The Lazarus Drop

by Paul Moomaw

“Maybe. Maybe not."

  “Anyway,” Otero said, “Humberto may need help. Who knows what those men did to him.” He reached beneath the seat and pulled out a short-barreled rifle. “Cruz said give you this.” He handed me the weapon.

  Carlos slapped the seat next to Otero. “What about me, cabron?"

  “Cruz didn't say anything about you. He just said, if there was a need, to give the rifle to the gringo."

  Carlos sat back angrily, crossed his arms. “Cruz. Cruz. Always fucking Cruz."

  Otero didn't respond. He started the groundcar cautiously forward. I examined the rifle. It was lightweight, mostly plastic, firing self-contained, solid projectiles. It would have been state of the art fifty years ago, and it would still do the job.

  * * * *

  Humberto didn't need any help. He was dead, and he didn't have the look of someone who had died easily. They must have wanted him to tell them something important, or else they were just born vicious. Humberto's trousers were pulled down, and only a charred mass of flesh and the smell of burned hair and flesh marked the passing of his manhood.

  Otero looked like he wanted to vomit, and I felt the same way.

  “Let's hope the old fart kept his mouth shut about us.” Carlos said. He opened a cabinet, revealing a vidcom.

  “You know about these, gringo?"

  “I know somebody put a boot through that one.” I pointed to the screen, which had a large, jagged hole in it.

  “That's been like that for as long as I know.” Otero said. “But it always worked okay for talking."

  It appeared to be a standard machine, with a simple on-off switch and a keyboard for punching in access codes, but with a free-standing microphone which looked as if it had been patched on at some later point.

  “What did you use this thing for, anyway?” I directed my question to Otero. Carlos was busy rummaging around, opening cabinets, talking to himself, generally being out of it.

  “There are some other groups like ours. We manage to stay in touch with this.” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Humberto's corpse. “At least, we used to."

  “How did you get in and out of the net without anybody ever noticing?"

  “I don't know the details. I heard Cruz say something about garbage patrols, once. Who knows what that meant? Anyway, looks like maybe somebody did notice."

  Garbage patrol. Cruising the junkpile they call it, too, the kids and other freeloaders who want access without paying. When a network satellite gets a glitch, it's cheaper to replace it than to repair it, so there are always at least a few sailing around up there, not functioning well enough for commercial use, but with a few bells and whistles still working for the hackers, at least until the junkman picks them up and parks them in the scrap ring.

  The question now was whether this unit would get me into the net; whether it would work at all, in fact.

  I hit the power switch. A red light came on, and the machine gave a satisfying hum. But when I glanced at the power level, the news wasn't good. I estimated that we had somewhere between fifteen and thirty minutes on the batteries.

  “Humberto wasn't too compulsive about keeping his batteries charged,” I said.

  “Sometimes he drank a little,” Otero replied. He moved to the door.

  “Where you going?” Carlos yelled.

  “Somebody should be outside to keep an eye open, don't you think?”

  “Yeah. Okay, sure. You go outside and make sure nobody comes.” He managed to make it sound like an order, as if it were his idea. Then he turned to me. “Get to work, gringo."

  Here goes nothing, I thought, and punched in Nordeen's code. There was a long delay while I tapped my fingers impatiently on the console and watched the power gauge. I could swear the LED was getting shorter as I watched.

  Then there was faint static, and a voice, saying, “Who's calling the farm?"

  “A nephew from Mexico. I need to talk to my uncle."

  “Can you scramble at your end?"

  “Negative."

  “One moment.”

  The static got louder, then faded again as the voice returned.

  “Uncle is busy."

  “Listen, dammit! I'm on batteries, and I'm good for a quarter of an hour at most, and this is the only shot I've got at this call. Tell Nordeen to get his ass into orbit quick."

  “One moment.” If the speaker at the other end was bothered by my using Nordeen's name, it didn't show. There was another period of silence, and this time I really could see the damned gauge moving down. Then:

  “Make this good.” I recognized Nordeen's waspish voice.

  Carlos shoved me to one side.

  “I am the leader of the Children of the Jester God. Your agent here has promised...."

  “I don't talk to natives,” Nordeen said. I could tell he was going to be his usual charming self.

  “You will talk to me or no one, puto.” Carlos shouted.

  “Very well. Good bye."

  I shoved past Carlos.

  “Wait a minute, Nordeen."

  “Make it worth my while, Blue."

  “The target is on location, and can be had. But it's going to take assistance."

  “What kind of assistance? And talk louder, Blue. You're fading."

  I glanced at the power indicator. It was noticeably lower.

  “I'll make this fast, and only one time. We're on batteries and they're dropping. We need a small number, three or four at most, antipersonnel grenades with hand launchers. We need something for armor. Missiles. Enough to take out three power launches—big ones, maybe ten meters long, with laser cannons—and five armed poppers."

  “One-man poppers, or bigger?"

  I glanced a question at Carlos. He shrugged sullenly.

  “I'm guessing one-man,” I told Nordeen. “The hardware has to be light enough to carry in very small boats—paddle boats, practically—and easy for inexperienced men to use."

  “How many men?"

  I didn't have the slightest idea.

  “Twenty,” I lied. Better too much ordinance than not enough. We could always use leftovers for the victory celebration.

  “We'll send smart-wire missiles. All you have to do is aim, shoot, and hold your end of the string. Even a monkey can make them work. Delivery in exactly sixty, no, make that sixty-three hours. That will give you darkness for cover, right?"

  “Right.” Nordeen might be an asshole, but he was efficient.

  “Where do we make the drop?” he asked. “A landing strip, somewhere. You name it, we'll find it. We have them all indexed."

  I turned to Carlos again. “Where?"

  “Outside the town of Huetamo, south of Morelia, there is an abandoned airport."

  “Huetamo,” I said to Nordeen. “South of Morelia."

  “Speak louder Blue.” The power indicator was at the bottom and flickering.

  “Huetamo!” I shouted.

  “Goddammit, Blue, I'm losing you,” Nordeen was barely audible himself.

  “Huetamo! Huetamo! Airport!"

  There was no response. Nordeen was gone. A minute later, even the static was gone, and the little red light no longer glowed.

  I sighed and flipped the now-useless power switch off.

  “Let's get the hell out of here,” I said.

  “How are we going to know if he heard?"

  “We won't, not for sixty-three hours."

  “That's crazy."

  “You're right. It's crazy. You have any better ideas?"

  Carlos glared at me, wordlessly.

  “So, let's get the hell out of here,” I repeated.

  I reached for the door, opened it, and a piece of it blew up in my face, peppering me with splinters. I heard the report of a weapon as I fell back into the shack, terrified by the sudden, sharp pain I felt in both eyes.

  “Shit!” Carlos snarled. “They came back. Where the hell is Otero?” He ripped the rifle out of my hands, and I heard him as he scrambled to the door. There was another
explosion of wood chips, which drew a loud curse from Carlos, followed by a deafening crack as he returned the fire.

  “What do you see?” I still had my eyes tightly closed. I was afraid to open them, afraid that when I did I still wouldn't be able to see anything.

  Another loud crack as Carlos fired again.

  “Somebody across the way,” he said. “Shooting from a window.” Two more reports, with another ricochet exploding through our little shack. I could feel the breeze from that one. I was still afraid to open my eyes, but I was more afraid of sitting blind on the floor. I took a deep break and opened my right eye, which didn't hurt as much as the other one. It worked, and emboldened by the discovery, I opened the left eye.

  It worked too, although neither eye was functioning very well. Everything was a little dim, and covered by a red haze. I brushed my hand across my brow and nose, and it came away all bloody. That explained the red haze.

  I looked up. Carlos wasn't in the room any longer. I scuttled to the relative safety of a corner, and pulled the little stinger from my belt. I would have preferred the rifle, but anything felt better than being empty handed.

  I took a peek out the small front window. Carlos was crouched behind the groundcar. Directly across from us was a small house with two windows. Both were broken out. I saw a brief movement behind one of the windows, and then a muzzle flash, and the whine of a ricochet.

  “Shit!” Carlos heaved convulsively. The man in the window had taken a shot under the groundcar. I couldn't tell whether he had actually scored a hit, or if Carlos was just yelping from exploding debris.

  Carlos jumped up and started sprinting like crazy toward the burnt remains of the storage hut. The other man got bold and stepped outside to get a better shot.

  I switched the stinger to automatic, braced it against the door frame, and held the trigger down.

  A stream of eight or ten flechettes exploded in a broad pattern around the man. Only one hit him, as far as I could tell, but that one blew his face apart. He didn't make a sound, just sat down abruptly.

  Carlos stopped in mid-stride as he saw what had happened. He looked at the fallen assailant, then at me again. He swaggered over to the other man and pumped two shots into him. The man jerked, but didn't fall over. Carlos shot twice more. This time the guy didn't even jerk. Finally, Carlos pushed him over with his boot.

  “I'd like to get my hands on Otero,” he said. “He must have found a bottle, or a girl."

  “Unless that guy found him first."

  “Why the shit did you mess his face up like that, gringo? Now we'll never know who he was."

  “Sorry. I'll try harder if there's another one."

  That stopped him. He froze and swung around, peering in all directions.

  “Don't worry,” I said. “If there had been two, we'd both be eating dirt with that guy over there."

  A noise from the direction of the generator hut got our attention at the same time. Carlos spun around, rifle ready, as a figure staggered from behind the wall of the hut. It was Otero, holding his head and looking dazed.

  Carlos raised the rifle.

  “No!” I shouted.

  He pulled the trigger. There was a loud crack, and Otero gave a shiver and fell back into the ruined hut.

  “That was Otero, you stupid asshole!"

  Carlos shook his head vaguely, like someone coming out of a trance.

  “What do you mean?"

  “That was our guy. That was Otero. You just killed Otero."

  “I didn't know!” His voice was a kid's wail. “How could I know? It didn't look like him right away."

  Bullshit, I thought. I walked to the hut, knelt by Otero. He was still breathing, rapidly, shallowly.

  “Maybe it's not too late,” I said. I pressed my finger against his neck. The pulse was faint, and growing rapidly fainter. Then it stopped.

  I stood up and gave Carlos a cold stare.

  “Did he have a family?"

  “Who cares? He was just one of Cruz’ cops."

  “I imagine Cruz is going to care. Maybe you better start thinking about how you're going to explain this."

  “So?” He tried a grin on me. “We were attacked. Otero got it before we could fight back. Right? Who's going to know any different?"

  The grin faded as I shook my head.

  “No."

  He pointed the rifle at my belly.

  “All right, gringo. Then the story is, we were attacked, and you and Otero both got it before I got a lucky shot in."

  I raised the gun that was still in my fist.

  “You know, the trouble with this little gun is, it isn't very accurate. But, on the other hand, it would be hard to miss you this close, even with a bullet in me. And as you may have noticed, it makes a real mess."

  Carlos looked at the stinger. His eyes flickered back and forth, and his mouth quivered, and I knew I had him.

  “Want to try, Carlos? Or do you want to drop the rifle and back off?"

  He stared at me, and his finger tightened on the rifle trigger. For a moment I thought I had made my last gamble.

  Then he sagged, looked away, and dropped the rifle.

  “Step back,” I ordered. I picked the rifle up. “This part, I'm willing to forget happened."

  He nodded, defeated. “Gracias.”

  But I saw the look in his eyes, and I knew two things. I knew he would never forgive me for having seen his fear.

  And I knew I had better never turn my back on him.

  I walked over to the man who had attacked us. He carried nothing that might hint at his identity, and, as Carlos had pointed out, what was left of his face wasn't going to give anything away.

  I ducked through the door into the house where he had been hiding, and gagged at a familiar smell.

  “Carlos!” I called. “Come here."

  He walked reluctantly into the house.

  “Do you smell anything?"

  He nodded. “Stinks. What is it?"

  I just shrugged and shook my head, but I knew what it was. I had smelled it twice before, both times on the Greenhouse Wall. Both times in the presence of a man who liked to dangle money. Who liked the feel of silk.

  Chandra Beg.

  I started to walk out again, but Carlos was rooted to the floor, staring into the room behind me. I stepped back and turned around.

  In the corner, hidden in shadow so that I hadn't noticed her before, was a woman. She had a tired, drained look, because someone had slit her throat, and all her blood was on her dress and around her on the floor.

  “They didn't have to do that!” There was horror in Carlos voice, and horror in his eyes when I turned to look at him.

  “She wasn't hurting anything.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “They didn't have to do that."

  I gave him a little shove. “Let's go home, Carlos.”

  He turned and stumbled back out into the light.

  “Carry Otero to the car,” I said.

  “Carry him yourself."

  “No. I'll leave him here. And I'll let Cruz know why I had to."

  “Cochino!” He went back to Otero's body, grabbed it under the armpits, and dragged it to the ground car. I opened a rear door and watched silently as he wrestled the body inside. Then I pushed the door closed.

  “You drive,” I said.

  “I don't know how.” He grinned at me defiantly.

  “You're about to learn.” I waved the stinger at him. “Get in the driver's seat. Now."

  He looked at me for a moment, not sure I meant it. Then he threw the door open, climbed in, and slammed it behind him. I got in the other side.

  “First, push that switch to start the engine."

  He learned pretty fast, actually. We only came close to going off the mountain a couple of times, and if anyone noticed the groundcar's occasional, erratic movements, they didn't stop us to mention it.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 11

  “A coincidence, Se
nor Blue. Noriega was bound to find out about Humberto's operation sooner or later."

  Cruz and I sat alone in the Mendoza dining room. Not quite alone. A bottle of mescal stood on the table between us; at the rate we were going, it wouldn't be there long.

  The police chief had been at the house when Carlos and I returned from Playa Azul, and had taken on the burden of disposing of Otero, who, it turned out, did have a family—a wife, and three little boys. Then he had returned, mainly to talk to Carlos about the death. But Carlos had vanished, with a muttered excuse that he had to prepare for the evening, so Cruz had settled for me.

  “I don't believe in coincidences,” I said. “And I have trouble believing in some kinds of accidents, too. Even with blood in my eyes, I didn't have any trouble recognizing Otero. But Carlos swears he didn't realize who it was.”

  “Carlos is very young. And for all his brave talk of war and revolution, he has no experience at such things."

  “And yet he is accepted as a leader."

  “He has charm, and passion, and a persuasive tongue. Mostly, though, he has his father's good name.” Cruz filled his glass with mescal and gazed at it thoughtfully, then tossed it off. “How often we find ourselves following the paths laid down by our fathers, and their fathers. Take me, for instance."

  He poured another shot of mescal, then passed the bottle across to me.

  “My great-great grandfather lived in this very town at the beginning of the last century. He was a policeman, too. Mexico was run by a dictator, then. A man named Porfirio Diaz. He was probably not a bad man, as dictators go. Certainly he had more quality than our little plastic General. But the country became disenchanted and threw him out. That was in 1910. My great-great grandfather was among the disenchanted, and joined in the revolution. But the revolution degenerated into thirty years of anarchy, and civil war, and death. My great-grandfather never forgave himself for helping that happen.” He smiled and gazed briefly at the wall.

  “So he tried to make amends. He named his oldest son Porfirio, as a reminder that some things are worse than autocracy. And he made a policeman of him."

  The smile broadened into a grin. “Ever since then, the oldest son in our family is named Porfirio, and becomes a policeman."

  “And your son?"

  The grin disappeared. “I have no sons. I had a wife, and a daughter. They drowned in Lake Patzcuaro."