Earthbound (24 page)
Authors: Joe Haldeman
Tags: #Science Fiction, #Fiction, #Adventure, #Fantasy, #General
I’m not sure quite what happened then, and in what order. One or two of them fired, and both Hermosa and Roz crumpled. The leader had his gun out of the holster and fired, I think into the ground, as a blast from Namir’s weapon tore half his head off. His helmet spun away, and before it hit the ground everyone was shooting.
I had the pistol out and held it the way they’d shown me, both hands, but I wasn’t aiming, just pulling the trigger as fast as I could, pointing at the black-clad men, most of whom had dived to the ground and were firing from a prone position. When the pistol was empty, I threw it down and raised the rifle.
Sharp sting in my left thigh and I fell down backwards, rifle clattering away. I curled into a ball, clutching the wound. There was a lot of blood, and I was peeing, too. I might have been screaming, but all I remember is gunfire and then a big explosion, and silence.
Roz was still alive, though she had a long wide wound to her face; she’d managed to dig that hand grenade out of her bag and throw it at the bikes.
Only one of the enemy was still standing, staggering, and Namir cut him down when he raised his rifle to aim. Or perhaps to surrender. The others were lying on the ground, still or writhing in pain. With her good arm, Elza took a pistol from the closest dead one and walked among them, shooting each one once in the head. The expression on her face was stony and terrible.
I kicked off my sandals and pulled down my pants, already sodden with blood. Blood from the wound was flowing freely but not spurting. The bullet had missed my vagina by two finger widths. A shallow rip about three inches long.
“Put this on it.” Dustin was holding out a thick white bandage with ribbons hanging from four corners. I pressed it to the wound while he laced the ribbons around and tied them tight. I should have made some sexual joke but was busy trying to keep my lunch down. He pressed an ampoule into my thigh below the wound.
“Okay. Lie back and rest, try to rest.”
“Where’s Paul?” I was starting to drift.
He shook his head. “Don’t know.” I got up on one elbow but it gave way. Dustin eased me back, and I blacked out.
When I woke it was cooler and growing dark. Elza was smoothing a patch onto the back of my hand, some sort of quick stim. Blood pounded in my ears, and I saw sparkles flare and dim.
“We have to move,” she said. “I’d like to let you sleep.”
“Paul?” I said.
She chewed her lower lip. “He’s alive, Carmen. Just.”
I felt light; insubstantial, like zero gee. Maybe like a ghost. I stood up and fought dizziness. I could feel stitches pulling on the wound in my thigh, and the grip of fleshtape, but it didn’t hurt. Just cold underneath the skin.
Elza stroked the back of my head, patting my short hair. It had grown out enough to make me look like a boy instead of a baldie. When had I last looked in a mirror?
There was a pile of black-clad bodies and a small grave. A shovel was stuck in the soft dirt. Waiting?
Dustin sat with crossed legs next to Paul, who was stretched out on a sheet of dark plastic lettered CALIFORNIA HIGHWAY PATROL. When I got closer I saw that the plastic was really light green. The darkness was blood, dried or clotting.
Paul was shirtless, a thick wad of bandage taped over his chest, and his right hand was hidden inside another blood-soaked wad. Forehead wrapped in fresh white gauze.
Only the whites of his eyes showed. His breathing was a quiet, labored rasp.
Namir came up beside me and stood close, not touching. “It’s a wonder he’s alive,” he whispered. “A bullet went completely through his chest and out the back.”
“The head wound?” I said, feeling horribly detached. The man I love is dying?
“Might be a skull fracture.” I couldn’t ask about the hand.
“Shall I try to wake him up?” Elza said.
“Let him rest,” I said. “If he’s going to die, let him go.” Words I didn’t want to say but couldn’t take back.
“We have to get out of the open,” Namir said. “Roz found a place a couple of hundred meters down the road.”
I looked around. Not a good place to spend the night, the road in a tight loop. People could sneak up from both sides and overhead.
The sun was setting in a brilliant swirl of scarlet and orange and purple. “Could I be with him for just a minute? Alone with him.”
The three of them moved quietly away. I heard someone gathering hardware.
The skin of his face was cold and wet, but his forehead was warm. I touched his eyelids but got no reaction. They stayed closed.
He made a noise in his throat, like an “R.” My name? I said his name, and he took a breath and made the sound again. He opened one eye and tipped his head slightly toward me. “Arm,” he whispered. “Be?”
That was a lot better than nothing. “You’ll be all right,” I said, with more conviction than I felt. “We have to move you. Get out of the open.”
He nodded slightly and closed his eyes.
Namir and Dustin helped me carry him, using the plastic sheet as a floppy stretcher. We had to rest twice, but managed to haul him up the road and over a concrete berm, to where Elza was standing guard. Roz was asleep in the weedy grass, and didn’t wake up when we settled Paul next to her.
“Check your leg,” Dustin said. I took off my trousers, and he and Elza studied my crotch more carefully than anyone had done in a while.
“Not my best work,” Elza said, carefully tracing the line of the stitches. She licked her thumb and rubbed dried blood away. It was still numb. “Might have to be redone by a real doctor someday.” If someday ever comes.
The stim still had me tingling, though from the heaviness in my arms and legs I knew I was headed for a crash landing when it wore off. So Elza let me take over for the first guard watch, while I was still wide-eyed.
As soon as it was fully dark, I could hear scavengers of some kind down by the pile of bodies. I hoped all the fresh meat lying around would keep them from digging up the grave.
But did it really make any difference? Wolves above the ground or worms below. I tried to get that out of my mind.
That poor little girl, who came to us for protection. Welcome to the Carmen Dula good-luck streak. What had Card said?
Maybe it wasn’t Mars . . . maybe you’re to blame for the whole fucking shooting match.
Though it was starting to feel more like a shooting gallery than a match, the targets falling two by two.
Maybe it wasn’t Mars . . . maybe you’re to blame for the whole fucking shooting match.
Though it was starting to feel more like a shooting gallery than a match, the targets falling two by two.
My raw right hand still felt the pumping recoil of the pistol; the web of my thumb was skinned where the slide had rubbed over it.
I heard claws rattle on the pavement below me, then stop. A dog or a wolf was looking up at me in the darkness. I pushed the safety knob forward, and after that quiet click the claws moved on.
They knew we were here. But they weren’t hungry. Not yet.
Namir relieved me at ten o’clock. Paul was conscious and talking quietly, breathing without trouble. I slept straight through till Roz woke me at six. Like good little soldiers, we cleaned and inspected our weapons. Check the action but don’t carry a round in the chamber. Irrelevant to Namir himself, with his double-barreled shotgun always ready.
(When the bikers attacked, I hadn’t gone for my own assault rifle, strapped across my back. I had the pistol in my hand and just emptied it, and then stood there like a target while I fumbled with the rifle. The bullet that hit me might have saved my life, since it put me flat on the ground before Roz’s grenade went off. All the shrapnel went over my head.)
We dined on crunchy dried rations. There was a temporary toilet-paper crisis, solved by Ronald Reagan.
“Another perfect day in paradise,” Paul groaned when he woke, blinking up at the unbroken blue sky. “Have we decided who’s going, who’s staying?”
“Only Roz and I are comfortable with horses,” Namir said. Someone had to fetch a horse and cart from Funny Farm, to carry Paul.
“I guess you ought to go,” Paul said. “Dustin and the girls can protect me.”
“Girls,” I said. “We’ll bake him some fucking cookies.”
“Leave this with you,” Namir said, setting the riot gun down next to him. He rattled the box of shells. “Don’t spend them all in one place.”
Elza had the light machine gun and two short belts of ammunition. She held up a belt, and he shook his head, no. “Just a pistol. I’m not getting into any gun battles.” He hoped.
He looked at the sun. “Eight hours there, maybe three back, depending on the horse situation.”
“And whether you get lost,” Roz said. Without a native guide.
“Straightforward enough. I’ll stay close to the road.”
“Stop if it gets dark,” I said, unnecessarily.
“Be back before that,” he said without conviction. He pulled his rucksack straps tight and squeezed my arm. “Take care.”
He turned into the woods and disappeared.
We decided to keep the two-hour guard interval, with one of us standing watch at the top of the berm, looking down the road toward the bodies, and another hiding up the road in the other direction.
I did that one first, lying behind some thick brush that gave me a clear line of sight down to the road. Saw two squirrels and heard others arguing overhead. No birds. I passed the time making letters and even whole words out of the random lines presented by the clutter of stems and branches in front of me. THIT THIT, one area lisped, and I could but agree.
Roz eventually came to relieve me, her face looking a little better. She’d taken off the emergency fleshtape and cleaned the line of stitches and then re-applied new fleshtape more evenly. Still a bad rip from eye to chin, and she had to drink through a straw. She offered her thermos to me, a harsh mixture of tepid instant coffee and rum. Not my usual before-lunch pick-me-up, but memorable.
Dustin was stretched out on top of the berm, looking down over the machine-gun sights at the pile of bodies, which was not as orderly as it had been. When I got up to where he was, I could smell them, a slight whiff of rot.
“Wait till they’ve been in the sun all day,” he said. He handed me the hourglass contraption and adjusted the figure-eight sling, grimacing.
“Any of those wolves?”
“Dogs, I think, but no. Not since it got light.” He put his hand lightly on top of the gun. “I guess Namir told you, it’s a hair trigger. Just tap it and get off, that’ll be two or three shots.”
I looked at the two belts beside it. “And we only have, what, fifty?”
“Actually forty-eight. You could burn it all up in a few seconds.”
“I’ll be careful.” Namir had emphasized that it was mainly a psychological weapon, to make us seem more powerful than we were. “It’s cocked?”
“Ready to go. Don’t touch it till you can see the whites of their eyes.” I think that was some kind of a joke. But how close would that be? Besides, it’s California; the natives all wear sunglasses.
Maybe I would fire when they were close enough to hit.
I wondered whether I had killed anyone yesterday, blasting away at random. If it was important, I could go down and look at all the bodies. See if anyone had been felled by a single tiny shot.
That was a topic that had come up now and then on the starship. Namir was obviously bothered by it, having killed a carload of people as a young soldier, and more than a dozen more later in life. (He had never told me this, but had admitted it to Elza one drunken night. It was not official spy business for Mossad, but personal revenge just after Gehenna. In one day, he tracked down and killed eleven enemies with bare hands or a knife, and six more later.)
None of the rest of us had had anything like that experience, though Elza and Dustin were supposedly skilled in the art and craft of murder, and Paul had gone through basic training, and learned about bayonets and hand-to-hand fighting and all. Namir said a single killing changed you forever, separated you from the rest of the human race with a silent barrier. One time he wondered whether it was like motherhood—an experience that was common and yet so profound that having it or not divided the race into two species.
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