Carlos kept the bayonet of his weapon at the raider's throat as he
climbed out of the station wagon hatch. “Roighta then,” he said,
“so it seems to me, I got about two good reasons not to blow your
'ead off right 'ere. One, I just washed this thing. Two, you can
tell your piss-poor backup in the wash on the other side of those
saguaros come forward and lay down their weapons.”
“I tell 'em that, they'll just shoot me and you,” the raider
answered.
“Aye, that sounds about right,” Carlos answered. “How 'bout
you tell me how many there are?”
The raider was black, and his companion looked white but swore in
fluent Spanish as he crouched clutching a bloody nose. “We no
shoot you,” the second raider said. “We cut you up like
machaca.”
The black raised his hands placatingly. “We got one more back
there, okay?” he said. Carlos nodded. “There ain't nobody else.
Honest truth.” After a moment of consideration under Carlos's
stern gaze, he added, “Look, I'm not gonna call you `brother', but
I'm tellin' ya, on my word as a bro, the rest are long gone, and they
ain't comin' back for nothin'. There was some crazy shooting,
sounded like the army comin', and everybody figure it bad hoodoo
either way. We just stayed to make sure nobody follows us.”
It was enough to get the bayonet away from his throat. “For the
record, I'm disgusted to think I'm in the same species as you,”
Carlos said, without any particular rancor. “An' that wasn't the
army, just Kilroy... Eh, scratch the `just'.”
The raider looked perplexed, and all the more so when he saw Carlos's
near-incredulity at his ignorance. “I don't know no `Kilroy', but
are you talkin' 'bout the Great White Hunter?”
“Never heard 'im called by that name, but I'm gonna go out on a
limb and say yes,” Carlos said. “We found his calling card back
at the last turnoff... Did one of you see him before?”
“Ain't nobody never see the Hunter, and ain't nobody who wants to”
the raider said. “But nobody needs to see him to know, a brother
does what a brother gotsta do, but that kinda crazy only come
in vanilla!”
“Aye, we pretty well figured as much,” Carlos said. “I'll tell
you what. I can see you want to get out of here as much as we do.
So, if you march back to the saguaros and drive away, we won't follow
you. And there's one more thing... I have heard the name `Great
White Hunter' before, just not here. It was a story- lots of
stories, actually- I heard over there, and I've thought about it on
and off myself. The one part of the story we knew was true is that
sometimes, we found people we were looking for, usually out in the
jungle but right where we would see 'em, after somebody else found
'em first.
Sometimes, they were missing a piece, and sometimes, the piece was
all we found. It wasn't just their guys either. And the stories went
that it was all one guy, American special forces, crazy good, an'
just plain crazy. If it was, then he had done enough time to go home
twice, but the stories said he didn't want to, and the brass figured
it was safer to have him over there than back at home. He also
followed orders, well enough that they let him do things his own way.
Like, he used a varmint gun. More challenge, or else showin' what he
thought of the competition. And what he liked best of all was to
catch his man alive first, and then take him out in the jungle for
real one-on-one. So, he kept at it for a long time, until one
got
away. And for that,
they finally sent him home.”
“My
real bro was over there,” the raider said. “He didn't come back,
not even in no bag. But he managed to send letters home, tellin'
what it was really like. An' what you told me, he told us. We think
he tried to get home on his own, and maybe, the Hunter went after
him.”
As the raiders turned away, Carlos said, “Don't do anything you
don't have to.” Several bodies lay sprawled around the military
truck, two of them armed raiders and the rest fallen kudlaks. A
single goosestepping soldier fell to a shotgun blast.
“If
anybody's there, we're here to help,” Carlos announced.
A voice answered, with a hint of an English accent and a further hint
of Asian descent: “We already called for help.”
Another speaker cut in: “I am Colonel James Clapham of the US Army
Medical Corps. Whom am I addressing?”
“Carlos
Wrzniewski... and if you don't believe it, it's fine with me.”
“Actually,
I believe I have heard of you,” the colonel answered. “A bit of
business in Manilla, as I recall, about 30 years ago.”
“Won't
say it doesn't ring a bell,” Carlos said. “What can you tell me
about what you're doing out here?”
The other speaker answered: “We are the surviving crew of a
research outpost, formed as a joint operation by the United States
Army Medical Corps, the United States Center for Disease Control, and
the United Nations Coordinated Revenant Action Bureau. I am Dr.
Charles Ling, liaison for the People's Liberation Army.”
“Where
were you headed?” Carlos asked.
“West,”
Ling answered, “for a reservation.”
“Really,”
said Carlos. “I heard they shut them down.”
“Our
destination is a secure and well-supplied evacuation center, on
tribal land leased to the federal government,” Clapham said. He
stepped forward, confirming Carlos's suspicion that he was black.
“The name `reservation' was never official, and its use has created
unfortunate perceptions. We can help you and anyone with you.”
“I
do believe I'll pass,” Carlos said. “And I'd appreciate it if
you set your weapons outside.
“You
may have heard rumors regarding the original evacuation centers,”
Clapham said. “There were serious problems. The program was, by
necessity, hastily conceived. The need for security forces and
especially resupply was underestimated. There were frequent
breaches, and a number of posts were lost. Initial efforts to
improve security were... heavy-handed. We learned from our
mistakes.”
“Really.”
“Corporal
Wrzniewski, I can assure you evacuation is in no way compulsory,”
the colonel said. “You have the right to decline entry to an
evacuation center, and you will retain the right to leave. All
measures to the contrary have been rescinded on my personal
recommendation. As a registered resident of an evacuation center, you
will have the same liberties and be under no more restrictions than
military personnel on base. Outside travel will be subject to
restrictions, and permanent departure will involve a formal exit
application, and may be postponed in times of emergency. Any
possessions you report at the time of admission will be acknowledged
as your personal property, regardless of how they were obtained. All
I would ask from you, Wrzniewski, is to hear me out, and let anyone
with you do the same.”
“Counterproposal,”
Carlos said. He blasted the radio mast with his shotgun. “I
expect you've been making regular broadcasts. Missing one will get
you help faster, if it's comin' at all. You're going to have to wait
here for them, and that should be more than enough time for us to get
out of here. Say whatever you like, but if any of you come looking
for me and mine, it's not going to be nearly as pleasant.”
“Pardon
me,” Ling said, stepping forward. He carried a very large
briefcase and a Mauser pistol with a removable wooden stock. “I am
not a member of the US military, and my primary orders from my own
government are to observe the situation in this country. It occurs
to me that I could do that at least as well in your company as in
theirs. Therefore, I am requesting to join your party.”
No questions were asked as Carlos and Daniel returned with the
newcomer. “Change of plans,” he said. “We're in a collision
zone here: Hordes coming from multiple directions, and all kinds of
people trying to stay ahead of them comin' together in the middle.
The best thing we can do is double back to Pete's and look for
another way. I already signaled Dianna to pack up camp, but we'll be
in the lead, same as we planned. Phil says that there are enough
maintenance roads and cattle tracks to get us back on the road to the
south. It's gonna be a hard drive, but we can make it where we want
to go by sunset at the latest. We might find a few good places to
stop on the way. That will be all.”
As noon approached, the Willys Jeep was tooling down a winding dirt
road in the direction of the rising smoke in the south. A helicopter
descended to pick up the stranded colonel. Not far from the scene of
the rescue, a battered car lay rolled over in a dry wash screened by
cacti. From atop a tall saguaro, three severed heads surveyed the
desert. The heads of two Latinos were on either arm, and on the
highest central spire, the black raider stared out sightlessly with
the hole from a .45 slug in his forehead.
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