Manifest Destiny

Practice skill: Theme

1. Life lay eight short inches from my fingers. I grit my teeth against the metal cutting into my ankle and strained forward, bruising my belly on shards of broken pottery. My fingertips brushed the dirt, still five inches short of the gun.

2. Only the gun offered me a chance. Life, escape, freedom...    all were linked to the miracle of that old gun, half-buried under dirt and spears of shattered wood. In the dim light of the hut it was almost invisible. I never would have seen it, except that the bastard securing my chain to the wall had swung the beam of his flashlight around the hut as he turned to leave, sparking a glint of metal from the far corner.

3. I stared into the shadow, puzzled out the outline of an old breech-loader, broken open, the cartridges two faint metal circles plugging the barrels. If it still worked, I could escape. If I could    reach it... Hell, if God had any sense of justice, he'd drop an angel to shift the damn thing five inches my way. He knows I don't deserve to die. But what do peasants know of justice? They've got the form but not the function: marching me from village to village, staging their mock trials, sentencing me to death over and over again for crimes I didn't commit.

4. I shivered, the chill of the dirt seeping through my shirt, the moldy stink of it in my nostrils. I sat up, reached behind me to grab the thick blanket from the mattress that had been tossed into the hut with me, wrapped the blanket around my chest. Think, you bastard, or you're dead meat. What will reach the gun? They took my belt, replaced my shoes with sandals. They'll feed me but someone always watches while I eat and they take the plate and fork away. If only my arms were four inches longer or if I had something to... I eyed the loose jumble of wood fragments. The closest piece lay out of reach but the wood was loose, not held in the dirt like the gun. I slipped the blanket off my shoulders, tossed it like a net, drew it back.

5. It took four throws before I felt something snag on the cloth. Carefully I pulled it toward me, fished a narrow triangle of wood from the folds. Six inches, maybe a bit more... I stretched out over the dirt to snag the trigger guard, pulled the rifle an inch closer before the wood slipped loose.

6. I heard a scuffle behind me, turned my head to see a kid standing in the doorway, staring at me. I dropped the wood and sat up, drawing the blanket back around my shoulders. Maybe she    hadn't seen the gun...

7. She moved forward warily, ragged, scrawny, dirty and likely crawling with lice, carrying a tin plate and a warm odour of wood smoke, beans and flatbread. She set the food down beside the mattress and backed away.

8. Then she sidled along the opposite wall, beyond my reach, toward the gun. She had seen it... damn her sharp eyes. Digging through the dirt and wood, she worried the gun free, knelt over it possessively for a moment then stood, facing me and brushing dirt of the barrel. Another weapon for the rebels, no doubt. Or maybe the kid would try to keep it. So much for my hope of returning to the capital and coming back to the hills with enough troops and firepower to grind these so-called freedom fighters into fertilizer. She turned to the door of the hut, the gun tucked under her arm.

9. "Wait," I whispered. "Por Favor ..." The words stuck in my throat. Me, begging a favour of some illiterate brat who'd probably be spreading her legs for the soldiers within a year or two, if she wasn't already.

10. The kid hesitated, half-turned to look at me. I stood, slowly so I wouldn't startle her. Right now the rebels were marching me through the jungle from village to village in a triumphal procession, staging trial after trial for my so-called crimes against humanity.   

11. Hell, all I'd done was supply the weapons and tactical training. No sane person could hold me    responsible for the blood-lust of troops liquored up on that damn fermented fruit juice that all these peasants drank like water. Besides, if the villagers didn't want to get raped and murdered, they could bloody well stop backing the rebels.

12. So far, I'd been sentenced to death six times in six different villages. Eventually, I figured, they'd carry out the sentence. No doubt the army would then move in with enough troops to catch every last one of the bastards and hang them by their cojones, but that wouldn't help me much. I needed that gun.

13. I smiled at the kid. She stared back, shifted her grip on the gun to push tangled hair off her dirty face. "Por favor," I repeated, holding out my hand to the gun.

14. The girl shook her head, slid sideways to the door, watching me warily. I measured the distance.    Now! I lunged forward, felt my hands close on cotton and a hank of hair, heard the girl's startled gasp.

15. Then I had the gun in my right hand, my left still gripping the brat. In a second, she'd scream. Time to shut her up. I swung the butt at her head. She ducked and jerked away, the cloth tearing in my hand.

16. Damn! I'd have to waste a cartridge on the kid after all. I swung the muzzle level with her chest, squeezed the trigger.

17. Nothing.

18. The girl backed off, just out of reach, and stared at me, eyes wide. Why didn't she scream? Or try to run? And why hadn't the damn gun fired? Should I risk the second cartridge?

19. "You are not a nice man," she said. In English. Good, clear English although the consonants were spiced with Spanish. Where had this kid learned English? Church school? Radio?

20. Outside, a slurred male voice started a song. Other voices joined in the chorus, sounding like they'd also been tuned by the local hooch. The kid turned her head to listen, looked back at me. She nibbled her lower lip.

21. I pointed the rifle, pulled the trigger again. Nothing.

22. "What they said of you in the village is true," the girl said. "You're bad, like a black hat."

23. Like I gave a rat's ass about this kid's opinion, no matter how oddly she expressed it. But at least she was staying put. With luck, she'd stay still long enough for me to fix the damn gun and shoot her. I broke open the rifle, checked the barrels. Both empty.

24. "I was supposed to help rescue you," the girl said, the Spanish fading from her voice. "But now that I've met you, I'll let you do it your way." She sighed. "Even though I really, really hate to    fail. I'll probably get in trouble."

25. She shrugged, reached in the pocket of her skirt and held out her hand. Two fat cylinders rested on her palm. A flick of her hand put the cartridges at my feet. She paused at the door. "You have two bullets." she said. "I think they have more. Good luck."

26. She left. Outside, the singing continued.

27. I scooped up both cartridges, shoved them into the gun. Now let the drunken bastards deal with me.

    -end-

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