by Tom Kratman
“I’m going to sneak into the medical tents and get what we need. You are going to unlatch the specimen cages and then get out of there, without becoming a smilodon snack. Think you can do that?”
“You want me to create a diversion?”
“Yes. Then come back here.” She stood and took a few steps back. They were far enough from the main road so that no one would notice the disturbed foliage unless they were looking for it, but close enough that they could easily find it again.
“What if something happens to you?” he asked.
She grabbed the pack and cast a reassuring smile over her shoulder as she headed towards the road. “Nothing will happen to me.”
His lips pressed into a slight grimace, but he followed.
They hiked the muddy shoulder of the road. Several times she stopped to add to the muck already splattering their clothes so they looked like weary travelers too poor and downtrodden to bother with.
With his unkempt beard, Juan already looked like a Balboan colonist. Bright blue eyes were rare here, but not unheard of, and only a problem if someone already had reason to be suspicious.
“Keep your eyes down and don’t speak,” she said. “Shoulders hunched.”
He slumped.
“A little more.” She pulled his hat a forward a bit so it would hide his face better, and then did the same for hers.
She took the pack with their remaining supplies and slipped her arms through so it hung down over her belly. Then she rebuttoned her shirt around it and cradled her new “belly” like she’d seen pregnant women do. As they approached the entry, she added a realistic waddle.
The trio of bored soldiers didn’t even spare them a look as they placed bets and rolled dice. Their rifles were stacked out of reach. Alcohol and drugs scented the surrounding air.
They shuffled past, heads down, like they made the trek every day.
Except for the buzz of many voices rising from the mess tent as the soldiers settled in for dinner, the camp was quiet. The occasional complaint of a smilodon cut the air and sent the trixies chattering.
Mitzi veered left and circled around the back of the Red Cross tents while Juan kept moving towards the staging area.
She peered through the clear plastic windows. The tents were dark, like they hadn’t seen use in a while. She parted the entry flap and pulled it shut behind her.
Chilled air made the hairs on her arms rise. Rows of folding tables had been set up and draped with thin blue coverings. White privacy curtains were drawn back against the sag of curving walls. The floor had the odd feel of plastic tarp over bare ground.
Must be a recovery unit.
Swinging the pack onto her back, she crossed the length of the tent, seeking a surgery or pharmacy.
She passed through a juncture where four structures met. The morgue was to her right, completely dark. The resonant hum of a generator penetrated the walls. A pool of light escaped a gap of sheeting in front of her.
The surgical suite’s equipment was set up and waiting, the puffy walls drooping slightly inward, but she couldn’t make out anything that looked promising enough to risk creeping around the well-lit area.
A throaty purr rose and fell to her left. She froze, heart thundering in her chest. The purr rose and fell again. The staging area with the smilodon was off to the right and too far away. She held her breath and cocked her head, listening.
Something moved to her left. She crept along the wall and parted the flap. The purr grew louder.
A man reclined on what looked like a portable stretcher. His head was thrown back, spittle gurgling in the back of his throat. The low light seeping in through the windows cast him in shadow but she could tell he wasn’t a sedated patient. His uniform jacket was carelessly thrown over a nearby chair and he’d slipped out of his boots. He stirred and resettled.
Some sort of guard, or an opportunistic grunt taking advantage of the chilled air, he looked unarmed but was no doubt head and shoulders taller and close to twice her size.
She bit her lip.
The tent was lined with tables on one side and shelves on the other. Something large and solid like a safe filled the far end. She inched along the wall opposite the snoring figure, hugging the shadows.
Her heart seemed to freeze along with her breath whenever he fell silent. As her vision adjusted, the dark revealed shelf upon shelf of bottles, bags, and boxes—a treasure trove, all neatly arrayed and labeled.
She moved towards the farthest shelves, hastily reading labels. She unzipped the pack, cringing as it whispered open. Antibiotics went in.
She moved as quickly as stealth allowed, turning her back on the purring. It rose and fell.
Moving to the next shelf, she found steroids. Purr . . . purr . . . purr . . .
She added syringes to the bottles of pills and liquids. Purr . . . purr . . .
The smooth surface of latched metal boxes. Purr . . .
Something for pain.
Something strong.
Silence.
She dropped to the floor and hugging the pack to her chest, rolled under one of the tables.
The snorer’s sock-covered feet menaced by, a confident predator, stalking. “I know you’re in here, little thief.”
She drew the pack up to her chest and zipped it shut.
He stopped, turned. “I won’t hurt you.”
A full body tremor shook her and she squeezed her eyes shut. That maricón, Nyere, had taunted her with the same tone, the same promise.
“Come out, little thief.”
Her eyes popped open, nostrils flaring.
He moved sideways, closing in.
She unsheathed her knife, breathing despite the pressure in her throat, her chest.
He moved towards the back of the tent once again.
Blood roared in her ears. She scrambled towards the entry.
In her desperate vision, the entry grew for one moment. And receded the next. The boonie cap’s strap tightened like a noose snapping tight. She was yanked backwards. The pack dropped. She wrapped her fingers around the strap, trying to loosen it.
He yanked again, unbalancing her further, sending her sprawling towards the rear as her pack spun in the opposite direction. She got her knees and hands underneath her. For a second.
He grabbed her hair and the belt around her waist and lifted her as if she were a child.
The tent spun around her. Something hard slammed against her back and skull. Her vision tunneled. Pain lanced her wrist as she lost her grip on the knife. It clattered against something as her lungs drew anguished breaths.
A face blurred out of the dark spots and tunneling of her vision.
“Nice.”
The reek of rot and stale breath. Dark, soulless eyes. A leer.
“Very nice.”
He had her up against the wall safe, enormous hands wrapped around her throat. Her toes barely touched the ground.
His eyes widened, assessing. His grip shifted. He splayed a hand beneath the hollow of her throat and used the other to tear open her shirt.
“Quiet now. I don’t want to share you. And you wouldn’t like it much, either.”
He pinned her shoulders back against the wall. Her heels touched the ground. There was a thin line of blood on his left forearm. She’d nicked him.
Sweat dripped down her back. Her chest heaved, straining.
He licked his lips. Twice. “You don’t want me to share either, do you?” The look in his eyes promised nothing good.
Never again.
His face came closer.
Pulse racing, she smashed the heel of her palm into his nose.
He roared closer.
She slid her shoulder against the wall as she grabbed his head. With all her might, she slammed his head into the hinge protruding from the wall safe.
He connected with a squelching thud and liquid sprinkled her vision.
Long-held hatred rose within her, driving the heel of her palm into his bloodied face once
more.
For her home.
Her friends.
Her freedom.
For each person his kind had hurt.
For each person she’d had to watch die.
A sack of meat left a streak of darkness as it slid down the wall safe. She stood over him, panting, wishing for a knife to end his life. She stomped on his groin.
Loosened hair tickled her face. Something dripped down her chin. She wiped it away and spit as she stepped over him. Retrieving her pack, she picked up her knife with a blood-slick hand.
Juan had left the smilodon’s cage for last.
The trixies’ crates had been easy. A simple slide of the latch and the doors could be pushed open. The clever little reptiles were already testing the doors, pushing against them with their beaks. They’d have them open in no time, and as soon as the moonbats came out, the trixies would take to the skies after their natural prey.
The smilodon stood at the back her cage. Her head almost reached his elbow and she eyed him with a wariness that had, no doubt, been bought with the cattle-prods he’d found nearby. He improvised a piece of pipe as a prybar, stuck it between latch and lock, and heaved.
The latch popped open.
He used the far end of the pipe to nudge the lock off and slide the bar aside. Once she was free she could bound into the jungle, although it was far more likely she’d go after whoever came to feed her scraps from the mess hall. That must be the distraction Mitzi was planning for—using the animals to cover any possible alarm her theft might raise.
Or maybe she’s just keeping you out of her way.
He pushed his ego aside.
Wishing he could convince the smilodon to take off for the freedom of the jungle, he nevertheless backed away slowly until he was sure the beast wasn’t going to pursue.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he donned his hunched posture.
Mitzi emerged from the hospital tents, looking more “pregnant” than before, walking with purpose—a bit too much purpose.
He caught up to her. “Waddle,” he whispered, and placed his arm around her shoulders.
She was trembling, but she slowed.
He snuck a sideways look. The buttons of her shirt were gone. The pack was no longer well-hidden. They veered into shadows, walking at an agonizingly slow pace.
His pulse thundered in his ears as they passed the sentries and made their way back up the winding road.
A roar tore through the air. Alarms shrieked to life.
Feeding time. Hope she enjoys it. He consoled himself with the singular thought that she was too valuable a specimen to kill outright and they’d use a tranquilizer gun.
Mitzi straightened and swung the pack onto her back. She threaded her arms through it, hefting it without effort, and used the shirt tails to keep the shirt closed. Her face lit up with a brilliant smile. Despite the blood splattered on her face and clothing, and the weight of the pack on her back she looked like a great burden had been lifted off her shoulders.
After retrieving the escopeta, they disappeared into the jungle.
Later that night, camped around a small fire well away from the uproar of the UN camp, Mitzi pulled out a map and frowned as though she didn’t like what it was telling her.
He squatted beside her. “What’s wrong?”
She rested her forefinger on a mark. “I left instructions to meet us here tomorrow”—her finger hopped to another mark—“or here the day after.”
“Can we make the first rendezvous?” The sooner they got to Joe the better.
Her frown deepened, but she nodded.
They had to make the first rendezvous point, Mitzi told herself. Joe’s life depended on it.
No, it doesn’t. He’ll be fine. He’s young and healthy.
She slowed and drank from her canteen.
Juan passed her, carrying the pack up the footpath.
She envied the spring in his step, his eagerness. The next rendezvous point was farther, but safer.
Safer for you. Not Joe.
And just like that, they stepped out from underneath the jungle’s protective canopy, into the open.
A suspension bridge made of rope and wood spanned the gorge that cut a great big scar through the mountain range. The calm day seemed suddenly violent as gusts swept up through the gorge.
Her hair swirled about her face. She shook from more than the chilling passage of air. The turmoil of running waters rode the breezes, swelling to an echoing roar.
Juan kept moving, obviously unconcerned, not even turning back to check on her, like the bridge was just another type of road.
She froze at the foot of the bridge. If she kept her eyes forward . . .
Her fingers curled around the handrail—a thick rope that seemed far too weathered for the task. Juan was already halfway across, and he was going to notice if she waited much longer.
It isn’t that far, the logical part of Mitzi’s mind insisted.
Far enough, the fearful part chimed in.
Despite the water she’d just chugged from her canteen, her throat felt dry and unyielding, and there was a swelling ache in her chest like someone was sitting on it.
Even as she filled her lungs, it felt like air was being denied her. Two someones parked themselves on her chest and beckoned—Come, join us—to some friends.
Move.
One step. More. Each one agony. A gust shook the bridge, making it creak. Her heart was in her throat. Her hand formed into a death’s grip as the drop to the bottom of the gorge stretched into infinity beneath her.
Infinity means no landing, Logic reassured her.
It also means you’ll fall forever, Fear insisted.
She closed her eyes. It took the edge off her vertigo. All that time she’d spent painfully working herself up to being able to stand on cliffs, wasted, after all.
The bridge swayed again, its creaking a thunderous, unceasing roar in her ears, fueling the spinning sensation that . . . Would. Not. Stop.
Warmth wrapped around her icy death-grip.
She opened her eyes. Juan stood in front of her, smiling. He’d ducked slightly and was looking right into her eyes.
“It’ll be all right. Just look at me.”
Her disobedient gaze dropped to the plank beneath her feet, the cracked one with the hole in the center, the one that tunneled into just how far down those sharp rocks really were.
Fear punched Logic in the throat and hurled the bitch into the gorge. Oh, G—
Juan’s finger hooked her chin, forcing her gaze to his again. She swallowed the fist-sized lump of bile that had worked its way up her throat.
“I figured it out, you know.” He pried one of her fingers loose and tugged the rest of her hand off the handrail. Her nails dug into his arm.
Fear used Father’s voice to remind her, Move, girl, or die.
“It’s Mariazinha,” Juan said, bright smile sparkling.
She blinked.
“Your name,” he added.
Her name? Silly, stupid, gringo. Joe was dying because she wasn’t moving. More would die if she didn’t—
Move, move, move.
The bridge swayed. The plank creaked. His kind eyes were blue.
“No?” His lips formed a musing pout. “Marjukka, then, it’s gotta be Marjukka.”
She dared not shake her head lest is set off the spinning sensation. This was no time for games.
Move.
“Malenka then, although it doesn’t suit you.”
They were like the sky, those eyes. Or a lake. Soothing. Serene.
“No? Good. I don’t like that one. Mirelle?”
She bit her lip.
“Maritza, although that one sounds like a cat’s name. Do you like cats?”
Cats? Was he crazy? Who wanted to talk about cats? “For a—”
The blue eyes smiled, crinkling the sunburned skin around them.
“—a smilodon,” she stuttered. “Maybe.”
“A big cat name, then
. Mairwen.”
She sank onto solid ground, relief crashing over her, anchoring her into the softness of bark and leaves and the undergrowth’s earthy aroma. The cooling moisture drove the someones off her chest.
Juan’s grip relaxed.
She pulled her hand away. Four carved furrows decorated his forearm. She’d drawn blood.
He shrugged: a careless, never-mind kind of gesture. “You can’t mind scratches if you like cats.”
Her breaths were still coming in fulfilling gasps as she looked over her shoulder. The bridge was still there. Behind her. And she was across it, not falling to her death.
He sat down, grinning like the idiot he was.
Silly, stupid, wonderful gringo.
“Were any of my guesses right?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Promise you won’t laugh.”
“I promise.”
“Mitzilla.” She waited for him to break his promise. Everyone did. Never mind that her name had been around longer than giant fictional lizards or that she wasn’t prone to excessive or monsterlike qualities. Never mind that she wasn’t into badassery of any kind.
“Mitzilla what?”
Oh? She took a deep, quivering breath. “Carrera.”
There. He knew. And just like all the others, wouldn’t touch el jefe’s daughter. Even if she hadn’t already been damaged goods.
“Juan Fernando Alvarez. Junior.” He stuck his hand out.
She stared at it like it was some sort of steel-clawed trap.
“It’s an honor to formally meet you, Miss Carrera.” He brought her hand to his lips, smiling over her knuckles, and kissed her hand.
Delicious little jolts skated up her arm.
She let out a quivering breath.
Wow.
There was something about the way that Juan stood that told Mitzi not to even think about demanding her turn to carry the pack. He was so tall, this gringo. Even in the short time she’d known him, he’d changed, losing his boyish softness. More man than boy now. He offered her his hand.
She took it, allowing him to help her rise, despite the heat surging in her cheeks.
His grip remained firm.
No one touched el jefe’s daughter. No one.
“This way?” he asked, smiling, and turned towards a fork that veered to the right.