Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

“Thank God” was all Sumner said when she was finished.

“Now all we need are some leeches. They will hold the wound together so the skin will heal without a scar,” Emma said.

Sumner turned white. “Oh, God, no.”

Emma chuckled. “Relax, I’m kidding.”

“Remind me to get you for that when I’m feeling better.” He slipped back into sleep.

The rain pounded so hard on the roof that Emma thought she’d go mad with the noise. Even though Sumner was next to her, they couldn’t hold a conversation during these storms, the hammering rain was so loud. Within minutes the ground turned to mud, creating deep rivulets that would grow to a flash flood. Emma tried to anticipate the showers, but more often than not they caught her by surprise.

This storm produced a deluge, and she and Sumner had taken care to set the tent up on a plateau jutting from the slope. Two trees formed a living wall that provided cover from above and broke up the rushing water from the side.

Lightning cracked above them, and thunder boomed seconds later. Water flowed around the tent, turning the ground underneath them soft. Emma felt the water saturate the tent’s nylon floor. She and Sumner had pulled leaves off a palm to stack in a makeshift base that they’d hoped would keep the tent’s floor dry, but it hadn’t worked. Water was everywhere, and the palms, and then the tent floor, became soaked within ten minutes. After half an hour, the rain trickled to a drizzle.

Emma toyed with one of the rifles and listened to the water patter on the tent. Her stomach growled. The remaining tray of airline food was so rancid that she’d tossed it. They’d eaten only cattails and some berries that they’d found on a bush. Their need to stay on the move and the driving rain killed any chance they might have had to hunt for more food. Emma resigned herself to being hungry.

She picked up the rifle to test its heft. It was heavy. The right side had letters in a strange language etched next to a sliding switch. Two poles attached underneath opened to create a bipod. When not in use, they retracted to lie flat against the gun’s stock. She opened the bipod and balanced the gun on the ground. She lay down on her stomach and pretended to sight a target through the mesh opening on the tent.

“The safety’s on,” Sumner said.

Emma jumped. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

He shrugged but didn’t move from his prone position next to her. “Better than before, but weak as hell.”

“You know about guns?” Emma said.

“I do.”

“What are these markings? They look like letters, but I can’t figure out the language.” She tilted the gun toward him so that he could see the letters.

“Hebrew. That gun’s a Galil assault rifle. Israeli made. The toggle switch is the safety and the fire selector. When you move the switch down, it’s in autofire; down farther still and you’re in single fire.”

Emma tried the switch. It was surprisingly difficult to move. There was an audible click when she did.

“Noisy,” she said.

“Yes. Not a stealth gun. You don’t want to switch modes when hidden in the bushes with an enemy standing over you. But these guys aren’t what I would call finesse shooters anyway.”

“How did an Israeli assault rifle end up in Colombia?”

“Israeli army unloaded them when they adopted the M-16. South America is a huge dumping ground for old technology.”

Emma slid the safety back on and reached for another rifle.

“What about this one?”

Sumner moved his head to look at the next rifle.

“Kalashnikov AK-47. Russian made. The tank of weapons. Thing will shoot after being dragged in the mud or hauled through water. Same basic function as the Galil.”

Emma hefted the gun to her shoulder. “Heavy.”

“Actually, it’s considered a medium-weight weapon.”

“What’s this gun attached to the bottom?” She showed Sumner the underside of the rifle. A small pistol with a wide mouth was hooked to the bottom of the gun, in firing position. The pistol had its own trigger.

“That’s a grenade launcher.”

Emma looked at Sumner. “These people aren’t kidding, are they?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Emma analyzed the AK-47. “How do I want to shoot it? Single shot or automatic?”

“Can you shoot?”

“Not at all. I found the pistols in the debris from the crash. I only brought them along for effect.”

“They’re mine. I was supposed to give a report and then teach target shooting.”

“Did you know the jet would be hijacked?”

Sumner shook his head. “No. There was some online chatter to the effect that terrorist action would occur, but we assumed that they were talking about London. I only got worried when I saw the copilot arrive. Something about him seemed shifty, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

Emma put the AK-47 to her shoulder and pretended to sight the far side of the tent.

“If you can’t hit a target, your best bet is auto, but be prepared for the gun to buck like crazy on the recoil. You want to cover the area with shot and hope that one lands. Unless I’m in the area you’re spraying. Then I request that you switch to single shot and do your best to target only the bad guys.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“How did you know about the traveler’s palm and the water?”

“I’m a chemist for a laboratory that invents skin products for the cosmetic market. I’m constantly scouring the world for plants that may have an antiaging or antioxidant effect. I learned about the traveler’s palm during an excursion to the British West Indies.”

“Have you discovered the plant that will reverse aging?”

Emma laughed. “Not yet.” She wagged a finger at him. “But don’t kid yourself. The chemist who unlocks the secret to skin renewal will make billions.”

“Any plants that are contenders?”

Emma nodded. “We’re working with a few now. Licorice reduces brown spots and evens out skin tone, feverfew has some benefit, but it’s allergenic to many, so it’s not ideal, and there are always the classics, like rose water.”

“My mother uses something outrageously expensive. Sea kelp or some such thing.”

“Crème de la Mer. Very pricey.”

Emma nestled the gun back against her cheek, pictured herself targeting Rodrigo, then pulled away. Her stomach turned. Sumner noticed her discomfort.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Rodrigo won’t stop until he finds us, you know that,” she said.

“I know. That reptilian brain of his will not forget an insult.”

“I look forward to killing him,” Emma said. She thought of Patrick. “God kills the good ones and leaves the bad,” she added.

Sumner raised an eyebrow.

Emma felt the need to clarify. “I’ve been in a running argument with God for the past year.”

“Arguing with a force more powerful than you is always a mistake.”

“Now you tell me.” Emma gave him a small smile.

“I always thought that death was the ultimate equal-opportunity experience.”

“Well, then, Rodrigo is about to get his opportunity.”

Sumner shifted but remained quiet.

“Go ahead, say what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking that it’s one thing to kill in self-defense, but it’s an entirely different thing to kill in cold blood. Snipers have to be trained, because such killing doesn’t come naturally to most people. If you get into such a situation, I think you’ll be surprised at how hard it is.”

“Have you killed in cold blood?”

“Yes,” he said.

Emma wasn’t surprised. His preternatural calm led her to believe that he could do whatever he deemed to be just, should the need arise. She had no doubt that it would be just, though. He wouldn’t kill for bloodlust.

“Was it awful?”

Sumner took a deep breath. “It was necessary.” He reached out and touched her cheek. “I don’t recommend it, though.” He sighed. “I’m tired again. Wake me when the rain is over.” Emma continued to play with the guns while Sumner slipped back into a fitful sleep.

The next day they walked into a small village. Four huts stood in a semicircle, a fire pit in the middle. About ten women loitered there. One rotated the carcass of a pig on a spit over a fire, her lank hair pulled back into a ponytail. Two more argued in the doorway of one of the huts while four or five others stood in the remaining doorways watching the bickering. They wore pea-green army fatigues and sweat-stained gray T-shirts.

The entire crew spun around to look at Emma and Sumner as they stepped into the camp. The smell of the pig on the spit set Emma’s mouth watering. They’d found some more berries this morning, but that was all. She was light-headed with hunger.

The village women fell silent and stared at the newcomers. They exuded hostility and curiosity in equal measure. One of the women barked a name, and a tall, dark-haired Amazon emerged from the nearest hut. Her long shining hair swung as she walked. She wore the same fatigues as the other women, but on her they looked like haute couture. A gun hung in a shoulder holster, its butt under her armpit. She sauntered up to Emma and Sumner, casually removing the gun as she did.

Emma heard two clicks as Sumner pulled the safety on the rifle.

Semi, Emma thought. He stood a few steps behind her, and when he raised the rifle the tip of the weapon entered her peripheral vision.

“You are a long way from home,” the woman said in English, directing her comment to Sumner.

Predictably, he said nothing.

“We are lost,” Emma said. Her voice cracked on the word lost.

The two bickering women snickered.

“You are from the jet, no?” the tall woman said.

Emma didn’t reply.

“Then you are a very long way from home.” The woman stretched her mouth into a cobra’s smile and waved toward the huts. “Come, please. Make yourself comfortable. Our home is your home.”

The women tittered again.

“My name is Mathilde.” She pointed to Sumner’s rifle. “But that must be put down now. You wouldn’t hurt a woman, would you?” Mathilde smiled at him from under her lashes.

Emma could have told her not to waste her time flirting with Sumner. Her beauty wouldn’t sway him in the least. Sumner stood still, a grim look in his eye. The rifle didn’t move.

“I said put the gun down, señor.” Now Mathilde sounded testy.

Sumner didn’t budge.

Mathilde moved toward him, and he responded by stepping into her. Now the rifle tip hovered only four feet away and remained aimed at her chest. Mathilde’s slash smile fled. She turned to Emma.

“Is he a moron, your lover?”

This comment set the bickering women to laughing out loud.

“He is unbalanced,” Emma said. “I found him in the forest, eating the arm of a dead guerrilla.”

Emma watched in satisfaction as the women stopped laughing, fear in their eyes. The woman turning the pig froze, a look of horror in hers. Two other women in the circle crossed themselves. Even Mathilde seemed to hold her breath.

“Perhaps he was your lover?” Emma said.

The smell of charred flesh wafted through the air. Emma waved at the woman working the spit. “The pig is burning, señora.”

The woman jerked out of her stunned state and resumed turning the spit. Emma strolled up to Mathilde and didn’t stop. She got within one foot before the other woman stepped back. Emma counted the retreat as a psychological victory.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Emma said. “I think I will accept it. I will need a phone or radio to call the American embassy in Bogotá. I need to radio for help.”