Clifford Simak - A Death in the House - And Other Stories

The shack was bare except for several cots, a few blankets piled in one corner, a stack of rifles and other odds and ends.

Matoka sat behind a small wooden table and regarded the two Americans before him. A guard stood at the door and two others were stationed at opposite walls.

“So,” said the Jap officer, “you refuse to give me information.”

“We are prisoners of war,” Hart told him. “We have given you all the information we are required to.”

Matoka leaned forward.

“Lieutenant Hart,” he said sneeringly, “you Americans still cling to the conventions of war, perhaps. You set up your silly rules and expect the world to follow.”

“They are rules of decency,” snapped Hart.

“Decency!” The Jap tried to mimic the tone. “Lieutenant, war is not decency. Consider—this island is out of the way. Who is there to know what happens to you here?”

He settled back in his chair and waited.

“I could break his scrawny neck,” said Jackson, calmly, “before one of those monkeys with the guns could stop me. Shall I have a try at it?”

Matoka laid his pistol on the table.

“By all means, Mr. Jackson,” he invited. “Go ahead and try.”

“You hold all the aces,” Jackson pointed out.

Matoka grinned. “You see, Lieutenant Hart. We do hold all the aces. So picturesque a phrase. Tell me, what happened to your carrier?”

“Send your navy to find out,” snapped Hart.

“You forget,” corrected Jackson. “They haven’t much of a navy. We just got through with it.”

The Jap rose slowly. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned over until his face was inches away from the pilot’s face.

“Tell me!” he shouted.

The pilot stiffened, said nothing. The Jap raised one hand and struck Hart across the cheek. The imprints of the Jap’s fingers stood out white on the pilot’s flesh and for an instant time seemed to stop.

Then Hart moved—silently, efficiently, ruthlessly. His hands caught Matoka’s neck in a vise, dragging him across the table. The Jap’s mouth opened for a scream that emerged as a tiny gurgle.

With a whoop, Jackson snatched up Matoka’s pistol and wheeled. A bayonet was coming at him, less than a foot away. With suddenly cringing stomach, he twisted his body away—moving by instinct.

Gleaming Jap steel seared across his ribs, made a ripping sound as it jerked free of his shirt.

There was no time to shoot. Even had he wanted to, Jackson could not have shot, for he had grasped the pistol across its center. The Jap guard was unable to stop, was almost on top of him. Pinned against the table, the American slapped the pistol, flat-handed, straight into the astonished yellow face. The man went down.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jackson saw the guard by the door, his rifle leveled. Swiftly the Yank spun the pistol in the air, snatched the grip and snapped up the barrel. The rifle in the guard’s hand roared, and Jackson felt the bullet whip past his cheek. Then the heavy revolver spat viciously, and the guard went down, rifle clattering across the floor.

Matoka was crawling on the floor where Hart had hurled him, making animal sounds. Hart had managed to ward off the plunging steel of the third guard, was wrestling with him for possession of the rifle.

With a savage wrench, the guard twisted the rifle barrel from the pilot’s hand, stepped back, bringing the weapon up.

Jackson fired, and the heavy slug twisted the guard around, but he still clutched the rifle. The gunner fired again and the man’s cap leaped from his head as he crumpled.

Wheeling about, Jackson ran to the door. Three Japs were racing up from the beach.

Jackson lined the pistol and fired. The leading Jap staggered, went down on one knee, then got up again. From the beach came the sullen bark of a rifle, and a bullet kicked dust at Jackson’s feet.

One of the three Japs running toward the shack whipped up a barking rifle. Jackson heard the bullets chugging into the door casing back of him. The pistol cracked again, and the Jap who had fired went down.

The guards at the ramp were firing now. One slug threw sand against Jackson’s trouser legs. A red-hot flame slashed across his left forearm.

Behind him, a rifle opened up, talking as fast as a man could work the bolt. One of the Japs went down and the other turned and sprinted for the ramp.

Down the beach galloped a white man with no shirt, and with long hair flying. Smith waved a flashing machete, and as he ran he shouted strange gibberish. But the natives working on the ramp understood, for as one man they rose and surged toward the guards.

Knives and axes flashed in the morning sun. The Japs got in a few shots, made a few futile bayonet stabs and then, overpowered by sheer numbers, went down under the wave of howling islanders.

The lone Jap who had been running for the beach stopped short, then fled for the jungle. With a shout, Smith sped after him. The machete flashed over his shoulder, left his hand, glittering in the sunlight as it wheeled end over end. The Jap screamed in agony as it sliced into his back and brought him down.

Hart stepped from the doorway of the shack, rifle cradled in his arm.

“I guess, Jackson,” he said, “we can get our gas now.”

Jackson wiped his brow with a shirt-sleeve that trailed blood. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“You’ve been hit,” said Hart.

“A couple of scratches, sir,” said Jackson. “One in the arm and one across the ribs.”

A figure hurled itself out of the blackness of the shack behind them, landed on Hart’s back. The pilot dropped the rifle and pitched forward in the dust. In the excitement of the moment Matoka had been forgotten.

But as Hart struck the ground, he rolled, breaking the Jap’s grip.

Jackson started forward, pistol clubbed, but Hart yelled at him.

“Stay out of this, Jackson!”

The Jap charged in, apparently seeking a ju jutsu hold, but the American sidestepped and rocked him with a blow. Matoka’s hand flicked out and grabbed Hart’s wrist, threw him off his balance.

But as Hart went down, he managed to hook a toe back of the Jap’s knee, almost upset him. The Jap’s hold was broken, but Hart hit the ground flat on his back. With a scream of triumph, Matoka hurled himself through the air. Hart flung up hands to ward him off, but the Jap’s weight crashed through.

For long seconds the two lay locked in straining effort. Once Jackson stepped forward, then stepped back. Hart had said it was his fight.

Suddenly Hart arched his back and heaved, shook Matoka loose. Struggling to one knee, the American slowly rose, holding the Jap at arm’s length. On his feet, he released his grip on Matoka’s shirt front and stepped back. The Jap charged in, head lowered.

Hart measured him and swung from the ground. The blow smacked in the morning silence, stiffened the Jap before he slowly crumpled.

Hart let his arms fall limply at his side, stared dazedly at the man who lay wilted at his feet. A trickle of blood ran out of the corner of Matoka’s mouth.

“You killed him!” Jackson gasped.

“I meant to kill him,” Hart said, quietly. “He slapped me.”

Bare feet padded up the path from the beach, and the two saw Smith approaching. The white man’s eyes flickered across the dead Jap officer and he tugged reflectively at his matted beard. “A good morning’s work, gentlemen,” he said.

“Those natives of yours,” said Jackson. “They—”

“They have been waiting for a chance like this,” Smith told him. “They are a proud people and they resented Jap brutality. They would have done it long ago, but I stopped them. I told them some of them would die.”

He took a deep breath.

“Gentlemen, some of them did die. But the rest of them are free.”