There Won't Be War

The woman looked up. She was afire: the flames ate at her clothing, enveloped her. She should have been rolling in the street, the night should have filled with her screams. Instead she only watched me come.

Charlie opened up in earnest. Bullets flew through the thick air, shattered wood, bounced off the tank, buried themselves in the street. One tore away a piece of my shoulder.

I ran with clumsy terror. The woman got up on one knee, took a deep breath, and struggled to her feet. She watched me come, eyes filled with pain.

Her jacket burst into flame. She ripped it off and hurled it away.

I stumbled toward her, lost my balance, ran a few more steps, arms and legs flailing, fell, rolled over, and came up in full stride. In all, it was a hell of a performance.

She shook her head no. And waved me away.

No time to argue. I plowed into her, knocking her over. But I kept going and got us both off the street and into a storefront.

She held onto a post, trying to steady herself. I’d got the fire out, but her clothes were steaming, and her face was scorched. She stared at me out of angry black eyes.

I kicked the door open. “Inside,” I pointed into the store.

Her nostrils widened slightly, and I saw something that scared me more than all the goddam shooting: she smiled.

Then she stepped through. The interior was dark, illuminated only by spasms of firelight, slicing through a bank of cross-hatched windows along the front wall. We were in a big room, and shadowy objects hung from the ceiling. From the smell of things, it was easy to guess what. We were in a tannery.

“They’ll be right behind us,” I said, trying to see through to the back of the building. She rubbed a knee, and rotated one shoulder, wincing. I got the impression that I was looking up at her. Ridiculous. The flickering light distorted everything. “Are you okay?” I asked.

She looked through a window, and pointed out. The Cong were coming. I realized about then that I was leaking blood from my shoulder. My right sleeve was drenched, and I felt wobbly.

She cast a long shadow. She was tall, taller even than I, which put her at six-two or—three. Slim. Athletic. Black hair cut short. And despite her size she was Asiatic.

I reached for her, intending to draw her away from the window, and make for the rear entrance. “Just go,” she said. “I will be behind you.” It was the precise accent of one who has learned English from formal instruction.

I pushed the front door shut, secured it as best I could, and started back. Strips of leather dangled in my face. I barged almost immediately into a table. “Be careful,” she said. “There are floor drains too.”

It was getting hard to breathe. Probably the stench of the hides and the tanning fluid. Maybe loss of blood. Whatever. The room started to rotate. Gunfire ripped through the windows. Leather strips fluttered.

And, in the dark, a curious thing happened. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought she moved to place herself between me and the Cong. Whatever. I grabbed for her wrist and hit the deck. But I didn’t quite get hold of her. She slid free. “Down,” I snarled.

The shooting went on and on.

She knelt beside me. “You can’t stay here.”

Not we. You.

The floor was wet and slippery. It smelled vaguely of formaldehyde. “Okay,” I said. I found her in the dark and pulled her after me.

Abruptly the gunfire stopped.

There was a door in the rear wall. I pushed it open and we shoved through out onto a loading dock. A truck with no wheels was parked outside. I glanced up: the tannery was located in a three-story building. A staircase mounted along the wall to the second floor, where there was a wooden landing and a door. Other buildings crouched nearby. Occasional bursts of sparks fell among them. “This way,” I said, climbing down into the street. “We might just have time to get clear.”

She shook her head. No. “I don’t travel in alleys,” she said.

I opened my mouth to tell her she was crazy. If I could have got hold of her, I’d have dragged her along. But she stepped back, and studied the stairway. Flickers of red light glowed in her eyes. Without a word, she started up.

I hesitated. “They’ll trap us.” You dumb bitch. I thought it. But I didn’t say it.

She stopped at the upper level and tried the door. It opened and she disappeared back into the tannery.

Goddamn it.

I started up, and got halfway when a blast took out the lower room. She’d left the door open for me, and I was howling mad when I caught up with her. “They’ll burn this goddamn place down around our ears,” I said.

She stopped, and turned toward me. “Courage, Anderson,” she said.

Anderson? Had I told her my name?

“There are more stairs here,” she added, coolly. “Toward the center of the building. I believe they go all the way to the roof.’’

She was moving among walls and offices.

With all chance of escape now cut off, I took the sensible course. I followed. “Who are you?” I asked.

Behind us there were shouts, running footsteps, occasional shots. Shadows danced outside.