Adrian McKinty - The Bloomsday Dead

A verb. Yes. A verb in my mouth.

Lips back. Tongue spit. Air migrating through my voice box. “Help.”

I try to sit up. I brush the burning embers off my body.

The peelers are hit too. Kevlar flak jackets kindling in the afternoon air. Hair and skin burning. Blood pouring out onto the swept street from unspecified multiple wounds. The blast echoing off the embankment like timpani fading diminuendo.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” I mutter in disbelief. “What the-”

A crater where the rear hull of the boat had been and a rain of fragments.

I’m alive. Singed, but in one piece. The boat is sinking. The RPG man is preparing his third grenade.

Get overboard, Michael.

I try to move. Stuck. Pinned. Huge chunks of what looks like the cabin roof lying on my legs. I start pushing them off.

Look up.

The RPG man: still trying to load the grenade. The coppers: the first hit got them bad. It seems to me, though, that no one is actually dead. At least not yet. One of the boys has lost his shoe and by the looks of it a couple of toes. White-hot pieces of shrapnel embedded in the others-wound marks on their arms and legs. All of them yelling. Shouting into their radios. The young policewoman screaming about her shoulder. Something red sticking out of her uniform. Their words melded together in a patter of confusion. Crackled voices speaking back, telling them help is on the way.

The woman cop’s hat floats down among the smoldering flakes of metal confetti and lands burning on the deck, where other fragments have been dumped by the explosion.

In the split second between grenade launches and while I’m attempting to get the cabin roof off my legs I’m oddly fascinated by her. With her hat gone she looks like a person now. Her bob of yellow hair lying in a divot of rainwater, a scarlet trail oozing into the blond from a laceration on her scalp. She’s dazed and flailing, but now she’s doing the only sensible thing of the five of us.

She’s going for her gun.

What a damn fine idea.

I stop kicking the cabin roof and pull out the.38. I level it with a steady hand and take a shot at the grenade launcher.

He’s fifty yards off and it looks like I’m not even going to be close, but at least I won’t be alone. Blondie, with blood in her eyes and a hurt hand, somehow gets to a kneeling position and starts shooting her Glock 9mm semiautomatic.

“Die, you fuckers, die,” she screams.

She fires nine shots, I fire six, all of them missing.

We start to reload.

“Get here, right now,” Blondie barks into her radio, while slotting another clip into the Glock. One of the front peelers, with gray hair and nearest the boat, has clearly been flash-blinded, standing up, staggering in front of me with his hands over his eyes. I nearly shoot him by accident, but neither Blondie nor I have hit anything and now RPG man has got the third grenade in the bloody launcher.

I put him between the sights.

One round, two rounds, three rounds, six rounds. Every one a miss.

Flip chamber, punch ejector, reload out of the bag in my pocket.

Blondie has her 9mm ready. She holds it in both hands, patiently squeezes the trigger, and hits the van next to RPG man just as he fires the weapon. It makes him jump, the grenade arcs high into the air and drops harmlessly into the Lagan without even exploding.

The boat is tilting backward now, beginning to founder. We’re inclined thirty degrees off the vertical and the roof fragments start sliding off my legs by themselves. Help them with a kick and a shove.

Obviously that’s it for the grenades because RPG man turns to his mate and starts taking ammo from a box. His buddy is a skinny figure, but he must be strong because I see that what he’s holding is an old army-issue general-purpose machine gun. A GPMG or Jimpy, as we used to call ’em back in the service-an ugly belt-fed weapon that makes up in punch for what it loses in accuracy. Two-man operation. One shoots, the other feeds the belt. 7.62-millimeter slugs that’ll come at you at 550 rounds a minute.

These boys don’t have much experience with it because it takes them a long time to clear the breach. But then they do and when it gets going the Jimpy sings as bullets flow through the belt and spray over the embankment, the path, the river, and the boat. The shots random at first but gradually zeroing on the sinking Ginger Bap.

Shell casings pumping out of the gun and fast-moving rounds tearing up the tarmac.

“Shit.”

You’re supposed to fire it from a tripod but these guys have clearly seen too many ’Nam movies, where the old M60 got used in close-order action.

I stop reloading and lie down flat on the deck.

Jimpy rounds slicing into the Bap’s hull like a BB into butter.

Only way out, over the side.

I crawl backward for the safety rail and know that I’m not going to make it.

But I don’t need to. Blondie has her wits about her. She’s not fazed. One knee, balanced, two hands, aiming very carefully at the shooter. She fires off four shots, all four hitting the machine gunner in the chest, killing him instantly.

His partner yells something, picks up the Jimpy, and tries to fire it single-handed. No chance. He burns himself on the stock and in the afternoon murk I watch the tracer sailing harmlessly overhead like fireflies on the river.

A one-sided gun battle ensues.

The hood can’t work the machine gun and I’m shooting at him, Blondie’s shooting at him, and finally beside her Zapata pulls out an enormous Model 500 Smith amp; Wesson.50-caliber handgun. His bullets cross the dead ground toward the machine gunner in huge resounding whomps that would put the fear of God into anyone who wasn’t shooting back from an Apache helicopter.

A third cop joins the fray lying on his back firing with his left hand, his shots wild, but it’s all more than enough to draw the machine gunner’s attention away from me for good.

“Fucking pigs,” he screams and tries to lower the Jimpy sufficiently to get an angle on the peelers.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and even if he did, he can’t handle a gun like that by himself. In desperation he crouches low, balancing the gun on his knee, but the inevitable overheating happens, the weapon seizes and instantly bucks away from him.

He pulls out a revolver, shoots off a couple of slugs, drops the gun, runs for the van.

“Come back, you son of a bitch,” the policewoman yells, fires the last round in her clip and it bloody hits him, knocking him to the ground.

Good on ya, love.

“Cease fire,” Zapata yells.

And the silence is worse than the noise.

A dozen car alarms, ducks clacking, coppers moaning. Above us an army observation helicopter that has seen the whole thing. It’s unarmed, so it’s not as if they could have helped but even so, bastards.

I take it all in in a split second: The flash-blinded peeler sitting down, Blondie and Zapata looking for a tourniquet for their other colleague, way down the river a police Land Rover tearing along the Lagan path, and up on the embankment RPG man getting awkwardly to his feet and making a shambling run for it.

Time for me to go.

No point pissing about. The boat with a forty-five-degree list that was rapidly becoming a right angle. I crawled across the deck to the edge of the rail. The.38 slipped out of my hand and clattered down toward the cabin. Almost vertical now. Foolish to go after it. I’d be in for a dunking or worse. I climbed through the safety rail, sat on the edge of the Ginger Bap, and, like a big white rat, jumped off the sinking ship and landed on one of the fenders.

I pulled myself up onto the Lagan path, walked over to the coppers.