Night of Knives

by Jon Evans

  Prester drives past the yard without slowing down, until they have gone over another small rise; then he stops the car in front of a motorcycle repair shop. Ditches full of plastic bags and rotting trash cut through the vacant lot of gouged mud across the street. The few Africans still on the road look at the Pajero curiously, then move on, hurrying back to the market and the shantytown houses beyond. It is apparent that this quasi-industrial zone is largely deserted come nightfall.

  "Any phones around?" Prester asks.

  Jacob examines the screen on the spectrum analyzer. "Just ours." Then he digs out his hiptop and taps at it briefly. "But there's a Mango phone alive inside that scrapyard."

  "That so? How convenient."

  "We should get closer. The analyzer isn't in range."

  Prester says, "Wait until dark."

  The sun falls over the horizon. It takes only a few minutes for the darkness to deepen into night. The few street lights that work shed barely enough light to see the outlines of the buildings around them. As they wait, Prester reaches inside his shirt collar, withdraws a little pouch of pale leather that hangs on the golden chain around his neck, and twirls it absently between his fingers. It has been sewn shut with silver thread.

  "What's that?" Veronica asks.

  Prester looks down at the pouch as if he hadn't noticed it. Then he says, calmly, "The little finger of a stillborn child."

  She stares at him.

  "Muti?" Jacob asks, incredulous and revolted. "You actually believe in that black-magic shit?"

  "I live here. I can't afford not to."

  "But - come on. You're an educated man."

  "And you're a tourist. More things under heaven and earth, like I said. You'd never believe some of the things I've seen." Prester takes a deep breath and tucks the pouch back under his shirt. "Never mind. We're wasting time. Let me just go over the plan again. The objective here is to collect information, not get in trouble. I'm going to find a place to park which is both secure and has a view of the yard. You will call me if you see something I need to know about. My phone is on silent." He doublechecks this. "You two will stay in the vehicle, no matter what. You're not trained for this and I've got enough problems without babysitting. I'm going to station the analyzer by the gate, close enough to harvest their numbers when they come out, then go into the yard and put trackers on their vehicles. If something goes wrong, just get the fuck away and call for help, either the police or Strick, depending on what's happened. Is that all clear?"

  Veronica nods, wide-eyed.

  "Clear," Jacob rasps.

  "Good. Let's do it."

  He turns the Pajero around and drives back past the scrapyard. Their headlights cast long, distorted shadows from the ruined machines sprawled on the vast field of fissured mud. There is a light on inside the building in the heart of the yard, and two vehicles are parked outside, a white Land Cruiser and a black Mitsubishi pickup. Neither was there when they passed by before. The scene is eerily postapocalyptic, like a night shot from Mad Max. Veronica is beginning to wish she'd told Prester she didn't want to come. It's far too easy to imagine being killed here by terrorists.

  The watchman at the scrapyard gate looks at them with disinterest as he is lit by their headlights. Prester drives back over the hill, then switches off all the Pajero's lights, U-turns, goes off-road across cratered mud, and parks in a vacant lot atop the ridge that overlooks the scrapyard, almost level with the roof of the yard's single building. The street lights are distant and they can barely see more than silhouettes.

  "That analyzer ready?" Prester asks.

  Jacob checks. "Yes. Scan-and-record mode."

  Prester takes it and orders, "Stay."

  Then he steps out of the vehicle, closes the door by leaning on it slowly so as not to make any sound. Veronica sees him get about twenty feet down the ridge, heading towards the scrapyard gate, before he disappears into darkness.

  "No problem," Jacob says, trying to be reassuring. "He's not doing anything really risky. Just one lousy askari. No big deal."

  A long slow silence passes. Veronica and Jacob watch the scrapyard like hawks. She blinks and squints at the black pickup. She can't tell for sure, the light is too dim, but did something just move?

  "Did you see that?" she asked. "By the pickup?"

  "No."

  "There it is again."

  "I don't see anything."

  "It's there," Veronica insists. "Something moving. In the pickup, in the back."

  "Maybe it's him. Putting the trackers on."

  "It's too soon, I don't think he could have gotten there that fast - oh shit. Call him, call him!"

  "What is it?" Jacob asks, reaching for his hiptop.

  "Dogs!"

  But it is too late. Before Jacob can dial, the two lethal-looking guard dogs leap out of the pickup truck and charge towards a ruined truck, howling for blood. Then Veronica sees motion near the truck carcass. Someone running from the dogs, pelting towards the scrapyard fence. It must be Prester. He's not going to make it.

  Chapter 21

  Jacob takes a deep breath. He doesn't want to intervene. He wants to run. But Prester has a problem, and Jacob has a solution. "I'm going out there," he says, and opens the door. "He won't make it. I can help."

  He takes a second to close the car door quietly behind him, no sense advertising their presence, then he draws out his hiptop and rushes down towards the fence. The dogs howl for blood. Behind Prester's fleeing form, light spills out of the scrapyard building as a door opens. The ground is ridged and uneven and twice Jacob stumbles and nearly falls. Several men advance from the open door into the scrapyard. At least one is holding a rifle. Jacob slows halfway long enough to push the right buttons on his hiptop, it takes maybe three seconds but that seems like an eternity, the dogs are right on Prester's heels. Jacob sprints towards the fence, holding his hiptop above his head as if to announce its presence to the world. Prester's almost at the chainlink barrier, but he can't climb over barbed wire, and the slavering dogs have almost reached him -

  - but then Jacob reaches the fence, and the dogs come within range of the repellent sounds his hiptop is projecting at maximum volume in frequencies only canines can hear, like an anti-dog whistle. Their howls wilt into whines, and they slacken their pace and slink away, back into the shadows. Prester and Jacob come to a halt across the fence from each other. Jacob sees the GPS trackers in Prester's hand, and his heart sinks. Prester didn't even have a chance to plant them, this was a total failure.

  "They're coming," Jacob hisses, meaning the men behind Prester. They have guns and at least one flashlight, he can see a beam of light stabbing at the scrapyard wreckage as the men approach the fence. Their eyes won't have adjusted to the dark yet, but Prester is on the wrong side of a chainlink fence topped with barbed wire, Jacob has to stay close to him in order to keep the dogs away, and they have maybe twenty seconds before the gunmen discover them. He can't think of any way to get Prester out.

  Headlights blink into life behind Jacob.

  He turns and waches, amazed, as the Pajero accelerates downhill towards the scrapyard fence, its engine roaring, its undercarriage rattling and clanking against unseen obstacles on the uneven ground, until it slams into the fence with enough momentum that three fenceposts come straight out of the ground and the chainlink folds backwards. The Pajero's horn bleats briefly at the moment of impact, then drives right over the flattened chainlink and barbed wire into the scrapyard, and keeps going straight.

  The broken shell of what was once a boat looms up in its headlights. As far as Jacob can tell Veronica never even touches the brakes. The Pajero plows into the ruin of the boat with a loud crunch and carries it somed distance across the yard before both vehicles come to rest. Light from one still-functional headlight blazes off the boat's torn and twisted fiberglass hull, illuminating the accordioned metal of the Pajero's hood intertwined with the wreckage of the boat.

  Jacob and Prester both sprint to the new g
ap in the fence. When they meet, Prester grabs the hiptop from Jacob's hands, hisses "Be right back," and disappears into the scrapyard before Jacob can protest.

  He thinks Prester has gone crazy, there are men with guns in there, albeit distracted by Veronica's dramatic entrance. Jacob looks over at the Pajero for a moment and hesitates. She needs help, but if he goes to her aid he'll expose himself to the gunmen. Before he can decide what to do, the Pajero door opens, and he sees Veronica's lithe form stagger away from the vehicle and into the darkness.

  * * *

  Veronica trips on a rut and falls falls hard to the hard-packed dirt, her hands and knees scrape painfully against the ground but then she is up again, still moving. A rattling fusillade of gunfire echoes in the distance, some kind of automatic weapon echoing across the scrapyard. She keeps sprinting across the moonlit yard, half-expecting to be shot dead within seconds. She can't believe everything has gone so wrong so fast. She can't believe she actually drove the Pajero through the fence into the scrapyard instead of following Prester's instructions and fleeing to the embassy for help. She feels dazed, her forehead smacked into the middle of the steering wheel when the Pajero slammed into the fence, rattling her consciousness, but she thinks she's more or less OK, no concussion. She's just lucky the fence didn't stop the car, she should have taken two seconds to put on her seat belt. On the other hand those two seconds might have been crucial.

  No more shots come. She hears shouts, in the middle distance, baffled and alarmed voices calling out in some language that is not English. Her eyes adjust enough to see something looming ahead of her, the mangled remains of some kind of vehicle. Once past it she comes to a halt and looks back. No one seems to be chasing her. She crouches, hiding behind the wreckage, and examines her palms. They are raw and bleeding slightly but not too bad. Her jeans are torn but saved the skin on her knees. She is grateful she didn't fall on any shards of glass or metal.

  Veronica hears barks and moans under her breath. She had forgotten about the dogs. She hears motion and voices, but none seem to be coming near. Her eyes slowly re-adjust to the night. She has taken cover behind a matatu that appears to have gotten into a stomping match with Godzilla. Veronica squats there for a good thirty seconds, staring out around the corner of the wreckage, trying to see what's going on, before she becomes aware of the two sets of pale eyes staring up at her from beneath the ruined vehicle.

  She jumps back and very nearly screams. It takes her a heart-thumping moment to realize there is no immediate danger. There are two children huddled under the wrecked matatu. They are very small, certainly less than ten. They stare wide-eyed at Veronica. She wonders for a moment what kind of game they are playing. Then she understands: they live here. This heap of torn metal is their home. She puts her fingers to her lips, hoping the symbol is universal. The children wriggle their way deeper under the wreckage, out of sight. She can hear their fast, frightened breaths. Veronica looks around and wonders with something like horror how many more of the scrapyard's hulks of twisted steel serve as homes for AIDS orphans.

  She hears a loud clank of metal on metal in the distance, and a few moments later, another. Veronica, beginning to hope that the men and dogs will not pursue her, scuttles to the other side of the matatu wreckage and peers out. There are a half-dozen men around the Land Cruiser and the pickup, watching warily, weapons ready, on guard. One of them holds the two growling guards on leashes. The pickup has been loaded with two big metal boxes that look like coffins. As Veronica watches, the men climb into the two vehicles, the engines roar to life, and the Land Cruiser and pickup truck roll slowly away, to and through the now-open scrapyard gate; turn to the right, away from central Kampala; and vanish into the night.

  After a few more breaths Veronica dares to stand up and look around.

  Then Jacob cries out, from maybe a few hundred feet away: "Veronica!"

  She hesitates to answer, but no one and nothing reacts, the scrapyard appears empty. Even the askari by the gate is gone. "What? Where's Prester?"

  "He's right here," Jacob says hoarsely. "They shot him."

  * * *

  Prester lies on his side, in a shining, swelling pool of his own blood. It is so dark Veronica can hardly see him. Jacob stands helplessly over him. Veronica pushes Jacob aside, drops to her knees beside Prester and checks his airway. He's unconscious but still breathing.

  "Get the first-aid kit," she snaps at Jacob.

  "First aid? Where is it?"

  "The back of the Pajero. Go!"

  While Jacob is gone Veronica strips Prester's shirt off and uses the light of her phone to inspect him. The ends of his dreadlocks are soaked in blood, as his little leather fetish-pouch. His breath is shallow and laboured. The entrance wound below his left shoulder blade is relatively innocuous – but as Prester breathes, little bubbles rise from the center of the dark stain spreading across his chest from the exit wound, and Veronica goes cold with dismay. Those bubbles are the classic symptom of an open pneumothorax, better known as a sucking chest wound.

  "Call for help!" she shouts into the night at Jacob. "And bring a blanket!"

  Prester at least had the good sense to crawl into a little ditch before he passed out. Veronica lifts his arms and legs up onto the lip of this ditch, above his heart, so that more blood will flow to his head and upper body. She ransacks her mind for how to treat a pneumothorax, and remembers: tape something non-porous and airtight over the wound, leaving one corner unsealed to allow trapped air to escape. Some kind of plastic square would be perfect. She digs into her money belt and produces a credit card.

  "Hurry!" she almost screams.

  Jacob stumbles into sight, holding the first-aid box. "I couldn't find a blanket."

  "Fine," she says, popping the box open, opening gauze and tape. "Did you call for help?"

  "There's an ambulance on the way."

  "Good." She tapes the exit wound, using her credit card to seal it off, bandages the entrance wound, and then stacks gauze on top on his chest and tries to apply pressure. It isn't easy with him on his side, but they can't risk changing his position, his neck or spine might be damaged. She works quickly, old reflexes re-emerging, it's been seven years since she worked in an ER but her hands have not forgotten. Veronica's finger is pricked by a damp splinter of bone from a shattered rib. She winces and hopes Prester isn't HIV positive. His blood loss is serious but not critical, not as bad as the guard who died at her feet in the Bwindi jungle, the man Veronica didn't even try to help. Unlike him Prester at least has a chance.

  "What shot him? A handgun or a rifle?" she asks, after sucking at her pricked finger and spitting out the blood.

  "I think a rifle."

  "Shit."

  "Is that bad?"

  "Rifles are high velocity. They tumble in the wound, they have much higher energy transfer, you get indirect trauma, you can get small entry and exit wounds either side of a massive wound cavity, he could fucking die on us any second. It isn't a good sign he's unconscious."

  "I don't know it was a rifle for sure. After you crashed through the fence, he ran back out, grabbed my hiptop, and went back in. I guess he figured they were distracted and wanted to take the chance to plant the trackers."

  "Fucking idiot," Veronica mutters.

  "Yeah. We're lucky they were even more scared of us than we were of them. Prester was conscious when I got to him, he said something to me. I'm not sure exactly what. I think he said - it doesn't make any sense, but I think he said, 'The Sams are Igloos.'"

  Veronica almost releases the pressure bandage. "Igloos? What does that mean?"

  "You got me."

  "Take your shirt off."

  "What?" Jacob asks, amazed.

  "Take your shirt off."

  He obeys.

  "Now hold down this pressure bandage. Firm but not crushing. I'm going to tape it down to make it easier."

  Jacob obeys. Once the gauze is half-taped in place - it's a sloppy job, with all the blood, but it shou
ld at least help prevent the bandage from slipping away - Veronica drapes Jacob's shirt over Prester's torso, then takes her own shirt off and uses it to cover his midriff. The night is cool, and blood loss saps body heat with dangerous speed. She considers trying to cut down on the blood loss with indirect pressure, pinching shut the major blood vessel that's feeding the wounded area, but it's been so long since she's practiced she can't remember the details of the procedure, and she has a vague memory it might make things worse not better.

  "OK," she says. "I think that's all we can do for him. Now we just wait. And hope the ambulance gets to us before whoever shot Prester decides to get curious and come back here."

  But neither the ambulance nor the gunmen reach the scene before the police arrive. Veronica has never been so glad to hear howling sirens.

  * * *

  "Please, I don't understand," Jacob says wearily. "What are we under arrest for?"

  The big policeman looks at him as if his question is senseless. "You are under arrest," he repeats.

  "I don't think they need a charge," Veronica mutters through clenched teeth. Her eyes are closed and she is breathing hard. Her claustrophobia, Jacob supposes.

  "Oh, the charge!" the policeman says, understanding at last. "Your charge will be determined later. Before you go to a judge."

  "We have the right to call our embassies."

  "Yes, yes. After you are charged. I will see you tomorrow."

  The policeman leaves and closes the door behind him. Jacob and Veronica look at each other. She reaches out and takes his hand, clutches it so tightly it's almost painful. He squeezes back in what he hopes is a reassuring manner.

  "It could be worse," she says, as if trying to convince herself. "We could be in the real jail. I think I would have gone batshit in there."

  Jacob nods. That would be worse. Much worse. They passed through the jail on the way in; lightless, overcrowded cages so crammed with men that some had no room in which to lie down or even sit, cells that stank of vomit and diarrhea, fear and despair. Some of the prisoners were naked. All looked slumped and listless, uninterested in their visitors. Jacob supposes they don't get enough food, that's one way to keep your prisoners weak.