Bad Traffic (30 page)

Jian led his daughter across the yard. The fire spat and growled at his back like some caged angry animal, and smoke stung his eyes. A new body lay sprawled in the barn entrance – that fat boss, who didn’t look like he’d be getting up any time soon. His shirt had ridden up his back,
exposing
pouches of folded flesh.

‘Someone hit him and went in,’ whispered Wei Wei.

He motioned for her to stay behind him, drew his gun and took a long step over the body. As he slipped into the barn he was mindful not to make a silhouette in the doorway. Weak moonlight came through holes in the roof and a
ragged
gap in the back wall. He made out the edges of a
container
. A dark figure stood before it, fiddling with the door. He raised the gun and his finger tightened on the trigger. He recognised the outline of a bulky fur-trimmed hood and lowered it again. It was, of all people, that peasant. The lad had a habit of not staying where he was put.

‘Hey, clever.’ The lad looked around. Jian was used to
seeing
the kid in distress, but his expression was of a subtly different order now, his features slack with shock. His face was smeared with mud and shone with sweat.

‘They didn’t take her anywhere.’ His voice was oddly flat.

‘Take who?’

‘They didn’t… My wife. They kept her here.’

He fumbled at the container door with shaking hands.

‘She’s in there?’

‘I can’t get it open.’

Jian pulled a lever. Metal clunked, then hinges creaked, as the door swung open. An arm dropped through the gap. The skin was blotchy and grey, the fingers swollen. He gagged on the stench of rotting flesh, and stepped back and held his hand over his mouth and nose. The door swung further, revealing the puffy face of a dead boy, mottled with lividity. Behind it, a throng of limbs and torsos stretched away.

The peasant wailed in dismay. Jian swung the cold arm back, then closed the door and pulled the lever down to secure it.

‘She’s not in there.’ There was something brutally matter-of-fact about dead humans. He blinked to get images of blank eyes and toothy grimaces out of his mind and turned his back. Wei Wei swayed in the entrance,
silhouetted
by a guttering orange glow. How fragile her limbs now appeared. He hoped she had not seen that obscene mass.

The sight seemed to have galvanised the peasant. He dashed about in a frenzy of agitation. ‘Little Ye?’ he howled.

‘Be quiet.’

‘Little Ye?’

An answering moan was heard. At the far end of the barn a metal panel was propped against the wall. The lad hauled it aside, revealing stone steps leading to a square wooden door, held fast by a metal bar fixed between brackets. He tugged out the bar.

The cellar door was pushed open from the other side and arms bound with rope and electric cable stretched forward. Hands patted and groped. Jian smelled the sourness of
confined
bodies. There was only room for one girl to crawl out at a time, but three were trying it. Wei Wei hurried to help.

Jian hurried to the barn entrance. There was no sign of his enemies, but they must be close. He was frustrated. They were losing time and these girls would slow them further.
Who knew how they would react? He rolled the fat man over, rooted in the pockets of his greying tracksuit bottoms and remembered doing the same thing not two days ago. This time he found loose notes and change – of course, he’d stolen the guy’s wallet – cigarettes, phone, lighter, shotgun cartridges and a set of car keys. He prised fleshy fingers off the shotgun and checked that it was loaded.

Back in the barn, two bedraggled Chinese girls clung together. A third shuffled to join them, sobbing snottily. He recognised her – he’d freed her once tonight already. Ding Ming flung his arms around her and pressed his face to hers.

There was no time for this. ‘Listen,’ barked Jian. ‘There is a truck out there. I have the keys. I’ll open the back shutter, then start the engine. When you hear the engine, you come out. You get in the back, pull the shutter down and lie on the floor. When the girls are in, and the back shutter closed – and only then – Ding Ming, get in the front passenger seat. Then we go. Do you all understand?’

Three solemn nods. He waited for the two younger girls to acknowledge him. It would only take one losing her wits to get them all killed. He felt frustrated at the delays and the burden of these extra lives. And the girls could not move faster than a shuffle. But he only had to get them in the truck and get the truck onto the lane. Those men would pause before firing on a vehicle they recognised. He just had to keep a cool head.

A call came from the yard, a bark of English. Jian dropped and the stone floor was cold against his stomach. He glimpsed three men running with guns.

He waved at the others to retreat into the shadows.

Wei Wei’s face was ashen. She said, ‘They know we’re here.’

When outnumbered, do not attack. They could all go through the gap in the wall at the back of the barn and quickly lose themselves in the woods. All he needed was a small head start. He would show his enemies that he was armed, and probably they would be too wary to pursue.

‘Lie down.’ He pointed to the gap. ‘See that? Get ready to run there. Not yet. You’re going to follow me out.’ He yelled to his enemies in the yard, ‘We’re armed too. Let us go and no one else will be hurt.’

The reply came in Black Fort’s stilted Mandarin.

‘You’re going nowhere. You’re dead. You’re all fucking dead.’

‘Fuck your grandfather.’

Jian fired both barrels through the entrance. The roar made his ears ring. He told himself they had a good chance now – no one wants to chase a man with a gun. He got up and rushed to the back and broke the shotgun open.

The smell of cordite triggered memories of his last
firefight
, still sharp after all these years – men with guts blown out and limbs sheered off, shrieking with fear, shitting themselves. He had been a stupid kid then, reckless and daft, he was old now, too old for this. Breathing shallowly, he ordered himself to stay focused as he slotted cartridges into the barrel.

Someone fired in and shot pinged around the walls. He hoped that the girls and the peasant kept their nerves and stayed hugging the floor.

He eased forward and looked through the gap at a grey sky slashed with pink. Woods and fields ran all the way to the
monotone
horizon.

He heard scrambling and panting, then a low whisper. Men were running round the side of the barn. They’d anticipated him, and cut off the retreat. They would have time enough to
shoot them all in the back if they tried to run to the wood. It seemed that, after all, these men would fight.

Probably they had left one man laying down
suppressing
fire through the front and now the other two were
coming
round the flank and soon all would be able to fire in. He could keep running between the two exits and firing out and nothing would be achieved – he would only keep the enemy at bay until he ran out of ammunition. They were trapped.

Stones chinked. The men could not be allowed to get much closer, they would soon have an angle to shoot in. He fired through the gap and heard someone slither to a stop. Again a blast was fired through the front and shot ricocheted.

White powder hissed as it poured from ruptured sacks. With all this metal flying about, the civilians would get hurt. Jian ran to his group and pointed to the stairs. ‘Get down there.’ He could no longer hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears. ‘Down, go, quickly.’

The stunned girls moaned and swayed. It irritated him. It was terrible to be burdened with the weight of all these lives. He gave the fat man’s phone to Wei Wei. ‘Call the police.’

He gave his pistol to Ding Ming. ‘Hold it with two hands. The safety is not on. The trigger’s stiff. There’s only one bullet, it’s in the chamber.’ The peasant nodded, biting his lip. ‘There’s only one man out there. If you’re sure that I’m killed, sprint through the front. Wave the gun around, hope that he keeps his head down and all of you run out.’

Jian reloaded the shotgun and clambered out of the gap at the back of the barn. Make a noise in the west to attack in the east. He hurled a broken brick to the left, where the flanking force was waiting, and heard it land and roll.
Hopefully
it sounded like a man stumbling. He took his finger out of the trigger guard – easy enough to shoot yourself in the foot – and ran round the barn to the right.

When he turned the corner he pressed his back against the wall with the warm shotgun raised against his shoulder. He was panting very hard. Yes, he grimaced – too old, too old. But not dead yet. He was sure they did not know his
position
, he had to keep this advantage. If the enemy expects defence, attack.

A blast came through the front, followed by a second. Both barrels had been fired and the shooter would have to reload. He could hear his target, there behind the yellow car. In his head he saw the man kneeling with the shotgun broken. He knew what he had to do but it took a great effort of will to move towards gunfire and he filled his head with babble. The contradiction between the proletariat and the
bourgeoisie
is resolved by the method of socialist revolution.

He sprinted forwards, skirting close to the house so that the smoke plumes obscured him. Blood pounded in his ears. His vision narrowed to a tunnel. Heat pressed against his side and his eyes felt raw. His teeth were gnashed
together
so hard that his jaw hurt.

It was hard to run in the dark with a bulky gun and a
damaged
leg, and the conviction that he was not going to make it grew into bleak certainty. He would be shot here, he would bleed out in agony, many others would die afterwards.

A figure rose behind the car and wriggled in the heat haze. Jian was still ten, fifteen paces away. A gun swung round. Jian threw himself down and gasped as a jolt passed through his shoulder and a spike of pain jabbed his ribs. A boom, and he felt the whoosh of displaced air as shot whizzed over him. He laid his gun flat along the ground and fired under the car, and the man screamed as his feet and ankles tore. Jian ran round and fired the second barrel into his chest.

His ears rang from the blast and that din added to a sense that he had stepped outside time. He hauled his mind back
into the present. The contradiction between the working class and the peasant class in socialist society is resolved by the method of collectivisation. He wiped sweat out of his eyes and realised he was parched.

He hoped the other hoodlums had heard the screams and the shots and were running away. No, he heard scuffing feet – they were going into the barn. They were astute. Now his only cover was the vehicles, and they had brick walls. And maybe hostages. The thought made his stomach lurch.

He picked up the dead man’s shotgun. The barrel had been chopped down. Open near ruined feet was a box of
cartridges
. He put a handful in his pocket. Always keep moving and fight in territory that you choose for yourself.

He got into the cab of the truck and started the engine and put the handbrake on and the gearstick into neutral.
Watching
his hands as they ran through these tasks he was pleased to see that they did not shake, but he felt disconnected from them, as if they were someone else’s. Bent over the pedals he jammed the butt of the sawn-off shotgun against the
accelerator
. It stuck there, with the barrel rammed hard against the seat. The engine whined. He depressed the clutch, slipped the truck into first, and pulled the steering wheel round.

An explosion – the windscreen shattered and broken glass sprinkled his back. They were firing at the truck thinking he was going to drive away. He clicked the headlights onto full beam. As he slid into the passenger seat, keeping his head down, he let off the handbrake. The truck lurched and he jumped out.

He hit concrete and the shock jarred his hip and ankle. Struggling to maintain balance he whipped his gun round. A figure stood in the barn entrance aiming a gun out. It roared and spat flame and the headlights of the truck popped. Jian aimed at the brief tongue of flame and fired
both barrels. But he was off balance, and thought his shots had gone high.

The truck pitched forward and its left-side front bonnet crashed into the wall of the barn and crumpled and the truck wheeled round, tyres screeching. It struck the wall and cracked and wrinkled. The wall buckled, collapsed, and bricks showered inwards. Roof beams sagged and split, and tiles tumbled, smashing in the yard. A cloud of dust rose.

Jian reloaded. He guessed he had a few seconds, while the dust cloud hovered and they were still blinking away the after-image of the headlights. He ran into the barn. A man was rising drunkenly to his feet. Perhaps a brick had hit him, or the earlier shot had been accurate. Jian fired and the man sat heavily, his head went down to his lap, and then his leg
spasmed
and he rolled onto his side and was still.

Dust swirled. He could see nothing but vague shapes and built a picture of the place in his mind – container, sacks, stairs. Beams slanted down. Bricks clinked as they settled. Streaming powder hissed.

The fat man’s upper body protruded from a pile of brick. A horrible croak was coming from his throat. His hand
extended
and grabbed Jian’s leg. He pulled and Jian lost his balance and fell. He turned and fired into the man’s bulk and the hand loosened. Jian broke the gun open and emptied out the spent cartridges.

Black Fort staggered forward, one arm around Wei Wei’s throat, holding her before him like a shield. She sobbed and wriggled.

Sprinkled with brick dust, he looked like a ghost. Blood made a vivid channel down the dusty cheek. He was
moving
stiffly and the light in his pale eyes was dim. The barrel wandered dreamily, looking for a subject.

Jian grew aware of movement to his left. Underneath the trailer of the container, a familiar over-sized coat was worming forwards. Ding Ming was holding the pistol out and pushing it before him.