The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination (23 page)

E
fryn Boyne
and his delightful new friend, Angela Dobka, fell into a heel-toe tap dance down the Administration Building’s marble staircase. She paused to slip into her trench coat and pull on a pair of very long, black leather gloves. This was all so unexpected. She was intoxicating. Younger than her years in a mysteriously alluring way. She must be in fantastic physical condition, he thought. “You athletic?”

“Marathon cycling.”

“Oh? Let’s just take my transporter this time,” he said. “It’s right over there.” He fumbled for his remote and aimed it jauntily from behind his back; the rear door popped. She patted both leather-clad palms upon her blushing cheeks in an exaggerated gesture of appreciation. They jumped in, laughing and shivering. She perched on the fold-down seat across from his command chair. He closed the door and raised his phone. She stared at him, eyes widening, then slowly raised one lonely finger.

She leaned closer, paused.

He leaned closer.

She looked into his eyes.

He looked into hers.

She tore a chopstick from her hair and jammed it through his throat so hard he fell back, pinned to the seat. She ripped the other chopstick out and held it a hair’s breadth from his eyeball. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders as her wild eyes flashed from window to window and back to glower in his bulging face.

He tried to swallow but choked on the blood gurgling in his throat, his voice nothing but bubbles. He grabbed her wrist with both hands. She grinned devilishly and pushed them down. She was in fantastic shape.

No alarms. No men rushing the transporter.

She yanked off what was now so obviously a wig, revealing a neon blue bob, popular with cyclists. “Let me introduce myself,” she said, checking in all directions. “I’m Elizabeth Klevens. I believe you called me this morning — something about a stolen car?”

Boyne’s death mask twisted in rubbery disbelief.

“Thought you killed me?” Her pleasure in his suffering was delectable.

His life was bubbling out in sputters, eyes begging for clarification.

“You got a receipt when you reported that I was dead,” she said, carefully removing the long, blood-soaked leather gloves. She pulled the reversible arms through her trench coat, which transformed from anonymous business-brown to a large hounds-tooth pattern, dangerous-orange on an electric-blue background.

“My friends sent you that receipt,” she grinned. “The K at the end? KNim! The second you opened that message, you were done. We’ve tracked your every move. And now this. How fun is this? Asshole! Fucking! Asshole.”

She slipped the hounds-tooth coat on in one fluid contortion, then pulled from its pocket a gold chain with a medallion bearing an odd symbol, which looked like an upside down martini glass.

“You almost got me,” she said.

He blacked out. She rammed her palm into his forehead and he snapped back, only to rediscover his horror.

“Not me! My husband, my dear, innocent husband, Lee Klevens, that’s who you blew up in that bathroom. A bicycle repair man!” She put one knee on the fold-out seat, scanned the area outside, then leaned over and thwacked Boyne on the forehead with her middle finger.

Boyne surrendered, his death as inevitable as a good healthy piss. He could hear the banshees calling, but fought for a few more blood-soaked breaths.

“We’re taking it all back,” she said. “We’re taking it all away from you.” She dropped her pants, revealing broadly striped wool leggings beneath a dazzling mini-skirt. She’d transformed from a business woman into a bicycle-tramp guaranteed to blend right in here on New Hibernia Boulevard.

She poked the chopstick at his eye again, but only brushed it across his eyelashes. She’d thought of nothing but this moment since the attack, but she stopped short as his entire body went rigid, then slack. She threw the chopstick on the floor and opened the back door a tiny crack. It was cold and getting dark, but the foot traffic was growing. One last glorious look at this fine mess and she’d be off.

Boyne went into a soggy convulsion, choking and sputtering. She positioned herself to exit, but something was amiss. She snatched the luxurious fur hat from his head. “You won’t be needing this. It’s hot as hell where you’re going.” She spun it on one finger and was very happy to find the tiny machine pistol tucked into its holster. “Just what I needed. A souvenir. Lee would have liked this hat. He was a practical man.”

She started to open the door, but Boyne lurched at her with a rubbery hand. It ricocheted off her butt and she spun round, ready to clock him. But he slumped into his seat before she could, mumbling, “Ba-baaa-annchh.”

She stepped out and boldly arranged her skirt, as might be expected. She took one last look.

Boyne mumbled the same indecipherable, “Bb…buu…annhchi.”

She put the hat on her head at a jaunty angle, and waved goodbye. “Thanks for the hat.” She slammed the door.

Boyne’s life gurgled away in a few jarring spasms.

She strolled down New Hibernia Boulevard like she owned it, high on bloodlust. She was invincible. This moment was hers. Exclusively. She looked back, stroking the luxurious fur hat, gripping the tiny pistol concealed in her hand, and congratulating herself on finding the perfect souvenir. Her precious husband would have loved this hat. The perfect trophy.

She crossed the street and headed down a stretch of storefronts opposite the Wall. She stopped, backed up, and stood staring at a display of Irish trinkets in a shop window. What had Boyne said?

The entire window was filled with hideous little dolls wearing fierce expressions on ugly faces with flaming hair. They all seemed to be smiling at her knowingly. What was it he kept saying?

All the price tags were decorated with shamrocks and labeled — Banshees.

C
amille was
cheerful but apprehensive when the MacIan debriefing video began. MISH asked, “Are you sure you want to see this? It’s about a friend, behind his back.”

“It’s not behind his back, is it? I just met him. MISH, there's no way I am not watching this. Get over it.”

It began with two uniformed men in profile sitting at a plain gray table. Admiral Carson turned to the camera and identified the reel. “Debriefing: U.S. Naval Pilot Jason MacIan. Peregrine Fleet. Iran Campaign. Captured in country, held at unspecified locations for indeterminate reasons and period.”

Camille watched uneasily; this wasn’t the heroic celebration she’d imagined. MacIan sat motionless across from Admiral Carson, an older, red-headed man she’d heard of.

MISH whispered, “The Tidal Basin Bombardier.”

“So that’s him!” said Camille adoringly.

“He’s not a player, but he’s so popular he has a Massive general rating — 5.0.”

“Fives are good. Right?”

Admiral Carson folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “Were you shot down?”

“No. I was E-vac at a desert outpost, eight hundred miles west by northwest of Tehran, near Ashgabat, on the Turkmeni border. We were carrying the wounded from the tents when overrun by a large force of locals. Right out of the sand.”

“How did you know they were locals?”

“I didn’t at the time, but I do now. They surrounded us and started firing in the air. I had a man over my shoulder. I dropped to one knee and reached for my gun, but it would have been a massacre. We put our hands up. They started cheering. It was all over in seconds.”

“What happened next?”

“We walked to where they had a second group tending a herd of camels. These guys were tribals. They hadn’t taken sides. They were doing what they had to. Picking the desert clean to feed their families.”

“Then what?”

“We walked for about three hours. They didn’t even tie our hands. It was hot, but not too sandy. They gave us water. And there was a sort of road, a wide path. It led to their village. Which was pretty big. Huts running up a terraced hill.”

“Big?”

“Maybe a hundred people. Rows of mud brick huts, all the corners sandblasted smooth. They marched us up the hill to a cave, more of a very deep hole that went back under a stone ledge, and showed us in.”

“Did they mistreat you?

“No. They weren’t hostile. They were very businesslike. They had a fierce look, even when they laughed. We were at their mercy, but I never felt they were going to hurt us. They tried to reassure us with smiles and hands over their hearts, like they do. I wasn’t afraid. More pissed off.

“Groups of men stood guard all day and we could wander around on the hillside. We were an amusement. At night we went back in the hole and they rolled a big stone over the entrance using long wooden poles. We felt safer at night, behind that boulder.”

“How long were you there?”

MacIan took some time to respond. “I don’t know, a month maybe.”

“You were in a hole for a month?”

“It was a pretty big hole. Only at night. And these guys were taking care of us. Maybe they’d trade us for something. But it was different than you’d think.”

“Different?”

“Yes, Admiral. They were bound to a code of hospitality that came from fighting their neighbors, non-stop, since before anyone can remember. Mutual fair treatment. Does that sound crazy?”

“No, it’s logical.”

Camille stared in rapt silence. These two men were excruciatingly dignified.

Admiral Carson sat back in his chair. “What happened next?”

“We were prisoners. So, nothing happened. We took care of each other. We talked, endlessly. There were seventeen of us. Then one day, just before sunrise, the whole world shook. We could only see out around the boulder. Explosions so loud, smoke and cordite choking us. Villagers screaming and that horrible noise camels make. Ricochets flying off rocks. Smoke and dust! And then — nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Yes. The worst thing of all — nothing.”

“No one came to let you out?”

“There wasn’t anyone left to let us out. We were trapped. In that hole. No food. No water. No nothing. That cave got a lot smaller.”

Camille placed her hand over her mouth. She was awake now.

Admiral Carson plowed his fingers through a thinning crop of faded red hair and sat forward.

MacIan wanted to tell his story as accurately as he could. “After a day or so, we knew the villagers had all been killed. They would never leave us in there. They weren’t like that. They were good people caught in something beyond their control. They just wanted to be left alone. But they got wiped out, and from the sound and smell of it, by a drone-swarm. One of our own.”

MacIan was having a hard time swallowing. “After a few more days, we were starving and dying of thirst. The injured guys started to fail. After another few days, a week or so, one by one the men fell into a sort of coma, then died. Like they ran out of gas. Gave up.”

Admiral Carson squirmed a little.

“Hell, only real. Hell on Earth. And it got worse. We knew we were going to die, but there was absolutely nothing we could do. No energy. Nothing to look at but rotting bodies. The smell. Dying animals. Inside and out.”

“How long did that go on?”

“Can’t say. I was insane. I wasn’t thinking about staying alive. I was praying for death. But when it got down to just three of us, I decided to kill the other two.”

Camille and Admiral Carson winced.

“I was sure they were going to murder me in my sleep and eat me. We all stayed awake staring at each other.”

“Then?”

“Then, the other two started fighting. One got his head bashed in. The other one never recovered from the fight, just laid there for a day or so, never moved — just kept moaning. Everyone was dead. I was alone. Nothing to think about except my hate for the ones who’d caused all this. I could see my bones through my skin. I was decomposing, but I was still alive.” He struggled to recall something. “It was like looking into a black mirror.”

Admiral Carson seemed to agree, though his face showed he had no idea what MacIan meant.

Camille felt her eyes widening as MacIan continued.

“I was looking into a mirror, and I knew I was there, but I couldn’t see myself. That’s all I remember doing. Searching for myself.”

Camille was consumed in sympathy, but there was nothing pathetic about MacIan. Nothing! She didn’t hear what was said, but they started laughing. How could he just shake off the horrors he’d suffered?

MacIan resumed. “Then, I’m not sure what happened exactly, but I could hear voices, a language I’d never heard. Men rushed in pulling their turbans over their noses, puking from the smell. A fighter ran up to me. I can still see the fury in his eyes. He raised his rifle like he was going to smash my face in, but one word from their leader stopped him. They carried me outside and gave me water.

“The village was one giant cinder. No survivors. Not even the goats.” MacIan’s calm turned to sardonic whimsy. “My own people sentenced me to a fate worse than . . . Worse than what? I can’t even explain it. My own country. And for whose benefit?”

Admiral Carson wanted to say something, but stuck to the script. “What happened next?”

“The leader of these guys took charge. An old man, very old, but very strong. Nobody gave him any shit. He stayed by my side the whole time. He adopted me with one look. And no one ever gave me any shit after that, either.

“They put me in the back of a truck, gave me water and a paste of some kind, maybe dates and crushed seeds. I don’t know. They burned some black-gooey stuff in a little pot and fanned the smoke at me. Opium, I’m sure. I felt better. I felt nothing. That was great.

“We arrived at their town. It was pretty big. Many times the size of the first village. And they took care of me. Nursed me back to health, in about a year or two. I was highly regarded. The man who cheated death. I was a good luck charm.”

“How long . . . did you stay?”

“Six years.”

Commander Carson’s heart sank.

Camille’s problems vanished. She was lost in MacIan.

* * *

I
n The Church basement
, portly old Pastor Scott lay sprawled across his desk snoring in a lumpy wheeze. Fred stood over a stack of blueprints spread across a bingo table. From the comfort of The Church’s basement, Fred could plan his next set of improvements any time of the year. He thought this the best possible way to spend his winters.

But tonight, he just needed a distraction. He was boiling mad at Max. How could he go off and not call? If anything happened to Max he’d have no reason to live. So he immersed himself in his civic projects. They provided enough challenge to make the work interesting and sufficient reward to make them worth doing. He could never fully explain this to anyone.

Crunch, crunch . . .

What! What was that? Gravel trickled down the outside steps. He sprang to the door on tiptoes, panning both ears at it. An engine idling? Diesel? Hard to tell over the humming fluorescent tubes. There it was again! A rev with a little diesel knock. Leprechauns?

Fred poked Pastor Scott, who snarled. He put a hand in the Pastor’s face with a finger up to his lips.

Pastor Scott froze, confused and wondering where Gina was — the thought of her sent him into a rage. “It’s those McBastards come back!” He lunged at the door, as best as a man of his girth could.

Fred grabbed him from behind and ran him sidelong into the filing cabinets next to the door. They crashed to the floor. Fred whispered, “Quiet. Be quiet.”

Pastor Scott made an embarrassed face and nodded.

They listened to the commotion out in the parking lot: motors running, doors squeaking open, people walking on gravel. The activity grew quickly and just as quickly died. Doors slammed, engines roared away, no more gravel crunching sounds.

Fred pried himself off Pastor Scott and pointed at the doorknob. Pastor Scott shook his head fearfully and wagged his index finger — wait. They listened more intently. Suddenly, a single motor’s revving mixed with a heavy footfall that came straight at them, then stomped down the three stone steps outside the door, paused, then ran back up.

Pastor Scott looked to Fred.

Fred tilted his chin at the door, and just as he was about to give the go-ahead, a sharp knock hit it. They dove to the floor.

“That was a rock,” said Pastor Scott. “They threw a rock at the door.”

The motor chugged and its air brakes let go. Fred put an eye up to the peephole. He couldn’t see much. It was after dusk, but the sky was still glowing and the moon was bright.

Fred pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. He made a curious face at Pastor Scott, and very slowly pried the door ajar just a tad. No one lurking around the edges? No tell-tale sounds? A blue glint outlined the edge of a metal object sitting on the bottom step. He slammed the door and drove Pastor Scott into an empty space behind the furnace. “Bomb!”

They clung to the huge red-brick chimney, waiting for it to go off, but quickly grew impatient. Fred crawled across the floor, lifted himself onto one elbow, opened the door and looked straight onto the bottom step. Inches away from his nose sat a brand new laptop computer. A large one.

Fred looked at Pastor Scott; they both looked at the computer. Fred picked it up, scratching his head, and set it on top of the blueprints. Pastor Scott looked up the stairwell at the clouds glowing in the moonlight against a dark blue heaven.

Fred probed the computer; it still might be a bomb. He turned to Pastor Scott, but he was gone. Fred ran for the door.

Pastor Scott emerged from the stairwell and stood speechless in the frosty twilight. Fred ran up behind him and slowly they began to wander through the twenty-seven pallets of brand new computers stacked in the lot.