Sanibel Flats

by Randy Wayne White

  Ford grabbed his arm. "What are you going to do?"

  "I'm going to talk to Zacul, that's what I'm gonna do. I'm going to try and talk some sense into him. He's got no reason to hurt that child. He's got no reason to hurt us either. I'll make him see that!"

  Ford pulled Tomlinson back into the hut. "I can't let you do that."

  "Let go of my arm, goddamn it!"

  "I can't let you—"

  Tomlinson yanked his arm free, yelling "You son of a bitch, you got us into this, and now you won't let me get us out!" He lunged for the door again, but Ford caught him by the shirt, swung him around, and slammed him into the wall.

  "Tomlinson? Tomlinson. I want you to take some deep breaths. Nice and easy." Speaking softly, trying to get through the shield of paranoia; trying to reach the man inside. "You're not thinking clearly. You understand?"

  Tomlinson was looking at the floor, trembling, refusing to meet Ford's gaze.

  "There's nothing we can do now. If we try, Zacul will kill us all. Each and every one of us. You know that."

  Tomlinson nodded slowly, then something broke in him and he began to cry softly. He pulled away from Ford, went to his cot and sat down, his face buried in his hands.

  "We'll be okay, Tomlinson. We'll make it. We're all going to make it." Speaking with confidence, but not feeling it, Ford opened the door of the hut and went outside to sit beneath a tree.

  Half an hour later, Tomlinson came out. He looked scraggly and very tired. He stood above Ford, saying "I really freaked out, man. Sorry."

  "Don't worry about it."

  "It's like a disease."

  "Yeah, well . . . like you said: We all have our quirks."

  "I can't believe shit like this goes on in the world. "

  "Every hour of every day it goes on. Someplace. "

  "People back in the States don't realize, man. This is like something out of a movie. "

  "No. You've got it backward. Life back home is like something out of a movie. That's what people don't realize."

  "You think the kid is dead?"

  "I haven't heard any shots."

  "I hope not, man. I really couldn't take that. I'd be ready to cash it in right here."

  What Ford was hoping was that Jake Hollins wasn't hungry, or didn't like fish. . . .

  Oscar served them in their hut an hour after sundown. When Ford asked if the general had enjoyed the meal, the chef

  straightened himself, saying grandly "The general can wait while I serve a man who is a true gourmet," rolling his r's, which gave the French word an earthy sound.

  Tomlinson and Ford touched their spoons to their lips and raved about the soup, though they did not taste it. Pleased, Oscar complained more about the bad cooking conditions, made more excuses for the poor food, and got more compliments from Ford.

  When the chef was gone, Ford said, "Don't eat anything."

  Tomlinson stopped with a spoonful of beans in mid arc. "I thought you said it was just the fish chowder."

  "He could have used the same ladle. He could have poured some of the soup into the rice to spice it up. We don't know what he did. Don't eat anything."

  Tomlinson put his tray on the ground and leaned toward Ford. "What the hell is in those fish gizzards?"

  Ford said, "You really want me to answer that? Don't you assume some responsibility if you know?"

  "Yeah, but I'm not hypocrite enough to refuse to listen now."

  Ford said, "If that's the way you want it," and began to scrape the food off onto the ground behind the cots. "Those kind of fish, puffers, are found in warm waters all over the world. The flesh is okay as long as it's been cleaned properly or if the fish hasn't been injured during its life cycle. But only fools take the chance because the liver, the gall bladder, some of the other viscera contain a crystalline alkaloid. If you eat an injured fish, you get sick no matter how carefully it was cleaned. I've seen it happen."

  "That's all that happens? You get sick?"

  Ford made no reply.

  Tomlinson pressed. "You mean you've seen people die, that's what you're saying." Tomlinson was beginning to slip back into the pattern of shallow breaths again, getting anxious.

  "No. I've never seen it. But I watched a physician save three people from dying once. He had the knowledge and he had the right antidote. Without it . . Ford shrugged.

  "You're not telling me what I think you're telling me? You're not going to kill all these people, are you, Ford? You know the antidote, right?"

  "I remember the name of the drug and the dosage."

  "But what makes you think they have the antidote here?"

  "Nothing—I haven't given it much thought."

  "Even if they did, you wouldn't offer it to Zacul." Stated flatly in disapproval.

  Ford opened the door and put the plates outside. "It's too bad the general forced that doctor off the cliff. He would have helped. In a way, Zacul killed himself and didn't even know it."

  The oil lamp was out but Ford was still awake. They were both dressed, lying on their cots. He said, "Muscarine. That's the poison. It took me about an hour this afternoon to remember the name. I kept thinking mascara, like the stuff women wear. It's also found in certain mushrooms, only I don't know which kind—the poison, I mean."

  Tomlinson said, "Next time I read some label with natural herbs and spices, I'm gonna be less enthusiastic." Then he said, "Sshhhh. What's that?"

  There was the sound of a door slamming and loud voices. There was panic in the voices, and Ford felt the panic vibrate within him, adrenaline mixed with elation. Tomlinson said, "Someone's coming," and Ford swung his feet off the cot, waiting.

  There was the heavy thud of footsteps outside: not the sound of someone running, but of someone trying to run, dragging his feet and stumbling. Then there was a banging on the door, rattling the whole fiberglass structure. The door flew open before Ford could get to it, and there stood Julio Zacul. The flashlight he carried was pointed at the ground, bathing him in a grotesque light. He wore only pants and his gunbelt, no shoes. His chest made shallow lunges, desperate for air, and he was bent at the waist, his free hand thrown across his bare abdomen in an attitude of pain. His face was contorted, oily with sweat, and his eyes were wide and wild as he said, groaning, "Something very bad has happened. Something very bad. You are a doctor, no? You must help me,"

  When Ford just stood there, Zacul reached out to grab him and almost fell. Holding onto Ford's shirt, he repeated, "I need help! You are a doctor?"

  Ford took Zacul's wrist and pushed the hand away. "I'm a doctor. So is this man. But we're not physicians."

  Zacul moaned.

  Ford said, "I thought we met a doctor when we were in your stockade. Why don't you get him?"

  "No, no, he is gone. He can do nothing." Zacul's speech was labored, each word an effort. "I'm sick, can't you see that? We are all very sick. You must have some training. Do something!"

  Ford took the flashlight from him and took him by the arm. "Do you have any medical supplies in camp?"

  "Yes. A few. In my quarters."

  "Then take us to them."

  Ford and Tomlinson half carried, half followed Zacul across the grounds. The moon was over the mountains, three-quarters full, and by its light Ford could see that many of the soldiers had left their posts, gathering the way some people gather at car wrecks, fascinated with tragedy but nervous, too, standing in small groups, whispering.

  "I am going to be sick. Let me go." They let Zacul fall to the ground and the soldiers shifted uncomfortably as they watched their general bark at the earth and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Ford heard one of the soldiers mutter, "See? He is dying. I have heard that some are already dead." But when Ford looked at the soldiers and nodded, they pretended not to see, averting their eyes.

  "Let's go, Zacul. Let's get you inside."

  Zacul and the other officers were billeted in a separate compound, a fenced grounds where a two-story block and wood
house was surrounded by several fiberglass huts. Zacul led them into the main building, through a dark room with metal desks and the sharp acidic odor of a printing machine. The next room was much larger, an officers' mess and recreation room. There was a pool table, a bar with cheap plastic chairs, and, all around the room, dozens of candles had been lighted. There was the smell of incense, too; it was like walkipg into a brothel.

  Judging from the magazines strewn around the floor, a brothel was closer to being what the room was used for. Tomlinson considered one of the magazines for a moment, then kicked it closed with his foot, a grimace of distaste on his face.

  From somewhere a radio blared loud Latin music and on the long dining table were liquor bottles and smoldering ashtrays. Several of the bottles had been overturned and the gray carpeting below was stained. There were also two small bowls filled with fine white powder on the table. One of those had spilled, too, covering the table like talcum. Ford saw all of this peripherally, for the men who lay on the floor dominated the wreckage in the room.

  It had been a party some would not live to remember. There were six men—no, seven. They wore only pants or were naked. Some sat staring blankly at the wall, trying to breathe over their thick, distended tongues. Others writhed on the carpeting in their own vomitus: eerie, contorted figures in the flickering light. Others lay deathly still, their knees pulled toward their chests, their eyes opened and fixed, but still breathing. Ford recognized Suarez as one of those still alive. He was on his knees, salivating uncontrollably. Only one uniformed soldier tended the men, wiping them with cloths. The others, apparently, had fled.

  Ford asked, "Are the medical supplies in here?" Zacul, taken by another spasm, pointed at a box on the wall. As Tomlinson helped lift the box off its brackets, Ford whispered, "Start looking for Jake. He's got to be around here somewhere. And grab a weapon if you get the chance. "

  "No guns, Doc. Sorry, but no way."

  "Goddamn it, Tomlinson—" But the man was already gone, rushing off to search the building.

  Ford put the box on the table, unlatched it, saying to Zacul in a louder voice "It looks like you guys got hold of some bad cocaine, General."

  "Yes, yes, that's possible. Is there something for the pain? I can't stand the pain anymore."

  Ford went through the supplies quickly. "There's no medicine in here, this is a first aid kit. I can't do anything with this."

  Zacul yelled to the lone soldier who soon returned with an even bigger metal box. Ford put it on the table and opened it. The kit was Soviet issue, labeled in several languages and very well equipped. The drugs were packaged in groups according to specific need: shock, bacterial disease, cardiac arrest, field anesthesiology. Ford opened three of the anesthesiology packages, separated the syringe kits, and placed six vials of atropine sulfate on the table. He hesitated, then took out one vial of normal saline solution. "There are things here that'll make you feel better, General, but I don't know how to treat for cocaine overdose. I'm going to need help for that."

  Zacul groaned again.

  "Is there a doctor in Tambor?"

  "No."

  "Is there a phone in Tambor? A place I can call a hospital and get some advice on how to treat you?"

  "Yes! That is what we must do. Go to Tambor!" Zacul was hunched on the carpet, his head between his knees.

  Ford was drawing saline solution into one of the syringes, holding it up to the light. "Is there someone around who can fly those helicopters?"

  "The Cuban, Arevilio. He is our trainer. The others are away in the city."

  "Tell someone to find him. "

  Zacul called to the soldier again, demanding that he bring Arevilio immediately. But the soldier shook his head and pointed to a motionless figure on the floor. The Cuban appeared to already be dead.

  Ford said, "I'm going to have to drive you. We'll need a truck and I'm going to need someone else who speaks English. If I get an American doctor on the phone, someone is going to have to ask him questions while Tomlinson and I work on you and your officers."

  "There is Colonel Suarez—" *

  "Suarez is sick, too." Talking as he loaded the other syringes with atropine sulfate, Ford then injected the saline solution into Zacul's arm.

  The saline solution was a placebo; it would have no effect. Atropine sulfate was the antidote.

  Zacul was coughing, rubbing his arm. "Is it so necessary? I'm too sick to think. Why do you make these demands!"

  Ford said, "It's necessary unless you want to die. Someone else who speaks English."

  When Zacul only groaned in reply, Ford finally just came out and said it: "What about the little American boy who was in the stockade?"

  Zacul raised himself to his knees and seemed to focus for a moment. "What?"

  "The boy, Jake Hollins—where is he?"

  Through the bleary eyes came a sharp look, and he asked, "How did you know he was no longer in the stockade?" and Ford realized he had stumbled badly.

  "I thought I saw Colonel Suarez release him."

  Zacul said, "Yes, of course—the boy could help," speaking very carefully, in a way that made Ford uneasy. "He's here. In my quarters—there, with the hippie now."

  Tomlinson, looking grim, was leading Jake Hollins by the hand. The boy had been bathed, his clothes washed, and he looked very small walking beside Tomlinson. His chin was down, like a shy child at a circus, and his head moved timidly as he took in the chaos around him. Ford knelt, touched the boy's arm, and the boy looked up at him and said, "Whelp, that lil* house of ours got wrecked again," with a southern accent that was nice to hear after so much Spanish.

  Ford said, "We'll build a better one," before glancing at Tomlinson. "Is he okay?"

  Tomlinson was glaring at Zacul, his face pointed, really angry. "You're a good argument for euthanasia, you know that, Zacul—" But, before he'd even finished the sentence, Zacul had grabbed the boy, holding him by the throat, his pistol out, barrel pressed against the child's head.

  "This is what you came for, isn't it? I don't know why I didn't see it before!" Then he was on his feet, still holding the boy, eyes glazed but lucid enough to say "You're not going to leave me here. If you make any move against me, I'll shoot the boy. You are going to take me to Tambor. You are going to find help for me—" talking in surges between deep gulps of air while the boy, already crying, called to Ford, "I don't like this man! Make him let go!"

  Ford had his arms out, holding Tomlinson back, and when Tomlinson tried to call out, "But you've already been given the antidote—" Ford drove his elbow backward and heard Tomlinson gasp with pain. If Zacul found out Ford knew the antidote, they'd all soon be dead.

  Ford said, "Okay, Zacul. We'll take you to Tambor. Just don't hurt the kid."

  TWENTY

  Soldiers were running. Ford couldn't figure out why. They were running through the mud in the moonlight, glancing over their shoulders as if something were chasing them. Some of them were shooting, too, firing wildly toward the road that led to Tambor.

  Ford had been standing on the porch. His glasses were fogged from the smoke inside and he cleaned them on his shirt, trying to see what it was the soldiers were running from. But when the shooting started, he dropped to the ground, as did Zacul. "What in the hell's going on here?"

  Zacul just groaned and held tight to the boy. He was having trouble breathing. His tongue was so swollen that it was difficult for him to speak. When he did speak, it was in a ranting Spanish—part delirium, part fear—but his pistol never wavered.

  Now Ford could hear more shooting, like strings of firecrackers popping in the distance. Then there were three explosions in quick succession, each closer than the other, the last hitting a fiberglass hut not far from the stockade. The explosion shook the ground and threw Roman candle streamers through a roiling ball of white smoke into the high trees. There was a momentary pause, then another explosion that whuffed as if drawing air before several fuel tanks ignited in an orb of white fire that crackled in
the wet leaves behind the compound.

  Through the smoke came more soldiers, more of Zacul's troops. They were yelling: some in pain but most out of fear.

  They weren't just running, they were fleeing; trying to escape this unseen force coming from the road to Tambor.

  Ford got to his feet, pulling Zacul with him. "Let's get the hell out of here. "

  Tomlinson, a step behind, called, "Are we being attacked? I don't understand what's happening."

  Ford, who could make no sense of it either, didn't answer. They covered fifty more yards before Zacul stopped, gasping. "No more, I can run no more. I'm very sick. Please have my orderly find us a truck." As if his orderly hadn't run with the others.

  Ford said, "We try driving to Tambor and we'll die for sure. Someone's army is coming down that road and I bet they'd love to get their hands on you."

  Zacul said, "Then we'll take a boat, that's what we'll do . . . take a nice boat on the lake away from the noise of all these cowards." His mind wandering in delirium.

  Crouching beside him, Tomlinson whispered, "Why isn't he any better? You gave him the shot. Those guys inside started to breathe easier almost right away." Tomlinson had stayed behind to give the injections before catching up.

  "Maybe he's just unlucky."

  "Two of them were already dead. I think I saved Suarez, though."

  "You would."

  Tomlinson caught his arm. "You didn't give it to Zacul, did you? The antidote."

  Ford said, "I think we'd better keep moving."

  Tomlinson still held his arm. "Why don't you answer me? You didn't. You didn't give him the shot!"

  Ford pulled his arm away easily, looking into Tomlinson's eyes. "I said we'd better keep moving."

  More mortar rounds were coming in now, some exploding as they hit the tops of the trees. Diesel fires had spread from the trucks to some of the living quarters. The smell of melting fiberglass mixed with the stink of burning rubber and black smoke swirled in the cool wind coming off the lake.

  Ford called, "Let's go!" and they made it across the parade ground, into the trees before Zacul collapsed once more, pulling the boy down with him. He was,having more cramps, really hurting. He kept waving the pistol around. He wanted to know why the medicine wasn't working. Ford said he had to give it more time. Zacul said he couldn't stand the pain much longer and maybe he should kill the boy now; kill everyone now. Ford, crouching from the mortar fire and the gun, lied, "At least you're looking better, General. Your color's coming back."