Eda could smell the alcohol, a toxic wind shooting up her nostrils. Her head was pounding. The rank chemical odor that filled the air made her feel dizzy and that was the last thing she needed right now.
The crowd let out a feverish roar upon her arrival. They parted reluctantly as the guards delivered her onto the dueling ground where Mr. China was waiting. He didn’t look at her as Eda was taken to her mark, about fifteen paces directly across from her opponent.
A small wooden platform had been erected for the occasion. Commander Torres sat upon a high-backed metallic chair, dead center on the platform. Eda’s attention was drawn to a bright red and yellow oriental style-pattern running down the armrests of the chair. The pattern appeared to be in the shape of a long dagger or a sword.
Torres picked at a bowl of fruit as she watched Eda arrive. The commander’s high-ranking advisors, including Manny, stood behind her in a neat line.
“Our brave substitute is here,” Torres yelled.
This was met by a deafening howl of approval from the grunt horde. Eda wondered if they understood what their commander said or if they were just cheering at the sound of her voice.
Torres put the fruit bowl down and stood up slowly. She said something in her native tongue and the crowd went wild again.
Mr. China’s face was a void on the other end of the dueling ground. He wasn’t blinking and Eda got the impression he saw nothing of the outside world.
Two grunts carrying M4s approached the duelists. One of them went over to Mr. China and the other walked towards Eda. They dropped the rifles on the ground simultaneously, a few feet from the duelists’ feet.
“Your weapons,” Torres said. “It’s what you were carrying when we found you.”
She clapped her hands together and stared into the crowd.
“Music.”
A man stepped out of the swarm of drunken bodies and walked to the edge of the dueling ground. He was carrying something in his hands – it was a plaid bag with five black pipes poking out like tentacles. The man waited for a signal from Torres. When he got it he began to blow into the end of one of the pipes, emitting a low, unpleasant droning noise. His face puffed up with the effort. Eda winced at first when she heard the ugly sound coming out of the bag. A moment later however, the droning transformed into a cheerful high-pitched melody. The music whistled through the air and the invaders went crazy, dancing arm in arm with one another and singing at the top of their voices.
“Bagpipes,” Torres screamed over the music.
She was dancing alone on the stage, clapping her hands, and surveying the happy crowd in front of her. Eda got the impression of a delighted parent watching her children play.
After a few minutes, Torres hollered into the crowd again. The piper ceased to play and when the music suddenly dropped out the island fell eerily silent.
“The rules are simple,” Torres said, addressing the duelists. “What we have here is the final battle of the End War, also known as the Great Global War or the America-China war. Eda represents the United States of America and the man who won’t tell me his name is fighting for the People’s Republic of China.”
Eda looked at the crowd. By now they’d lined up on either side of the two duelists. Excited, sweaty faces leered back at her. As they listened to Torres introduce the duelists the grunts guzzled cups of beer like it was a race to see who could pass out first.
“Guards,” Torres called out.
Ten grunts spilled out of the crowd, all of them carrying rifles. They split into two groups, standing on either side of Torres, and slightly ahead of the four officers. Five of the gunmen pointed their weapons at Mr. China. The other five aimed at Eda.
“Pick up your weapons,” Torres said.
Mr. China reached for the M4. Eda, moving a little slower, picked up the gun at her feet, ignoring her frantic heartbeat. Her throat was dry and scratchy. She had to block out all physical discomfort now.
There was the man in front of her and nothing else.
Torres’ metallic voice cut through the blurry edges.
“Rifles begin at the combatant’s side. When I give the word you fire and you keep firing until the opponent is dead or until you are dead. Once again, the victor will be granted a head start on the mainland.”
Eda’s rifle arm was shaking. Doubt had flooded her mind at the last minute, an unwelcome visitor that reminded her of her inadequacies. She wasn’t a gunfighter.
What had she done?
She looked over at Mr. China. He was in position, rifle lowered at the side. That blank, stoic expression was still on his face.
“Ready,” Torres yelled.
Eda froze. At that moment she was as good as dead. Her thoughts had congealed into mind mush. Everything she’d learned about shooting a rifle was gone. She could only hope now that Mr. China would kill her quick – a bullet to the head or to the heart. No pain. She didn’t want to die slowly, listening to the sound of grunts slurping beer.
“FIRE!”
Mr. China was like a ghost. He was already looking down the barrel of the M4 before Eda’s rifle arm had even twitched.
Nothing flashed before her eyes.
But then she saw the old soldier twist his body to the left, swinging the weapon along with him. In the blink of an eye he took aim at Commander Torres, who was still nibbling grapes on the platform.
An explosion of gunfire lit up the beach. One of the marksmen went down while the other four shot back at Mr. China. The other five gunmen on the platform whose weapons were trained on Eda didn’t flinch. She was still their target.
Mr. China took out another guard that had jumped in front of Torres. The Chinaman edged closer to the platform, miraculously dodging the first round of bullets that came his way. Seconds later however, he fell backwards, bellowing out one last word in Chinese as he collapsed onto the beach.
He landed on his back, arms and legs spread out in a star shape.
Eda dropped her rifle and put her hands up. Her ears were ringing after all the snap gunfire.
Torres stepped out from behind her guards. She looked unruffled, if a little annoyed.
The sudden silence that followed the shootout didn’t last long. The crowd immediately began to jeer the disappointing outcome. Drunken, angry voices yelled out words that Eda didn’t understand. But she understood they were pissed off. She looked around, sensing their dissatisfaction and seeing the beginnings of an opportunity. It was a heat of the moment thing, not to be ignored. It was crazy and yet she had no choice but to listen to the madness.
She yelled at the top of her voice.
“WAIT!”
All the guns on the island pointed at her.
She turned towards the platform and looked at a nervous Manny. “I have something to say,” Eda said. “Will you translate for me? I want everyone here to understand.”
Her voice was trembling but she had to keep going.
“Will you translate for me?”
Manny’s skin was a yellowy-pale color as he glanced at his cousin. Torres said nothing, so he turned back to Eda and managed a slight nod of the head.
“I’ll translate,” he said.
Eda cleared her throat.
“I was promised a duel this morning,” she said, conjuring up a tone of outrage. “I was promised a fight with the Chinaman in exchange for my freedom. This was my chance to win the war for America, my chance to get the hell out of here, and it was taken away from me.”
Manny translated quickly.
Eda pointed a finger along both sides of the crowd.
“YOU were also promised a fight,” she said. “But what did you get instead? A half-assed assassination attempt. Now I’m sure you’re all delighted that your commander is still alive but I can only imagine how unsatisfying this outcome must be for you all. All that money you gambled. You were promised entertainment and instead you got tricked.”
She nodded at Manny. He translated and the crowd mumbled their discontentment.
She waited for Manny. After his translation, the crowd responded and the mood began to lighten again. At that moment, Eda knew she had them where she wanted them. And she had Torres where she wanted her too.
She turned to the commander who was sitting down on the metal chair, dipping her fingers into the fruit bowl.
“Commander Torres,” Eda said. “I challenge you to a duel this morning on Dead Island. This time, we fight with swords.”
After Manny’s translation, there were a few gasps in the crowd. Muted conversations were cut short when Eda kept talking.
“We’re swordswomen,” Eda said, glaring towards the platform. “So let’s have a real fight. If I win I get a head start on the mainland as promised. But something else too – the old man in the tent comes with me. And if I lose, well it’s one less American in the world. If you kill me Commander Torres, you’ll have shown yourself to be a worthy leader of the Third Unit.”
Eda held her arms out wide, allowing the island breeze to wash over her.
“What do you say?”
13
Torres must have known that everyone was looking at her.
The sheer audacity of the challenge. It was nothing short of crazy. After Mr. China’s death Eda had every reason to believe that she would have been considered the winner of the America-China duel. And as the winner of that fight, she would be sent back to the mainland as promised.
Why then had she challenged Torres?
Was it for Goldman’s sake? Eda wasn’t so sure. Was there some other reason, something more primitive and selfish?
Did she want to see Torres dead?
Eda saw the confusion reflected in the faces of those standing around her. Confusion mingled with nervous excitement. After the disappointment of the first duel would there now be another one?
They turned towards their leader. The grunts were still clutching onto their beers but for now the festivities were on hold.
The commander still hadn’t responded to the challenge.
It didn’t matter. Eda already knew how Torres would react. She’d spun a spider’s web and trapped the commander like a helpless fly, leaving her with no choice but to accept the challenge. The alternative? Back down in front of her regiment and become something less than a warrior goddess.
The weasel-faced officer behind Torres leaned in and whispered something in her ear. As he spoke, his thick jugular stood up, exposed.
Torres batted the officer away like he was a mosquito.
She glanced at Manny, then turned to the crowd.
“I accept your challenge,” Torres said. “You’re a smart girl Eda but not as smart as you’d like to think. You’ll find out what a mistake you’ve made soon enough. So be it. All bets remain as they were – as far as today’s sport is concerned it’s still America versus China on the battlefield. I’ll fight the American on behalf of the troops who voted for a Chinese victory. Nothing changes except this time we duel with swords. Apart from that, there are no rules. Anything goes.”
Torres repeated this to the grunts in their language. Just like that, the crowd switched back into carnival mode. They jumped up and down on their feet as the piper struck up another tune. They also seemed to remember that they were drunk and that they were supposed to be having a good time on their play day.
As the music played Mr. China’s body was dragged away from the dueling ground. Two grunts pulled him towards the boats, his head clattering over the rocks on the shoreline. His arms and legs were limp like a ragdoll.
Eda watched from afar as they threw him onto one of the boats. She was grateful at least that the grunts hadn’t looted the corpse. The old soldier deserved to go down into the deep with his wallet in his back pocket, not to mention the beloved photograph inside it.
She turned back to the front and saw Manny, stiff as a board on the platform like an exotic mannequin. Beside him, Torres was dishing out orders to her officers and troops. Now and then she stopped to scowl at Eda who was still standing in the dueling area, a lone figure amongst the rowdy revelers.
Torres called for quiet and the crowd obeyed. The piper cut off the cheerful ditty he was playing and retreated back into the horde.
“I’ve just ordered a boat to go back and get our swords,” she said. “Until they return you’ll wait under guard in the tent.”
Torres gestured for one of the men to take Eda away. Before she left, Eda exchanged a grim look with the commander. For the first time since she’d walked into Fort Independence, Eda saw a flicker of discomfort in the woman’s eyes.
Goldman was still asleep on the floor when Eda arrived back at the tent. Snoring loudly. Apart from the one guard standing outside, the two Americans were left alone. As Eda walked over to the sleeping bag she’d barely slept in last night, she glanced over at Mr. China’s spot in the corner. Then she dropped onto her bag, flat on her back, both arms on her chest. Now that everything was quiet she could feel her headache again.
“What have I done?” she said, rubbing a hand over her throbbing temple.
There was a loud groan beside her. Goldman’s eyes were half-open and he was trying to sit up.
“Jeez Louise and then some,” he said, glancing at Eda. All things considered, the old man didn’t look too bad. His eyes were bright and his skin had a nice touch of pink about the cheeks. “How long have I been out? Feels like I’ve been asleep for a month goddamn it.”
“Hey,” Eda said, lying on her side and facing him. “How you feeling?”
“Head’s a bit foggy.”
“I’ll bet.”
Goldman lowered himself back onto the bed with a long wail of a sigh. “Is today the day?”
Eda flipped onto her back. “What’s that?”
“The duel for God’s sake,” he said. “What else? Me and the chink. We need to do it soon by the way, while I can still summon the strength to stand on two feet. You know what I mean?”
“Are you serious?” Eda said.
Goldman shot up to a sitting position. “You bet your ass I’m serious. I’ve still got enough juice left in the tank to take that son of a bitch out, don’t you doubt it. And when it’s done, maybe then I’ll start thinking about dying. But not a second before.”
He leaned forward, trying to look past Eda towards the corner of the tent where Mr. China had spent the night.
“Where’d the chink go anyway?” Goldman said.
He tried to get up but Eda placed a hand on Goldman’s chest and gently lowered him back onto the bed. Goldman went down, coughing, covering his mouth with the crinkled sleeve of his uniform.
The truth would break Goldman’s heart. Killing Mr. China had been his sole reason to live, along with winning the war for America and getting revenge on those he believed were responsible for everything he’d lost. That’s how he’d survived all those years in Boston in such grim circumstances – with purpose. It was a testament to the power of having a dream.
She waited until Goldman had stopped coughing. Checking that his eyes were clear she leaned closer.
“Mr. China’s dead.”
Goldman looked at her in horror but he didn’t speak. As he digested the news his face gradually creased up into an angry, frightened and confused mask. Eda got the impression the old man wanted nothing more than to sink into the groundsheet and burrow deep into the darkest bowels of the island.
“Dead?” he croaked.
“Yeah.”
“How? When?”
Eda paused. “He tried to run last night and they shot him,” she said.
Goldman’s body jerked backwards in a short, sudden fit of outrage.
“I knew it,” he roared at the top of his voice. “Cowardly son of a yellow bitch! He’d rather run than stand toe to toe with me. A-haaa, great war hero he turned out to be right?”
“Right,” Eda said quietly.
She tried to shut off the gnawing guilt inside. Goldman deserved better. Mr. Chi
na deserved better. She was also worried that somebody else on the island would tell the old man what really happened to his sworn enemy. If that happened the shit would really hit the fan.
“I’m getting us off this island,” Eda said.
“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Goldman said. He was staring up at the roof of the tent. He clapped his hands together, like he was signaling to the gods that he was ready. “It’s over. The war’s over but I’ll be damned, I don’t feel like much of a winner.”
“Of course it matters,” Eda said.
“Doesn’t matter,” Goldman said. “I’m dying here for God’s sake. They can do whatever they want to me now.”
Eda felt like slapping the old man across the face to rouse him out of his self-pity. “Wouldn’t you rather be at home right now? Surrounded by your family?”
Goldman pursed his lips. He nodded.
Eda took a deep breath. “Right,” she said. “I challenged Torres to a duel this morning. With swords. If I win we get a pass back to the mainland – you and me. That’s enough time to get you home to your apartment and get me back on the road.”
Goldman sat bolt upright, rigid with terror. “You challenged Torres to a fight?”
“Yeah,” Eda said.
“What the hell did you do that for?” Goldman said. “She’s a killer for God’s sake. Listen to me Eda, I’ve been in war. I’ve seen people – men and women – with the same bloodthirsty look in their eyes as Torres. It’s the mark of a monster. They’ve been around too much violence in their life, too much death, too much pain. Something snaps in their brain and that’s it – they become numb to suffering. There’s no filter to control the violence that spills out of their soul.”
Goldman started to unzip the sleeping bag.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “She wants to kill an American right? Well, let it be this one. I’ll fight her on condition she takes you back to the mainland whether I win or lose.”
He looked around the tent.
“Where’s my gun?”
“It’s too late for that,” Eda said. “You don’t understand. I challenged her in front of everyone. She has to fight me and that’s exactly the way I want it. With a sword, I have a chance of winning and getting us both out of here. Apart from that it’s a no rules fight. Anything goes.”
Mega Post-Apocalyptic Double Bill Page 42