Dragon Day

Chapter Twenty Six

★

First thing I think is, Keep going. Get through this maze, however big it is, and to the other side. At least there should be some cover along the way.

Second thought: painted in big stenciled letters on the big shed to my right is army weapons depot. The door’s open.

I’ve got a second to decide.

I haul ass into the shed.

Inside, I can see racks of protective clothes, pads, goggles, supplies. And paint guns.

Spread out on a table is a clutter of gear, as if the last players just left it there when they finished playing. Including a couple guns.

Somebody didn’t field-strip his weapons, I think. Lucky for me.

I grab one. It sure doesn’t look like the paint guns I played with a few times when I was a kid, which looked and felt like plastic toys. This thing resembles an AR-15, and it has close to the heft of one, too.

I pop open the hopper, and it’s about half full of paintballs. I close the lid and pray the thing works. I don’t have time to do anything else. I don’t think Marsh rolled down the hill like I did, but it’s not going to take him that long to jog down here.

I poke my head around the entrance. I don’t see Marsh, but I think I hear him. I scramble across the courtyard, past the dummy soldier, to the tank. It’s actual metal, not a wooden mock-up. Maybe PLA surplus or something. I duck behind it and wait.

Now I do hear Marsh for real: a crunch of footsteps on gravel. “Come on, Ellie,” he says loudly. “I was just kidding around.”

I risk a peek. There he is, standing by the soldier, scanning the area, gun dangling loosely from his hand at his side.

I stand up, brace the stock against my shoulder, put my finger on the trigger, and unload.

Clack, clack, clack! My first two balls miss, and Marsh starts to raise his gun arm; my third shot hits him in the chest, and he flinches a little as the burst of green paint spreads across his black designer T-shirt. His gun’s level now, he’s taking aim, gun turned sideways like he’s seen too many stupid movies, and I fire again, semiauto, and I hit him right in the face.

“Motherfucker!” he yells, hitting a high note, and he’s clawing at one eye, and I think, Good. And I fire a couple more times and get him in the face again.

I may have been a medic in the National Guard, but I shot expert in basic training.

“You fucking cunt!”

I hope I put his eye out. Muzzle up, I run, deeper into the maze.

More crumbling walls and “bombed” houses. The shell of a burned-out car. I zigzag through it. I don’t know how big this place is. I don’t know where it ends or if I can get out the other side. A jolt of pain goes up my bad leg every time my foot hits the ground; my chest is burning, and I can’t catch my breath.

The course has opened up some, like it’s the town square. Not as much cover. A couple more burned-out cars. A dry fountain. Buildings and walls along the perimeter. I need to get to cover, I think. That low wall at the back. I’ll be able to see if Marsh is coming. Have a chance to keep running, if I can.

I make it to the wall, collapse behind it.

You can’t stay here, I tell myself. You need to keep running.

I look back the way I came, and I don’t see Marsh yet.

Maybe I did put his eye out.

I hear light running footsteps behind me.

I twist around, paint gun ready, and see Meimei.

“Jesus!” I hiss.

She drops down next to me.

“Go get help,” I whisper. “Marsh has a gun. He’s-”

And she’s pointing a handgun at me.

This is it, I think. The end. I feel nothing but empty.

She flips the weapon around and holds it out to me, butt first.

“Take it,” she whispers, her eyes bright. “It’s loaded.”

A revolver. A.38, I think.

Now I hear Marsh, or someone, coming across the plaza. Not running. Just steady footsteps.

I risk a glance. There he is by the fountain. He’s wearing goggles now, his face and chest still splashed with fluorescent green paint.

“Stay down,” I whisper to Meimei.

“What the fuck, Marsh?” I yell out. “What are you doing?”

“Hey!” he yells back. “Cool. Let’s talk.”

“Talk about what? How’s this gonna fix anything?”

“They need someone to blame for that dead girl.” His voice echoes across the square. Still moving toward me. Taking his time, ambling almost. “Crazy Iraq vet with all kinds of problems, bad political associations-might as well be you.”

Okay, I think. Okay. Let’s talk. And keep talking. Let me get a bead on where you are. So I know where to aim.

“You’re gonna shoot me? How’re you gonna explain that?”

I try to remember the terrain. A burned-out car. A blasted concrete wall.

“You know they don’t care.” He’s talking loud, but he doesn’t need to shout anymore. He’s getting close. “Besides, you’re going to shoot yourself. That’s where you’ve been heading anyway, right?”

“Fuck off!”

He laughs. “Hey, I was wrong. I can help you.”

Come closer, asshole. Just a little bit closer.

“You just keep pushing,” he says, “because you’re hoping somebody puts you out of your misery. Let me take care of it for you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Fuck you.”

“Come on,” he says softly. Like a lover. “You want it to be over. You know you do.”

“Back the fuck off,” I say between clenched teeth. “I mean it.”

Don’t make me do it, I think.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me with a paint gun?”

Close enough.

I hold the revolver in both hands, the way I was taught, one hand braced against the other. Tell myself I am going to stand up no matter how much it hurts. With the strength of my good leg and all I can muster with my bad one, I spring up, pain making my vision go white for an instant. See Marsh’s dark mass in front of me. Fire. Three shots.

He drops in his tracks.

Ears ringing, I limp around the edge of the wall, weapon ready.

He’s lying spread-eagled on the ground, outstretched fingers grazing the butt of his pistol. I hobble over and kick the gun away.

I stare down at him. He looks up at me. Like he’s confused about what just happened. I can see blood coursing out of a hole below his ribs. Somehow the blood looks blacker than his black T-shirt.

I take off my jacket and kneel down beside him, fold up the jacket, and press it into the wound, because that’s what I was taught to do.

He gasps.

“Just lie still,” I say. “Help’s coming.” I have no idea if that’s true or not. I lift the goggles away from his eyes with my free hand and push them onto his forehead. I can see speckles of green paint on his nose and cheeks, swelling around one eye where the paintball hit.

The confusion in his face is fading. He gets it now. “You shot…”

“You asshole,” I mutter. “Why did you make me do it?”

“I…”

His eyes roll up and to one side, like he sees something coming. Whatever it is, it scares him.

“You’re gonna be okay,” I say.

He nods a little. I hear it in his breathing now, a gargling sound as his breath passes through fluid and mucus that he can’t cough up.

I hear a noise behind me. Meimei, watching intently.

“Get help,” I tell her again.

I turn back to Marsh. I can see it in his eyes, the dimming of the light. A labored breath, then another.

He exhales, a last, long, rattling sigh. His pupils dilate. His bladder and bowels release, and I can’t smell the blood anymore, just shit and piss.

“Is he dead?” Meimei asks.

“Yeah.”

Meimei retrieves his gun. Stands up. For a moment I wonder if she’s going to shoot me.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I don’t care.

Instead she fires two times over the wall where we’d been hiding.

Then she crouches down, puts the gun in his hand, presses his fingers around the butt and the trigger, lifts his arm, and fires a third time, into the air.

“So there won’t be any questions,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You had to do it. You had no choice.”