George Martin - Busted flush

The ace's shoulder lifted and fell. He didn't look thrilled at the prospect, but he didn't say no.

"Okay, then. Marlon, I want you to start firing from your side of the pipes-keep them down as much as you can. Rusty, I'm hoping they're even worse at hitting a moving target. Head toward them, but zigzag it-maybe about ten steps' worth, then go down just in case Mr. RPG is waiting. I'm hoping that they'll be a lot more interested in a fucking big steam shovel coming their way than me."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to give them a free performance that'll bring down the house. I hope."

Rusty's eyes widened. "Oh," he said, somewhere between question and statement.

"Yeah." He touched the wound on his forehead, looking at the blood that stained his fingertips. "Sorry, I don't have a better idea. Do either of you two?"

Rusty slowly shook his head. Marlon just stared and clutched his weapon. "Then wish us luck," Michael said.

Rusty, his knees creaking, got to his feet; Marlon, lying on the ground, began to rake the space between the buildings on full automatic as Rusty came around the pipes and started toward them, shouting and waving his massive arms.

Michael, on the other side of the improvised cover, stood up. He started drumming with all six hands, the multiple throats in his neck pulsing as he shaped and focused the sound as he surveyed the target area. At first it was merely noise (as Marlon continued to fire, as Rusty weaved and roared while bullets pinged from his body). Michael could hear the stacked pipes in front of him rattling in their racks with sympathetic vibrations, and he forced his throat openings to narrow, to toss the sound farther out and focus it-as he had when he killed the Righteous Djinn. He aimed the torrent of percussion between the two buildings, hitting himself harder and harder, his arms flailing. There was a new sound now: a metallic wail as the piping set between the buildings started to respond.

(Rusty took a few more steps, a lumbering, bearlike dance. Marlon's weapon went silent for a moment as he changed clips. Through the fury of Michael's drumming, there was a percussive cough, and a smoky lance arrowed in Rusty's direction, hitting the ground six feet to his left and erupting; Michael saw Rusty lifted and tossed.)

He drummed, grimacing at the effort of finding the right notes, the right timing, and the right frequency. The pipes shuddered and danced angrily in response. He could see figures there, pointing toward him, and muzzle flashes. Bullets whined past him and he forced himself not to respond. The huge pipe above their attackers groaned loudly enough to be audible over the racket and Michael concentrated on it, forcing all the sound toward it; he saw dust and bricks falling as it shook itself loose from the walls, shaking like a wet dog. Dark, thick fluid gushed out in a wide stream.

The man-high steel tube fell, much of the walls of the two structures going with it. He could hear screams as it slammed into the ground, taking out the nest of smaller piping underneath. A dust cloud rose; within, something sparked violently and then there was fire and more screams-high-pitched and desperate.

Michael stopped drumming. Marlon was staring. Rusty had pushed himself back up to a sitting position on the sand, shaking his head as if dazed. Michael snatched his weapon from the ground and ran toward the buildings.

He saw one of their attackers, on his back with his arms outstretched as if he had been trying to escape the fate he had seen falling on him, the bottom half of his body crushed under a section of brick wall. The thick tube of the RPG launcher lay near him.

"Oh, fuck," he breathed. He stopped. His weapon drooped in his lower hands. "Fuck."

He stared at the body-at the beardless, smooth face of a child, a face he recognized: Raaqim, the boy who had spat at him yesterday.

None of them were soldiers. None of them looked to be older than their midteens, while the youngest couldn't have been more than ten. The weapons they'd brandished were a strange collection of ancient single-shot rifles to modern automatic weapons, probably scavenged from a dozen different sources. The RPG launcher had been the most sophisticated and dangerous piece, but it had no more rounds left.

Twenty kids, all told, and not all of them boys. Their surprise attack had cost the lives of three UN soldiers, but twelve of the twenty kids were dead; of the survivors, all had serious injuries. The unit's medic had done what triage she could; the four worst they'd choppered out to Baghdad after frantic communications to Colonel Saurrat and Barbara Baden; the medic didn't seem to have much hope any of them were going to make it. They'd laid out the dead children in the lobby of the main building, covering the bodies with whatever sheets they could find, and they'd permitted the villagers to come in to identify the bodies and take them away for burial.

The wails and screams, the accusing glares, the accusations, were something that Michael knew he could never forget. Dabir, his ancient body shaking with rage, had screamed curses over the body of Raaqim. A woman in a black abaya and head scarf had charged at Michael after seeing her granddaughter's body. She'd reached him before anyone could stop her, beating at him with her fists as she screamed in Arabic, her fists making the tympanic rings boom and crash in a mockery of his playing. Michael endured the beating, his arms at his side like a stunned spider while two soldiers grabbed the woman's arms and pulled her away, still screaming and wailing, tearing at her clothes, gesturing with hoarse, sobbing cries.

He was weeping with her suddenly, the tears coming unbidden and unstoppable, hot and harsh, his throat clogged with emotion. Michael had left then, going outside into the heat and glaring sun. He slumped against the side of the Administration Building, his back on the rough stone wall, staring outward toward the oil derricks.

He touched his chest where the woman had struck him, so softly that he made no noise at all. His throat openings pulsed and yawned, silent. Under the bandage the medic had wrapped around his head, the scabbed track of the bullet throbbed and burned. Part of him wished it had killed him instead.

Afterward, he'd tried to call Kate and hadn't gotten her; he sent her a text message: FUBAR. That said it all.

"Hey." A shadow drifted over him. Michael glanced up.

"Hey, Rusty."

"Bad deal, huh?"

"Yeah. The fucking worst."

With creaks and groans, Rusty sat down next to Michael. "Kids. I don't want to fight kids."

"None of us should have had to." Michael glared outward. Against the sky, the derricks were ink lines drawn on a blue canvas, and he'd killed children for their sake. He imagined the blood flowing dark like oil. "This shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have been able to happen."

Rusty said nothing more. He and Michael sat there for a long time, each lost in his own thoughts, until the sun slid away and abandoned them in the cool shadow of the building.

The old man Dabir stared with slitted, dark eyes at the nervous squad with Michael. He barked something in Arabic and spat on the sand between him and Michael. The squad's translator spoke to Michael without taking his eyes from the old man or his finger from the trigger of his FAMAS. "He says you are the afterbirth of a syphilitic camel and that you are not welcome here."

Michael might have laughed at that, before. Now it only made him feel ill. "Tell him… tell him that I want him to know that I had no choice. He needs to know that."

That earned a bark of dry, hollow laughter from Dabir. "Allah always gives us choices," the old man said through the translator. "What choice did Raaqim have? You come here, you take away his father's job, you ruin our family, you take the land that belongs to us and our people, you steal our oil. Why shouldn't my grandson defend what was his? Why shouldn't he fight to take back what you've stolen?" Dabir glared at Michael. "I am proud of my grandson. His was a good death. Are you proud, you abomination in the eyes of Allah?"