The huge man hung on the fence, body engulfed in a fierce blaze of flame. Orange tips of fire quivered in the breeze. Smoke rolled off of him like a burning tire. He was beginning to smell the acrid scent of roasting flesh and hair.
Gusano felt a desensitizing chill creep through him and his thoughts went blank.
“What do we do?” the youngblood demanded.
Run. Get the fuck out of there. “Stay put. Don’t say anything. Just let me think about this.”
And from across the room, “Fuck! He’s burning, man. He’s fucking burning up!”
Gusano saw a man who called himself The Little Prince staring out the window with the curtain pulled back. He was joined by others crowding around the window.
“What the fuck is that?” someone asked. There was no answer, only more questions.
Gusano backed away from the door. It was all he could do to command his feet to carry him to the middle of the room. If he moved again, he knew, it would be to run.
An instant later, he watched as fifteen men piled out the door, weapons drawn, pistols and automatic rifles.
Don’t, you fucking idiots. Can’t you see it’s a trap?
He wanted to scream at them, but even if he could find his voice, it wouldn’t do any good, he knew.
He watched through the window. The little glass square showed him the black night, the men hurrying down the hill. They reached the flaming man, but they had nothing to extinguish the blaze. They could only watch his body smolder on the fence as burning pieces of him fell to the ground and ash floated away on the breeze.
And then Gusano saw a streak of fire tear across the sky from high up on the hill. It flashed in the darkness only briefly, thin dash of orange against the black night, before it hit the group, dead center, and exploded.
They never saw it coming.
Gusano turned to run as the explosion boomed like a thunderclap, and the men were thrown into the air. Burning pieces of their bodies rained back down to earth like flaming debris from a meteor shower.
The entire house erupted into motion, some rushing to the windows, others running out the front door, brave and stupid, weapons drawn.
Gusano went the opposite direction, out the sliding doors to the patio and the back yard beyond.
He hit the grass at a full run, wildly checking the perimeter of the fence and what he could see beyond. They could have the place surrounded for all he knew, it would make sense, but, as far as he could see it, there were only two ways out of this: front door, and he could already hear gunfire coming from that side of the house, that was no good. So it was the back, to the unknown. And miraculously, there didn’t seem to be anyone there. He did not question this, his mind was not in an analytical mode, he was operating only on fear and sudden instinct. He sprinted all out for the fence. After he jumped it, he would find a place to get up the hill. Climb, run, and never look back. He had something like forty grand stashed in a Monopoly box in his closet, more than enough to hire a coyote to get him across the border into the States, or, if he was feeling frugal, he could go to South America, fuck, anywhere was better than here right now. The only thing stopping him was a five-foot fence and an easily climbable hill. He began to grin, already feeling as if he had escaped.
And then he hit the ground hard. Something tangled around his feet and he was slung forward, breath rushing out of him as he came down on the grass.
What the fuck was that?
In the dim light he could make out some sort of thin metal wire wrapped around his ankles. If you knew where to look, the glinting thread could just barely be seen, cutting across the yard and leading to. . .
Shit!
The other end of the wire was threaded through the handle of the lion’s cage. He had pulled it open when he tripped over it and the gate was hanging wide open.
The lion, timid at first, sniffed at the opening before calmly stepping out.
Gusano got to his feet, watching the lion, feeling his heart pump freezing blood through him, pounding in his chest and eardrums.
Still eying the lion, he reached down to feel the wire wrapped around his legs. It was just barely tangled, he only needed to push it down and step out of the loop. Carefully.
The lion was staring at him now, head and forepaws down on the ground, hindquarters in the air, tail swishing back and forth, back end waving along with it.
Gusano had seen this before in house cats. It was positioning itself up like a Kenyan sprinter at the starting blocks.
It wanted a race. Wanted to chase him.
Gusano took his eyes off the lion for a brief instance to look at the fence. It was short of forty yards ahead of him. With a head start of twenty, maybe twenty-five yards, could he make it? Outrun a fucking lion? It was old and malnourished, probably sick. It hadn’t moved for more than a few feet in years. That had to count for something, right? Shit, lions slept all the time, though. They hardly ever move except when they have to. Was it the same? Could a caged lion hop out of near atrophy and run him down? And even if he could get to the fence, wouldn’t the big cat just leap right over it?
What were his other options? The pool was behind him. A thirty feet at the most. He could see a charred leg in a black loafer bobbing in the water, a piece of human debris that had come sailing over the rooftop from the other side of the house when the missile, or whatever hit.
He could make the pool, dive in, there was no doubt in his mind. But would the lion dive in after him? Even if it didn’t, it would wait for him. Pin him down until the raiders up on the hill fought their way down. We could win, though. We could kill them all, or force them to retreat. Not likely. Our side ain’t got no fucking missiles.
All this rushed through his mind in a span of less than two seconds, and in the end, he did end up running for the fence, although it was no conscious decision. No, he simply bolted out of instinct the moment the lion got impatient and started to rush toward him. He ran in no particular direction, with no particular destination, for all the calculation and planning his mind was capable of, it was only his body that acted.
The muscular legs of the lion dug into the earth and pushed it forward.
And in that same moment, Gusano, no athlete himself, ran for his life.
His arms flailing, his legs pumping beneath him, he tore across the yard, never daring to look behind him, though his mind was screaming to.
He could no longer hear gunshots from the other side of the house, could no longer hear the screams and curses of the men as they called out in fury, or died howling in pain, soundscape was as blank as the empty sky above him. There was only the pounding of his feet, and the crushed, collapsed accordion feeling of his lungs as he tried to suck air while simultaneously exhaling.
He felt the lion gaining on him, imagined he could feel its hot breath on the back of his legs as he ran, could feel its claws digging into his back and pulling him down to the ground.
But that didn’t happen.
He was closing in on the fence. Five yards! Four yards! He was going to make it.
Only four breathless bounds to safety.
He was at the fence, had his hands on the bar at the top. He pulled up and planted the toes of both shoes in the diamond spaces between the chain links.
He climbed to the top of the fence, made to hoist himself over, to clear the top by simply using his momentum and rolling over to the other side, damn the sharp wire points above him. If he got scraped up, he could deal with it. He couldn’t deal with the scratches a lion might carve into him, though.
He swung a single leg over, tasting the sweet cool air of safety.
And that was when the lion slammed into him, full speed, teeth and jaws tearing into him at the same time.
It flew into him hard and the fence curved inward, throwing them both back like an inverted trampoline.
He hit the ground and rolled with the lion, claws and teeth sunk firmly into him.
As they spun over and over on the ground, he had an odd view of the fence, h
e could see that his leg was still hanging from the top, completely severed, caught in the points of wire. The leg spasmed, jerked at the knee, pumping blood out the severed end in a thick spray, and rolled over the other side.
I can’t feel it, Gusano thought. I can’t feel my leg.
On the ground now, the lion was on top of him, digging its claws in deep. His scream was brief, cut off by the big cat crushing his wind pipe between its yellow teeth. There was no doubt that he felt it.
And in his last instant of life, his head lolled to the side, and he saw the back half of the house explode into flame and splinters of wood and brick.
And then no more.
FIFTY EIGHT
From her vantage point high on the hill, Els followed the rocket as it flew from the launcher hoisted up on her shoulder. Its descent was almost lazy, drifting down, leading a burning tail behind it. But still, it hit its target before she could blink.
In a fiery instant, nothing remained of the close group of fifteen men but a smoking crater. The point of impact was obscured by a cloud of dust as debris flew up and out. Her eyes moved with a flaming chunk of something or someone as it sailed over the roof of the house and landed in the pool in the back yard.
In that same moment she saw a man tear out the back door.
She dropped the rocket launcher and picked up her sniper rifle. The black night turned to vibrant shades of green as she looked through the night vision scope.
She recognized the fleeing man as Gusano, the one who had bragged to her about killing Seve.
He was on the ground now, tangled in the line she had rigged to the lion’s cage. She swung the scope over a few inches and watched the big cat climb down into freedom.
She found Gusano again and centered him in the orb of nightvision’s bright green. He was struggling to untangle himself from the wire around his legs. He rose and stood. Els stayed on him, curious to see what would happen next. If the lion did not run him down, she could very easily fire a couple of rounds into his back. But, as it turned out, this was not necessary. The little man broke into a panicked run and the lion chased after him.
Her fascination came to an abrupt end as she heard gunfire below, from the front of the house.
“Don’t get distracted now, honey. That kind of amateur shit will get you plugged.”
It was her father’s voice speaking through Neesha’s head, which was lying beside her in the dirt. Even though she wasn’t looking at it she could see the decayed jawbone in her mind, creaking as it worked up and down.
“I know, DaddyNeesha. I’m sorry.”
She moved the scope back toward the front of the house. They were filing out now. Three, then four. Another following.
“Don’t shoot yet, baby. Let them all come out. If you start picking them off now, they’ll retreat back into the house. Let them come out in the open. Be patient.”
“I know, DaddyNeesha, I will.”
They came out firing. They shot blindly into the distance, aiming at nothing in all directions. Bullets hit the hill far below her, sailed over her head. None came close to hitting her. That was good. They were unaware of her position.
Her finger lighted on the trigger.
She waited until they all bounded out of the house. Seven of them.
“Alright, light em up, sweetie. Shoot the ones closest to the door first. Be quick, they’ll scatter.”
“Yes, DaddyNeesha.”
She lined the sights up on the last one out the door. He was blindly squeezing off rounds, aiming somewhere at the darkness below her. Her bullet hit him high, perfectly centered between his shoulder blades. He went down, dead or dying. Els calmly pivoted the rifle until she had the next one centered in luminous green. She pumped a round into his chest and he jerked, dropped the automatic he had been firing and hit the ground.
She got the next one running, heading for the open gap in the fence that been blown away when the rocket hit. She squeezed the trigger once and the back of his head opened up like rotten cantaloupe.
“Four left, darling. You’re making your daddy proud.”
She missed the next shot as three in a group ran for cover around the garage. She aimed for the last one, but the shot went stray and went into the dirt. She couldn’t see them anymore. They were hiding in a sort of alcove outside the front hallway and a part where the garage overhung, obscuring her line of sight. She could see the front door, it was the only place they had to go.
Els fired three quick rounds into the side of the garage, hoping to flush them out. Nothing.
She moved the scope and the rifle across the lawn, looking for the last man.
She found him, standing dead still, dual pistols raised back at her.
Though she doubted he could see her, this man had figured out a vague proximity of her position. This was no good as Els had very little cover. Save for the scattering of low boulders and sparse trees, she was practically in the open.
He fired a single shot at her and the bullet hit close, sending a spray of dirt and gravel up into the air mere inches from where she was crouched.
The closeness of the shot surprised her, and she dropped her rifle reflexively.
And then the man unleashed a double-barreled barrage of hellfire at her.
All around her the ground exploded as chunks of hot lead bored holes into the earth.
She took aim again, amidst the hail of gunfire. He was sighted, bold stance in the middle of the open lawn.
Her finger squeezed down on the trigger, but before she could depress it fully, a single wild shot found its mark and tore through the middle of her left forearm and exited in a plum-sized concavity of wet gore.
Els rolled on to her back, staring up into the dark sky, clutching her arm in pain. She could feel a pointed shard of bone where the bullet had left her body at the elbow.
Els screamed into the lightless night as more shots rained down around her.
“Goddamit, Elizabeth! You’ve got to cancel that pussy shit immediately, do you hear me? You’re a fucking machine! You’re a fucking warrior! If you don’t screw your fucking head back on right now, this is over. Now get the fuck back up!”
“Yes, daddy.” Els said in a breathless whisper.
She propped herself up in a sitting position as still more bullets hit the dirt around her.
She picked her rifle up once again and raised the scope to her eye. Her left arm was ruined, nerve damage and trauma had rendered it useless and she found she could no longer make a fist. She had to prop the gun up awkwardly on her forearm. The pain was beyond anything she had ever felt, but she managed to get the man back in her sight. The bright flash from his barrels lit up almost white in the night vision as he fired an endless volley at her.
Els squeezed the trigger and the volley ended as the man hit the ground, gut shot. He did not fall over dead, or even lie down. He ended in a sitting position, two hands over the hole in his stomach, blood gushing from between his fingers.
She fired a second shot to put him down for good, aiming for his chest, but with her arm disabled, the shot went stray and hit him in the mouth. Teeth and blood exploded as the man finally fell over dead, remnants of his tongue hanging down to his neck from the gaping red hole where his bottom jaw used to be.
Els took a breath and threw the rifle down. Her arm was throbbing. The pain flowed to the center of her and converged at a point. She felt nauseas.
She looked down the hill with her naked eye. Had the remaining three scrambled back inside through the open front door?
She couldn’t be sure.
“A little help, DaddyNeesha. Did you see them go back in? Where you watching?”
There was no answer.
She was feeling light-headed. Blood flowed from her shattered arm, making the sleeve of her shirt grow heavy.
“Neesha? Daddy? I need to know. I’m hurt. I’m hurt, but I’ll be alright. I just need to know if they ran.”
Again, there was no answer.
E
ls used her good hand to search around in the dirt, never letting her eyes leave the space between the jutting part of the garage and the font door.
She swept her arm back and forth until her hand brushed against something soft, and her fingers came away sticky and wet.
It was Neesha. One of the stray shots had made contact, shattering the skull, putrid half-liquefied muck of her brains spread out over the hill in reeking chunks.
Els felt a weight in her chest sink down to her stomach. Neesha was gone now, and she realized how alone she was. She wanted to cry, cry for Neesha, cry for herself and for her ruined arm that was throbbing in physical pain to compete with her emotional pain.
But she would not cry. She would not lose herself to loss, or grief or worry. It was only anger that she needed, and she would use it. She would kill. Kill as she had been. And she wouldn’t stop until they all lay dead at her feet.
Els struggled to load the rocket launcher a second time. But even with only one good arm, she managed to insert the rocket and aim it.
She watched the streak of orange flame tear down from the hill and explode into the house. It hit near the front door, just to the side of the garage and opened a flaming hole. It burned now, lighting up the night like a bonfire. As the flame spread, Els descended the hill, leaving the rocket launcher, her rifle, and the splintered remains of her friend’s head behind.
FIFTY NINE
Calisto watched the first rocket explode from his bedroom window. He could not say that it was unexpected. He knew that they would come for him. He knew they would have to fight. He also knew that they would probably lose. He could have run, he had plenty of time, but what would he run to? He was not an unintelligent man, he realized that the tenure of those in his position was often short lived. But that was the way of the world. Reach and grab for everything you can until someone cuts your hand off. He had no complaints. He had taken more than his fair share of handfuls. He would more than likely die, but before he did, he would see at least a few of his enemies’ eyes as the life drained away. He would be the last thing they saw, and perhaps it was too much to hope for, but they would realize that he fought to keep what was his, what he had taken, what he could keep, and they would know it was the only thing that had meaning. Wealth, power, the ability to act in any way you please, as a man should. That was what he fought to keep. Those were solid things, things you could close your fist around and own. Why did they fight him? They fought for ideas. They fought for righteousness. What a fucking joke they were. They fought for abstract ideals of niceness and fairness. Those things did not exist. The fact that you have to fight to make them real, to struggle to keep them in reality, even though they went against man’s nature, proved their pointlessness.
Mules:: A Novel Page 29