovery, and Troy and Hector following just behind. A minute later they all stood over the soon-to-be-corpse of the sole surviving Yuman.
He was gurgling something. Troy leaned in to listen.
“You dumbasses. You don’t know what you just did,” the Yuman sputtered as he clutched his torn up guts. “Cap’n Jack. He was the King’s first cousin. You dumb shits.”
Troy unclipped the holster and drew his 9mm.
“And who’s gonna tell him? You?”
He squeezed the trigger. The bang echoed off of the antiques shop across the street.
After a beat or two, Morris said, “You killed that piece of shit captain of theirs?” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m marginally impressed. Fuck it, I’m happy.” He clapped Troy on the shoulder. “I even feel like recommending we don’t fire you, I’m so giddy. No promises, though.”
Before Troy could ask him what the hell he’d meant by ‘fire,’ Hector cut in, “Hey, brother, you axed one of the big man’s lieutenants? Hell yeah, dude. I guess it was you who gave me the welcome back present, after all.”
“Hah. I guess,” said Troy.
Hector was still chuckling. “We’ll drink to it when we get back to Fortaleza. We’ll toast to ‘Fuck Yuma,’ and be merry.”
“We’re leaving now?” Troy asked.
“I don’t see why not.”
Morris butted in, “Pardon the intrusion, but I have to feed my curiosity. How did you find us?”
Hector thought for a second before saying, “The way a man finds anything: not looking for it. We were clearing a field nearby for planting next season. Resting for the night. Heard a lot of shots. Decided to come take a look. I figured it might be Yuma picking on weaker prey — no offense.”
“None taken,” said Morris.
Hector continued, “There’s strength in numbers, right? So, me and the boys thought, ‘Hey, blow away some Yuma and maybe recruit their prey.’ Two birds, eh? Lucky for you we trusted my gut.”
“It must be so round because it’s full of wisdom,” said Troy.
Hector flipped him off. “Ha. Ha. Up yours, too.” He said to the Sacramentans as a group, “Get your shit together and let’s go. We don’t want to be around much longer. Something much less friendly than we are might’ve heard the noise and might come calling.”
Troy nodded and made for the Humvee. He snapped his fingers then, turned around, and walked up to Hector, telling him, “You might wanna send a few of your friends southwest a couple miles. These Yumans didn’t track us on foot; they came by horse.”
Hector hooted in appreciated. “Should be easy enough to find. Thanks, man. You’re the gift that keeps on giving.”
“How far to Fortaleza?” said Meadowlark.
“Thirty miles. All cleared by us.” Hector inclined his head. “You have my word. You’re safe now.”
The Sacramentans watched the members of Hector’s group squeeze into three vehicles, one of which was a classic white, windowless van, in which Hector himself had driven up. The shooting had masked the approach of the men from Fortaleza, allowing them to park as close as several hundred feet down the road from the action. And roll up and cap the Yumans in thirty seconds flat.
Troy, with Morris and Meadowlark, followed the white van along a broken and battered road, all the way to Fortaleza. The ride was rough and bumpy, but better than traveling the same thirty miles on horseback at this time of night. Troy felt renewed gratitude for the alliance between Sacramento and Fortaleza, and the fact that this partnership meant that Fortaleza had been able to trade for algae fuel (one of the almost sci-fi innovations Sac had brought into the world).
“Hey,” said Morris from the rear, nudging the back of Troy’s seat, “it’s been twenty minutes and we haven’t been shot at. It’s a mission record.”
Troy watched each tenth of a mile roll by on the odometer as smoothly as the white van ahead of him rolled deeper into the night.
Christopher Troy Myers
January 23rd, 2070
Fortaleza
Dawn in Fortaleza was the most pleasant experience Troy could remember in a long time. The cool air bit just the right amount to keep him keen and fresh. Six or seven hawks circled overhead, black against the clear, blue sky. He watched them list on the currents of the air, high above the world that was trying its best to leave people behind.
Troy actually felt fairly safe, there, which was so rare it bore mentioning. Maybe he owed the feeling to the kids playing soccer in the street. Or maybe it was Hector’s wife, Genevieve, ringing the brass bell outside of the kitchens, calling out to the guests from Sacramento to come grab breakfast.
The single story shops of Main Street Barstow had been converted into a hospital, barracks, dance hall, and, of course, homes for the people.
Ain’t half bad, Troy thought.
Of course, you only had to look several hundred feet in any direction to find out at what cost this peace had been bought: palisade walls ringed Fortaleza, with the occasional guard tower overshadowing the kids’ soccer game.
Troy waved to the sniper in one of those towers.
After breakfast with the whole gang, Morris slinked off on his own, dragging his impractically huge, hard-bound copy of Moby Dick with him. But Troy wasn’t about to let him get his R&R in before forcing him to answer a couple questions.
“Fire me?” said Troy, stepping into Morris’ path. “What did you mean by that?”
Troy blocked the front exit from A Cut Above, the former restaurant that currently served as the town dining hall.
“What do you think I meant?” said Morris.
“I deserve a straight answer after what we went through yesterday. And considering we might not live through tomorrow.”
The Bag Man’s voice was perfectly chipper when he said, “If you’re going to be dead, anyway, you don’t have to worry your clean-shaven little head about any of these pesky details.”
“Sir, give it to me straight. Am I getting bumped? Why?”
Morris stared at him like Troy had just landed and disembarked from his space ship, saying, Hail, Earthling. I am from Jupiter. Take me to your leader. The Bag Man said, “You’ve seen a lot of action in your day, old-timer. Time to maybe, I don’t know, rustle up some cattle, pluck some chickens? Don’t tell me you haven’t figured out why we had Lady Meadowlark, of all people, tag along for this ride.”
“She’s my partner.”
Morris sounded out the syllables as if reading to a toddler, “Sergeant Myers, she’s your eventual replacement.”
What? After everything I’ve done for you, for Sac. After all this? Troy slumped against the wall.
“You’re good, Sergeant.” Hands in his pockets, Morris leaned against the wall across from him. “But that doesn’t mean you haven’t become somewhat of a liability.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Put it to you this way, your psych evaluations leave something to be desired.”
Troy shook his head. “Dr. Jones. What the fuck happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?”
Morris rapped his knuckles a
gainst his own skull. “The world ended, dummy.” He yawned and then said, “Look. Let’s start with what we know, ‘kay? Sac runs this show. In order for us to keep doing so, we need to stay in tip-top shape. Think of our community like a trireme (that’s a ship), and each of you military grunts is an oarsman. With me so far? Yeah? So, how far does the ship get when oarsmen start threatening to bonk the person sitting next to them over the head or mutiny against the captain? Riddle me that.” When Troy didn’t answer, Morris pressed on with his monologue. “Only a blind man could’ve missed how you’ve been eyeing Corporal Meadowlark. I know what you’re thinking, too. Well, read my lips,” he pointed to them, “she’s not a Sleeper. You’re just going fucking crazy, man.”
“What?”
“You’re going off the deep end. But you’re good at what you do, so SAC BHP put in a special request to have some improvised, on-the-job training arranged for the person most suited to replace you.” Morris grinned, his nostrils curling up. “Granted, it hasn’t been smooth sailing, so far. Still, that’s neither here nor there.”
Troy didn’t know what to make of it. He couldn’t bring himself to think it through, squeeze a drop of sense out of what Agent Bernard Morris was saying.
The Bag Man made for the open doorway. Speckled by the light of the mid-morning sun, he told Troy, “No matter which way you slice it, pal, this was always going to be your last rodeo.”
And Troy sat there, in the shadows, until the light crawled to reach his feet.
He got up and followed after Morris.
400 miles of badlands lay between Troy, Dara Meadowlark, Bag Man Morris, and Resurrection City, the source of that mysterious radio broadcast that had hailed anyone listening and practically begged them to come “witness the miracle” for themselves.
It was standard procedure for Sacramento’s government to send out representatives to anyone who reached out to them. Whenever they could manage it, that is. Except in extraordinary circumstances, it was always two Scouts and a Bag Man that went out, made contact, and returned with news, traded items, and possibly refugees.
This was standard procedure, and Troy had, in the past twenty or so years, taken part in countless such missions. This one was no different. So, why did it feel like a death sentence?
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