by Jase Kovacs
"Yeah, we know," says Mark. "He got Shorty and Ellis too."
I see the sadness pass over all of their faces, a brief remembering. Whoever Shorty and Ellis were, their loss was mourned. But this moment passes as quickly as it came. Like all of us, they've had to harden their hearts less they drown in grief. I move on. "So we have to be careful today. We're tactical, yeah? Anyone got any problems with that?"
Again, silence. I can feel the march of the sun across the sky like a monstrous ticking clock, but time spent planning now will not be wasted. I force myself to be methodical, to walk through the plan step by step. Dad used to say, "Slow is smooth, smooth is fast. Bad things happen when we rush."
"Good. All right, Mark, walk us through the route today."
***
I've always found it weird how my mind can work on two levels. I spent years alone save for my imaginary friend — someone I knew was fake but pretended was real to stave off the madness that comes from true solitude. A little sluiceway to relieve pressure at the dam.
As we cross the island to Mark's cave, I find my mind going in two ways. One is completely in the moment. Patrolling through the jungle, alert for danger. Watching the shift of shadows that could cloak a daring mary lying in ambush. Sending Piper out ahead, on point with Daisy, their keen senses our best watchdog. Mark and Mrs. Aloysius behind me, Alfred bringing up the rear. All of us moving slowly and carefully and pretty damn silently. The only noises are Mark and Mrs. Aloysius's whispers, advising me on our route. We move down tiny paths, clefts in the dense foliage I would never have found without their guidance.
And, while we carefully navigate across this foreign land, my mind goes to a place it has been increasingly reluctant to visit.
The past.
I've changed. Two months ago, I teetered on the edge of true madness. I engaged a demon in a battle of wills but, more than that, I threw myself into a maelstrom at least half wishing I would be consumed. Instead, I came out the other side with my soul not only intact but restored. For a decade, I had been wandering alone in the wilderness, a shell whose passing would go unnoticed, save for Larry chalking me up on the OVERDUE column of his tracking sheet. Perhaps even Big Kev, that asshole, would regret the spares I would no longer bring. If that would be the measure of my life, then I might as well have been dead.
But by sacrificing my yacht — which had been a floating mausoleum to my family and my past — to save Blong, I passed out of the Land of Death and returned to the light. I had been reborn.
Part of me wonders, though: perhaps I was better at being dead.
***
The cave could not look more sinister.
I'm not sure what I expected — some sort of mountain or cliff face, something that speaks of rock and fissures and ancient passages. Something natural. Instead, it is just a hole in the jungle floor. We crest a rise, and Mark stops me, pointing down into the shallow valley that is choked with ferns and decades' worth of deadfall. About fifty metres away is a pool of darkness, as if a pond of oil had gathered. It is a lake of empty space, a hole where the ground fell away.
A river runs under this island, a million years of erosion carving a web of limestone caves that thread the living rock, draining the hills and valleys down to the sea. For the most part, this river is unknown to us on the surface, running and rushing beneath the ground we think is hard and immutable. This cave is a reminder that things move unseen and that our foundations can collapse at any time.
We move carefully to the hole's edge. It drops down about twenty metres, a cavern whose roof collapsed. The bottom is a tumbled ruin of boulders and fallen trees where ferns grow in any space that gathers light. The cave is well lit; despite our guides' knowledge, it has taken us all morning to get here, and the sun is high overhead, shining through a rent formed where the trees can't grow.
Mark leads me to the edge. I glance around; Piper has instinctively taken a position on higher ground, where she can cover us. She scans the ridgelines slowly and cautiously. Her red hair gleams brilliantly in the sun, a startling contrast against the jungle. I should have given her my black bandanna to camouflage herself.
Mrs. Aloysius and Alfred stand with me as we look into the cave. "Pretty gnarly road down, man," says Mark, pointing at the natural ramp a fallen tree has made. "See how there's no moss or growth on top? That's how they get down man, on this here slip'n'slide."
"And then?" I ask.
"You see where the river flows into the little kiddie pool? That hole where it comes out? That's the pipeline, man, that's the vampire underpass, highway to the danger zone, man."
"But they don't sleep, do they? They wait."
"Hey, lady, I just work here," says Mark, holding his palms out.
"You're right, though," says Mrs. Aloysius as she catches on. "Almost all of them come back to this one cave every night. They could hide in a million places from the sun. What brings them back here? Why do they—"
I see a whirl of red out of the corner of my eye as Piper spins to face a figure that has just come over the ridge. I shove Mrs. Aloysius down, falling on her as I bring my rifle to my shoulder, framing the silhouette on the ridge in my red dot sight. Mrs. Aloysius gives an indignant yelp of protest as I land on her. My finger curls the trigger. Mark and Alfred show the reflexes that have kept them alive, diving right and left into the thick ferns.
"WAIT!" shouts Piper. Is she shouting at me or the target? Either way, I hold fire. The silhouette raises one arm and urgently waves a long, thin machete.
I half rise, risking exposing myself above the ferns to get a better look. Mrs. Aloysius tries to sit, and I shove her down with my nonmaster hand. "Young lady—" she begins, but I shut her up with a vehement shush.
I want to yell at the stranger to keep his hands up, but I'm standing over a cave holding God knows how many marys. I might as well play with matches while sitting on a keg of dynamite. I wave him down, hoping he will at least take a step forward into the lit clearing so I can identify him.
A quick glance at Piper — she's taken a knee in the ferns, her Marlin up, her face tight against the stock. Her stance and posture are damn good, but her cover is shit. The ferns rise to her waist, and her red hair blazes like a flare. As Dad would say, with the eloquence peculiar to army sergeants, she stands out like tits on a bull. I can't see Daisy; the kid must be crouched in the ferns nearby.
The man waves back. He wants me to go to him. "Piper," I say in a low voice. It takes a few tries before I get a slight nod of her head. "Can you ID him?"
She doesn't break her sight picture on him. "I think it's Roman."
"Why the fuck won't he come down here?"
"I'll go up." Alfred lies behind a log on a few metres away, watching the stranger on the ridgeline with no less intensity than either of us. "You cover me, okay?"
I glance down into the cave. Is it my imagination, or did something just move down in the entrance? Nothing there in the light, but maybe something where the water spills from a dark hole. I look up; the ridgeline where the man stands is perhaps seventy metres away. He's a dark shadow against a dark background of trees — I'm impressed that Piper spotted him in the first place. "Okay. Be careful."
He grins at me, and then the cheeky bastard actually gives me a wink. Then he's gone, sliding off the log like a crocodile disappearing into a swamp. The ferns rustle where he moves, flat on his belly, until he reaches the far side of the hole. Then he's up, on his feet, moving quickly and silently with a fluid skill that —
A harsh crack splits the air.
Alfred falls. He slides down the slope he's just climbed, the ferns snapping and crackling as his body spins and tumbles. I don't see what happens next as I've whirled and fired four times up towards the trees where I think the shot came from. Then I fling myself flat, down on Mrs. Aloysius who is fighting to get up on her feet.
"Let me go!" she shrieks.
"Goddamn it, be quiet. It's a sniper."
"I know that, you idiot. Lo
ok at Alfred."
He hangs over the pit, his hands wrapped around an old branch sticking over the edge. He dangles, his feet windmilling as they try to find purchase. But he is surrounded by empty air, twenty metres of space above boulders and broken trees. One hand slips free, and he lunges up, resetting his grip before his other sweaty hand lets go.
He's unharmed. I can't believe his luck. I thought he had been shot.
"Piper!" I yell. No point being quiet now. The sniper knows where we have gone to ground — and any mary below would have stirred at the gunfire. I can't see up the slope; everything uphill is blocked by ferns. "What can you see?"
There's no answer.
"Piper?" I say quietly.
Fuck.
Oh fuck no.
Let's play a quick game. Imagine I'm a sniper about to take my first shot. Who would I take out? The group stuffing around the pit? The unarmed man walking up the slope? Or the other sniper, exposed and fixated on a mysterious figure on the hill?
"PIPER!" I scream as shock sets in. "PIPER!" I leap to my feet, my rifle up, ready to blaze away at the trees where the sniper lies. But before I can get a shot off, a hand loops through my belt and yanks me back to the ground. Mark presses down on me, pushing me into the loam, the rich garden smell filling my nostrils.
"Chill out, okay, only allowed one crazy person around here and that's me. We need you, yeah? No good to us if both gunslingers are down."
"She's down?" I say. My mind is spinning. I can still control this. I can still shape what's happening. Piper's fine, that sniper missed me back at the wharf, he only just missed me over a two-hundred-metre shot, he could have missed Piper, exposed seventy metres away on a hillside. He could have missed her, there's no way, there's no way he could have missed her, missing her over seventy metres, her bloody red hair a goddamned flaming target, no way, no way he could have missed. "Did you see it?"
He doesn't need to say anything. His eyes do it for him.
My world falls open beneath me.
Mark's saying something and so is Mrs. Aloysius, both of them clustering into my vision, the three of us buried in the ferns on the edge of the pit. Muffled voices. Alfred has his legs up around the log; now he hangs like a pig being carried on a pole to a feast. His eyes are as big and white as plates: the branch wobbles back and forth more and more any time he moves, the whole thing about to let go, and I think yeah, I know how you feel, buddy.
That's when Mrs. Aloysius slaps me. Hard enough across the face to rattle my teeth. Salty copper fills my mouth, and the shocking taste of my blood is like a shot of adrenalin to my heart. The muffled voices, the distance, the warm, sinking feeling are gone like I've been shot of out of a cannon. "Pull yourself together!" shouts Mrs. Aloysius. "What are we going to do?"
Goddamnit.
She's right.
I'm the captain.
"Alfred!" I say, just loud enough for him to hear. "Stop moving! You'd have been shot already if he wanted it. Moving is just going to make you fall sooner."
I take Mrs. Aloysius's hand. The clock is ticking. Piper could just be wounded. She could be bleeding out. How do I get to her? She's on the other side of the hollow, her body fallen among the ferns so I can't see it. I'd have to run across twenty metres of exposed hillside to reach her.
Shit. I can't do that. I'm the captain. I need to send someone else to treat her. Daisy was near her. Is the girl still there? I risk a quick glance up to where the silhouetted man stood; the ridgeline is now empty. Were you part of the trap? A distraction? Or just another bloody crappy coincidence?
"I've got to think for a second," I say to Mrs. Aloysius, squeezing her hand. "Don't hit me again."
I close my eyes. Shut down all the guilt bubbling there — yep, I know it's there, plenty of time to deal with it later. Imagine myself as the sniper. Up in those trees probably. Taken out one target, my most dangerous. Another target dangling exposed over a pit. The sniper is smart, though. Patient. Alfred's not a target. He's a big chunk of bait. We try to save him, we expose ourselves.
I'm the second target. That's obvious. I've got the only other firearm and, if they have been watching us, they'll know I'm the captain. So they're working on getting me next. Either expecting me to go to the bait or to Piper. Or maybe not waiting. Maybe they're already manoeuvring for a better shot. Suppose they've dropped off the ridge and are running around in the dead ground to the other side of the hollow? How long until they're in position? Five minutes? Ten at most. Gotta move quickly.
I open my eyes. Back to the world. Back to the job. Mark and Mrs. Aloysius lie there, waiting. A centipede as long as my thumb crawls over Mark's cheek, but he doesn't move a muscle. "Daisy. Could she help?"
"I'm not sure," says Mrs. Aloysius. "She's a very remarkable child. But she is still only a child."
"Mark. You got first aid training, yeah?"
"Sure thing, Rambo, but I don't got no kit, I'm no good with—"
"Here." I pull out my medkit and then rip off my bandanna. It's sweaty and dirty as hell, but needs must as the Devil drives. "If she's got a gunshot wound, you wrap it with this. Stop the bleeding, yeah? First priority."
"Okay." He looks across the exposed ground, the only cover the knee-high ferns, and gulps. "You gonna cover me, yeah? My head may be full of crazy, sure, but it's the only one I got."
"Trust me." I slide carefully through the ferns so I'm a couple of meters from the position where I last fired. I steady myself, ready to pop up and suppress the sniper so Mark can get to Piper.
I nod to him, holding up three fingers. He nods back. He's terrified — hell, he's shitting himself — but I think he'll do it.
I hold up two fingers.
Then one.
And then Mrs. Aloysius leaps to her feet, just a split second before I do.
She jumps up, just where I stood before, right where the sniper would be expecting me to stand.
I'm already moving, shifting to a standing firing position, when she does. I'm committed to my action — there's no way I can stop hers.
Instantly, a gunshot takes her high in the chest.
She falls back.
I see the flash of his shot. I see his position. In the buttress of a great fig tree, his head dark with mud. Invisible until he fired. He realises his mistake, shifting to me, but my red dot sight falls on him, a clean-sight picture. Our eyes meet. He's just a teenager.
I fire.
His head jerks back as something dark paints the tree. A long second before I realise his shot will never come.
But then a hard, shattering noise does fill the air: the river pool beneath us erupting in a great rising column as Mrs. Aloysius lands flat on her back in the water below.
CHAPTER ELEVEN: ISAAC
The silence that follows the thunder rings in my ears. Dan freezes, one hand holding the nail against my wrist, the other lifting his hammer up to the sky, like a Norse god summoning lightning from the heavens. I blink away the warm rain splattering on my face. The waiting, as he draws out the moment to whip the crowd into a higher state of tension, is more horrible than any pain I can conceive.
But his expression, a moment ago so full of righteous satisfaction, folds into one of confusion. The low sun leaking through the clouds stains the rain that drips from his face onto mine as red as blood. But that doesn't make sense — the dusklight could colour the rain, but why does it taste salty?
Then Dan lets go of the nail and lifts his hand to his ear. He looks wonderingly as his fingers come back clotted with lumps of soft matter. His eyes light with a slow dawn of comprehension just before they roll back in his head. Lightning crawls across the sky like fat white worms filling the underbelly of the clouds, looking for all the world like the insidious contagion of the plague. I catch a quick glimpse of the raw crater that is the far side of his head as he collapses.
The crowd draws back as Enzo pulls me up to a sitting position. "Look," he says, pointing across the field.
Roman walks through
the kunai grass, naked to the waist, his long blade held out to his side. His eyes mirror the lightning in the sky. He raises his other hand and points it like a gun at a second of Deborah's guards, a fat bearded man whose chest is covered in hair as thick as a bear's pelt. Thunder without lightning tolls like a bell. The man slaps his hand over the bright rose that blooms over his heart, a miracle akin to Moses raising a spring from a barren rock, before he collapses.
The tall man with the spade beard steps in front of Deborah as he lifts Enzo's shotgun. But Deborah claps her hand down on the barrel. The rain has soaked her white robes transparent and they cling to her body, her revealed nudity mocking her finery.
Roman lifts his finger to the sky, as if he is a peacekeeper announcing a truce while terms of surrender are discussed. The crowd of Deborah's followers murmur. No one understands the nature of Roman's power, not the least of them me.
Enzo catches on quicker than most. He stands and grabs at his shotgun. The tall man resists, and the two of them stare at each other, each with his hands on the gun, a silent battle of wills. Roman slowly, theatrically lowers his finger to point at the tall man. Deborah steps to him and speaks urgently in his ear. He does not break his glare at Enzo, but he lifts his hands away, surrendering the shotgun.
"See," says Enzo. "I tell you I get her back." He whips the shotgun around, smashing the stock into the tall man's jaw and driving him to the ground
Roman stops at the berm. Deborah swells with all the outrage of a priest whose altar has just been desecrated with bodily waste. "You blaspheme this holy place. You savages will find no mercy at his hand."
Roman is as impervious to her scorn as a rock is to rain. He shakes his head, his features speaking of a pity so deep that it borders on compassion. There is no trace of the polite, helpful young man who is my friend. Instead, he moves with dignity and grace as he lifts his blade, pointing it at Deborah and stepping forward, so that she and her guards step back. "This is my people's land," he says, his voice ringing loud and clear over the last mutterings of the thunderstorm. "You are not welcome here."