by Sam Sisavath
Well, at least it’s not just me!
He didn’t ask if she already knew about what had happened to Rita and Jeremy, because there was no point. Claire—along with Gholston and Rudolph—would have seen the bodies next to the fence. It would have been impossible not to.
Keo looked back over his shoulder, not that he could see anything other than corn. A lot of corn. He wished he knew if he’d gotten Buck, if the gamble had paid off. Because if it didn’t, then he would have gotten Rita and Jeremy killed for nothing. The turncoat Bucky’s death, Keo could live with. It wasn’t like he knew the kid that well. Rita, on the other hand, was a good soldier, and Keo thought they could have become friends if given the chance.
There was no chance of that now, because she was dead. Shot down in front of him by that goddamn MG.
I hope you’re dead, Buck. I hope you’re fucking dead, because if you’re not, then all of this will have been for nothing.
Be dead, you sonofabitch. Be covered in a few thousand pounds of rubble right now, your skull smashed in beyond all recognition.
Or just dead. I’ll settle for just dead without all the gruesome stuff.
But he wouldn’t know. Not yet. And definitely not tonight.
“Almost there!” Gholston shouted from in front of them.
Already? Keo thought when they burst out through the line of cornstalks and into the same open field that he, Rita, and Claire had run across not more than a day ago.
Except this time, it wasn’t empty.
This time there were men with rifles standing there, waiting for them.
There was a long line of them, too. Twenty, maybe more, and every single one of them were wearing assault vests with circled M’s that almost glowed in the moonlight. They had weapons pointed at Keo, Claire, and Gholston. He had no idea how long they had been there, but they didn’t look the least bit shocked to see them.
Flashlights flicked on up and down the row of men. Keo turned his head to keep from being blinded—just as Rudolph, who had been bringing up their rear, finally burst out of the cornfield and into the open.
Rudolph stopped on a dime and did the dumbest thing he could have done, and began lifting the Remington shotgun he was holding in his hands. Keo opened his mouth to scream, but it was too late.
In the next split second, Keo made a decision without realizing he’d done it, and spun around and grabbed Claire, in the process exposing his back to the Buckies. She gasped against him, but it was mostly lost in the thunderous crashing of rifles.
Keo pushed Claire away from him and shouted, “Run!”
Claire barreled into the cornstalks, stumbling and fighting to maintain her balance the entire way.
“Run!” Keo shouted again, his voice barely audible against the continued gunfire behind him.
Stalks of corn snapped in half around Claire as she fled, but somehow the teenager managed to stay upright and running until the flickering shadows simply swallowed her up. A second later, men in black charged into the wall of corn after her, their flashlights lighting their way.
Keo stared after them, his breath sledgehammering against his chest. He didn’t move. He wasn’t even sure if he could move, even if he tried.
Slowly, very slowly, it occurred to him that the shooting had stopped.
And he was still alive.
Why was he still alive?
Keo looked down at his feet, where Rudolph’s body lay awkwardly crumpled. His black clothing had turned a dark shade of red under the harsh moonlight. He didn’t have much of a face anymore, and his right arm had become detached from his body at the shoulder joint.
When he looked to his right, Keo found Gholston’s body. Or what remained of it. He was still gripping onto his rifle, his face—at least the part of him that wasn’t covered in a thick film of blood—locked in a permanent mask of shock.
But I’m still alive.
Why am I still alive?
Keo was turning to find out the answer when something struck him in the back of the skull and his legs buckled.
“Well, that was nasty,” a voice said from behind him.
Keo was on his knees when he heard the voice, and he tried to pick himself up and turn around. He got halfway before something else—a big piece of lumber, maybe—struck him in the back, just under the clavicle, and he gave up on that idea.
“Some people just don’t know when they’re beat,” the same voice said. “You’re lucky I told my men what you looked like, or they would have blown your brains out for that stupid stunt.”
Keo recognized the voice. He didn’t have to see the face to know who it was. He had heard it only once, and that was over the radio. Voices in real life and on the radio sometimes didn’t match, but this one did.
A figure moved around his kneeling form—Keo had learned his lesson and didn’t try to get up or move any part of him other than his eyes—and stood in front of him. The white hair seemed to shine in the darkness, but it was the hazel eyes that Keo focused on.
“It’s about time we met, don’t you think?” the man said.
“And you are?” Keo asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“Marlon J. Jefferson,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “But everyone just calls me Buck.”
Twenty
“So your name’s Buck, huh?”
“That’s what people call me.”
“It’s a pretty stupid name. I’d have stuck with Marlon myself. Less fishy.”
“This coming from a guy named Keo?”
“Hey, I didn’t have a choice. That name was given to me. What’s your excuse?”
“Fair enough.” Buck had his back turned to Keo and was doing something on a bench in front of him. Keo didn’t know what that “something” was, but Buck seemed preoccupied with it. “I’ve found that people respond better to Buck than Marlon. It’s a psychological thing. Buck lets them think they can trust me. One of the boys, if you will.”
“You said ‘lets them think’ they can trust you. So you’re tricking them.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
“It puts them at ease. That’s what I’m all about. Putting people at ease.”
That’s not what Gaby said, Keo thought, remembering all the things Gaby had told him about the man. One of the words she had used was “intimidating,” which wasn’t what Keo was feeling at the moment. Of course, it could just be that Buck had only flashed those hazel eyes of his at Keo once when he first entered and hadn’t looked at him again since.
“So, it’s not because you’re an idiot with bad name-choosing skills?” Keo said.
Buck chuckled. “No, it’s definitely not that.”
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Up to you. No skin off my nose whether you believe me or not.”
Keep him talking, and maybe you’ll survive the night. Maybe.
He glanced around him for the fifth time in as many minutes. He felt safe to do so with Buck seemingly disinterested in keeping an eye on him.
They were in a room. Wooden boards on the inside, brick on the outside. Thick enough construction to keep out most of the chilly night but not completely, if the little spurts of cold, tingling sensation along his exposed skin and the scar on one side of his face were any indication. The metal chair they’d put him in before tying his hands behind him and fastening them to the backrest with mud-caked white ropes didn’t help. The ropes themselves bit into his skin and were so tight they threatened to draw blood. Or they might have already, but he just couldn’t see it. They apparently ran out of rope after that, because they only duct-taped his ankles to both chair legs. Not that he could get out of the duct tape any easier than the rope. The floor under him was slightly damp dirt, which gave the place a half-finished look.
The corners around him were hidden in shadows, making it difficult to guess the size of the place. It didn’t help that the only source of light came from
the work bench in front of Buck—a single battery-powered reading lamp with a flexible head that Buck had bent to get the best look at what he was working on.
There was enough light for Keo to see the fresh bandages over his left thigh and right arm, just above the elbow joint. There was numbing from both wounds but no danger of bleeding out. He wasn’t in pain, which he owed to whatever was inside the syringe the Bucky who had patched him up had stuck him with. Keo wondered if that was of the Bucky’s own accord or orders from Buck himself.
He was still breathing, which was something he couldn’t say for Rita, Jeremy, Gholston, and Rudolph. And before them, Banner and Chang. This mission had cost a lot of lives—and it wasn’t even a success. He still didn’t know a damn thing about the warehouse—what was inside it, what they were using it for—and the only reason he had abandoned it (to kill Buck) was also a big, fat failure.
Definitely a big stinking F on the report card there, pal.
There was nothing inside the room to indicate what it was being used for before they put him in here. Buck himself had entered about thirty minutes after Keo was tied into place; the man was carrying a shiny but dented metal box that he placed on the work bench. Or Keo assumed it was a work bench. It was really just a big table with a lamp on top. Whatever it had been used for before he and Buck arrived, Buck was making very good use of it now.
What the hell is he doing? What was in that box?
Keo couldn’t see around Buck’s large frame. He was a big man—late forties, his completely white hair almost surfer blond against the bright LED light. Whatever he was doing, it apparently took a lot of concentration.
“Thanks for letting your guy wrap me up,” Keo said. “I guess I should be grateful for that.”
“You should,” Buck said. “I told them to give you something special. After all, we wouldn’t want you to fall asleep on me tonight.”
“Something special?” Keo thought, but he said, “We definitely wouldn’t want that.”
“You must be the luckiest bastard I’ve come across. If only one of my men failed to follow my orders out there, you’d be a pancake on the ground, along with those other two.”
“It’s a good thing your men are good at following orders.”
“Not all of them, but the ones that matter. Thank whatever God you believe in that you’re still alive, my friend. The shit you pulled…”
“I can say the same thing about you.”
Buck chuckled, but he kept his back turned to Keo.
What the hell is he doing?
There was a strange smell in the air, but Keo couldn’t be sure if that was coming from the table or underneath his bandages. The Bucky who had fixed him up had cleaned his wounds and lathered them with ointment before covering them up with gauze. It was excellent field work, and Keo had almost thanked the man when he was done. Almost.
“Where’s Claire?” Keo asked.
“You shouldn’t worry about her,” Buck said. “You should be worrying about yourself.”
“I’m good at multitasking. Where’s Claire?”
Buck didn’t answer him, which made Keo smile. The fact that the man hadn’t come right out and told him that Claire was captured—or worst, dead—meant she was still alive and running around out there. There was no reason for Buck to withhold that kind of information, not now.
Claire’s status gave him some hope. The night had become a major shitstorm, but at least one of them had made it. He had faith in the teenager’s ability to escape Fenton. She was, after all, trained by some of the best survivors Keo knew.
Run, kid. Run far, far away and don’t look back.
“What was in the box?” Keo asked.
Buck ignored him and continued working. Keo couldn’t hear anything metallic clicking, which he took for a good sign. Preludes to torture, in his experience, usually involved metallic clicking noises. Of course, he didn’t think that was what this was; would Buck really do all the dirty (and oftentimes bloody) work himself? Probably not. Especially after he had gone to such great lengths to keep Keo alive.
“So it’s the silent treatment, then?” Keo said.
“Not at all. I just don’t feel like answering your questions.”
“That’s rude.”
“You’re the one who tried to murder me tonight. I’d say that’s ruder.”
“I had good cause.”
“Oh, did you now?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Now who’s being rude? Besides, being an asshole is a matter of perspective and depends on who you ask.”
“It’s fact, actually. I would know; I asked around and everyone agreed: You’re an asshole. And assholes deserve killing.”
“So you’re judge, jury, and executioner?”
“That’s correct. Speaking of which, how the fuck are you still alive?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes? What happens in thirty minutes?”
“That’s how long after I left the conference building and you blew it up. You were late by thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes. Thirty fucking minutes. Swell.
“Lucky man,” Keo said.
“It’s fate. I’m not supposed to die tonight. I still have too much to do.”
“I don’t believe in fate.”
“That’s your prerogative.”
Buck finally finished whatever he had been doing and turned around…and held a double-layer meat sandwich up to his mouth and took a big bite.
A sandwich. A fucking sandwich.
Buck wiped at some mustard stain on his chin with a handkerchief he’d taken out from his pocket as he chewed. “Sorry to eat in front of you, but it’s been a long day and even longer night. I haven’t had the chance to eat.”
“Choke on it,” Keo said.
The head Bucky grinned and took another bite. Now that the man had moved slightly to the left, Keo was able to get a better look at the metal box he’d brought in with him. It was a kid’s lunchbox with a white dog with big floppy ears on the side. Leftover greens, tomatoes, and slices of something white lay on top of spread-out newspaper. A small see-through squeeze bottle with mustard inside sat nearby. Buck had also put a can of beer on the counter behind him, and he reached back, picked it up, popped it open, and took a large gulp from it.
Keo watched in silence, not quite sure if the sight of Buck enjoying his sandwich and beer was cause for relief or alarm. What had he been expecting? Definitely not a sandwich. And Buck was attacking it like he truly hadn’t eaten in days.
“When I heard about what happened, I knew it was you,” Buck said, taking another big bite from his carefully crafted sandwich, then wiping at a new mustard stain. “To try something like that takes balls. The kind of balls someone who thought it was a good idea to sneak onto an island in the middle of the ocean and assassinate a man surrounded by an army would have. I just knew it was you.”
Mercer. It always goes back to Mercer, doesn’t it?
“You were already waiting for me outside the fence,” Keo said. “How?”
“I was on my way out of the city when you blew up the conference building. Couldn’t just keep going after I got word about what had happened. It was pretty easy to predict where you were headed and which part of the fence you’d come through. Of course, all that shooting helped.”
Buck reached back into the lunchbox and took out another beer and snapped the tab open. Keo couldn’t help but think that that wasn’t what the lunchbox was originally intended to be used for.
“If I’m being honest, I didn’t think you’d actually make it out,” Buck said. “But Goddamn, son, you actually did!”
I’m not your son, you piece of shit, Keo thought, but he said instead, “So are you gonna offer me one?”
Buck ignored him and drank the beer for a moment before lowering it back down with a satisfied sigh. “Are they dead?”
“Are who dead?”
“You know who.”
Loman
and Biden…
“Yeah, they’re dead,” Keo said.
“How?”
“I broke one of their necks. The other one was shot.”
“That’s too bad. They were good men.”
“They were assholes.”
“One person’s asshole is another’s good soldier. You should know a lot about that, Keo.” He pursed a forced smile. “It was a long shot anyway, but it was worth a try. Think big, I always say.” Then, tilting his head slightly, “I’m assuming she’s still alive, if my men are dead?”
Keo stared back at the Bucky. Not just any Bucky. The Bucky. “You saying you don’t already know?”
“I don’t.”
Bullshit.
Or was it? How much could he believe the things coming out of Buck’s mouth?
Buck must have known what was going through Keo’s mind, because he shrugged. “You can believe me or not, it really doesn’t matter.”
“Why am I still alive?”
“I think you know why.”
“You want to be my friend, is that it? Send me a friend request, and I’ll think about it.”
“You know exactly why you’re still alive. Why I’ve gone to great lengths to keep you that way.”
“I’m all out of guesses and I’m tired, so just tell me already.”
“He wants you alive.”
“He?” Keo thought, but he didn’t ask the question. He had a feeling Buck was going to tell him anyway. Wasn’t that the whole point of this? To rub his face in his failures?
I guess he’s going to be doing a lot of rubbing tonight…
Buck tapped his own temple with his fingers. “He wants to get in here. Deep, deep inside. He talks about you all the time. About how he almost had you in Axton, then again in Cordine City. If I thought he could still get an erection, I’d swear he had the world’s most massive hard-on for you.”
“He?”
Right. “He.”
More like it.