November 15, 2010

From “Technicals on the Bangui Road” by Ndoyo Mgumbe

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“They have taken the road to Bangassou,” said Gbaya. “And they say that Mbomou is about to fall. Then men we will face today are but the first drops in a rainstorm.”

“That is why we have been placed here,” said Boganda. He stroked the heavy DShK machine gun mounted in the bed of the army Toyota. “If they come, we will kill them.”

“You are not listening,” Gbaya said, pounding the truck’s side. “The rebels are overwhelming at every point. If Bangassou is cut off, it will soon fall–it cannot be supplied by river or air, not with petrol rationed as it is. And if they take Mbomou…can Bangui be far behind?”

Boganda continued staring down the road.

“By next week, they could be sitting on the lawn of the National Assembly in Bangui. We’d be the rebels then, and they the government. Rather than a bulwark against a flood we would be an island in a sea.”

“Are you trying to get yourself shot for treason?” Boganda growled. “If the lieutenant hears that sort of talk you’ll be up against a wall.”

“No,” said Gbaya. “I’m just wondering what the hell it is we’re doing out here, expecting to stop the rising tide of a revolution with fifteen men and a technical.”

 

September 27, 2010

From “Eight Days to Ouagaduougou” by Travis Healey

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Benedict was seated on an ammo crate, feet up. The tropical sun reflected off his Ray-Bans and the foil highlights on the Metallica shirt that peeked out from under his body armor.

“I don’t get it. The sunglasses, the t-shirt, the sneakers,” Cameron said. “You’re a professional. Why don’t you dress like one?”

“Does it really matter what I wear as long as they’re dead?” said Benedict. Seeing that wasn’t going to satisfy Cameron, he continued. “There are exactly two kinds of fighters out there. Those that’re intimidated by a uniform, and those that aren’t.”

“I…don’t follow.” Cameron said.

“I’m not here to intimidate anyone. You want to pay me for intimidation, fine. I’ll pour myself into a uniform, but it won’t come cheap. Otherwise, it’s better for my peace of mind and your bottom line if you let me dress however I please.” The sneer on Benedict’s face said that he’d given that speech before, and enjoyed it.

Cameron swallowed. “Point taken.”

“You think Lassiter’s out there wearing some itchy uniform instead of fighting comfortably?” Benedict said. He picked up a nearby magazine and began filling it with 9mm rounds. “Not bloody likely.”

 

August 30, 2010

From “Three Beginnings” by Smith I. Mooreton

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The consistency of the earth between his front door and his Toyota always irked Rodney to no end, but he could take solace in the fact that his path would be shortened by the absence of his children, who were celebrating that institution of youth known as the ‘Saturday’ by sleeping in.

Additionally, the road to the University was paved, which was more than could be said of many of the local roads. The country was actually quite well off as African nations went; the U.S. State Department had informed Rodney that the people were in fact the most privileged and wealthy people on the African continent. This helped Rodney to avoid leaning out his car window and dispensing buckets of quarters to the downtrodden masses, as had once been his fantasy.

The tough, warm concrete floors University-side also helped shake off the red earth that always caked Rodney’s dress shoes on his brief walk to the car each morning. Rodney vainly tried to knock the crimson soil from his shoes, but the damn stuff was caked on with a consistency that only a trained shoeshine boy could dent it.

 

August 10, 2010

From “Healing Visions” by D. P. Patterson

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The form was colorful and animated, with a steady stream of HV ads running along the bottom. The questions flew by—her old junior college had wanted to know more, and unlike Metromart, there wasn’t a drug test. Standard stuff, really.

Until the last one, of course. “I hereby release Healing Visions LLC from any and all legal liability that may arise during the aforementioned procedure,” she read silently. “This includes physical traumas such as strokes, heart conditions, degenerative neurological conditions, and mental ones such as hallucinations, insomnia, paranoia, manic depression, suicidal tendencies, and/or depression. I, the undersigned, do recognize and accept the risks of this procedure and…”

Aria sighed. “What am I doing here?” she whispered. Her mind turned toward the ladies in the break room the other day, and how much she’d agreed with them.

They’d been watching TV and chatting when an HV commercial had come on, and immediately the gossip had started. “I heard that the can only show you a few seconds because it’ll cause a brain tumor if the go any longer. One slip up and you’ve got a fried egg up there.”

Aria had nodded silently as the one-upsmanship began. “Well, I heard that there are these guys—like slum lords or something—in Nigeria that collect money from people so they can go on ‘spirit quests’ to the local HV center,” another lady had said.

“And you know they’re whipping those people up into a frenzy over it,” Maria from jewelry had added. “On 60 Minutes the other day I saw a feature about these people in London that’d had a bad time at HV. They saw bad things, and just quit their jobs, walked away from everything and started hanging out in gangs, doing drugs and crime and suicidally dangerous stuff.”

“Who’d ever want to do that?” Aria had interjected, half-heartedly. “Who’d want to see? I’d rather be surprised.”

 

July 30, 2010

From “God’s Knees” by Anderson Pretoria

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The Range Rover was an official vehicle of the Botswana government, and had felt more than its share of shimmering waves of heat, broken by the occasional cloudburst or rondo of dust. The bright chrome “RANGE ROVER” letters on the tailgate had grown broken and pitted; letters and parts of letters had been shorn away, leaving the proud veteran labeled a “HANG OVER.”

Karibu noted this with some bemusement as the vehicle pulled up to the Francistown hostel where she’d crashed. After all, if it hadn’t been for last night’s revelry at Tsepo’s Bar and Grill, she never would have met the British survey crew that had agreed to give her a lift into the African sandveld.

Their leader, a wiry man named Nigel, threw Karibu’s faded knapsack in the expedition’s trailer and seated her in the Rover’s cabin between two members of his crew. The air reeked of sweat and old cigarette smoke.

The Rover had been bouncing along for twenty minutes, the concrete Francistown giving way to brown grass and acacia, when Nigel turned to Karibu and offered up a toothy smile. “Apologies, love,” he said, “but my boys didn’t give me your name when they told me we’d be giving you a lift to Shinamba.”

 

May 13, 2010

From “Demon Core” by Sean Cassidy Smith

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“I’m not quite clear on exactly how evil an inanimate object like that can be,” I said. “Atomic bombs don’t kill people. People kill people.”

“The raw uranium was mined from the depths of the Belgian Congo by forced laborers,” said Tex.

“I don’t know where that is.” Geography was never my strong suit.

“Central Africa. The colonial regime there worked millions of people to death.”

“Fun,” I said. “I still don’t follow, though.”

“There’s more,”” said Tex. “The Nazis purchased the raw ore and refined it into uranium oxide. It was on its way to Japan by submarine to build a dirty bomb when the war ended.”

“I’m guessing they didn’t just throw it overboard.”

“The US captured the sub and turned the fissile materials over to the Manhattan Project, which used it in a breeder reactor to create plutonium for a bomb core. Two separate physicists were killed in radiation accidents by that core.”

“Ouch. That’s certainly dangerous, if not necessarily evil,” I said. “What then?”

“It was detonated over Bikini Atoll as part of a nuclear weapons test.”

 

April 27, 2010

From “The Lonely Walk of Bir Tawil” by Maribeth Hussein-Johnston

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She always signed the name Bir Tawil when one was required, since the term had meaningful, if esoteric, relationship to her perception of reality.

When the Brits had been busily carving up Africa like a choice turkey, they’d drawn a border between Egypt and Sudan–ruler-straight, as such externally imposed lines tended to be. A few years later, they’d gone back and, with uncharacteristic attention to native concerns, adjusted it to give Egypt a little plot of land south of the line and Sudan a little plot north of it since local tribal shepherds used the land to graze. Egypt and Sudan had fallen to fighting over the larger part, called Hala’ib, but the border was such that whoever claimed Hala’ib had to deny ownership of the smaller part at the same time. Called Bir Tawil, the patch of land was unclaimed by either one in favor of something they valued more.

So when Bir signed something with her name of choice, she was symbolically casting in her lot with that wretched 800 square miles of desert that nobody wanted. There had even been a time she’d harbored a dream of moving there–an act of solidarity with something as abandoned as she.

 

April 14, 2010

From “The Toyota Encounter” by Kelly G. Graves

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“It’s about time,” the Libyan sergeant cried in Arabic. “We’ve been waiting for a new maintenance crew all week!”

The Chadians continued their advance, and a moment later a look of complete and utter horror dawned on the Libyan’s face…one which brought a smile to Williamson’s own.

“Fire! Open fire! They’re not reinforcements, we’re under attack!” The Soviet-made tanks and armored personnel carriers behind him began to cough and smoke to life.

“Right now, boys,” Williamson whispered. “Just like we practiced.”

The Toyotas in front parted, revealing a line of trucks with anti-tank missile launchers welded to their beds. The Libyans didn’t even have time to fire a single round before the rockets were inbound and angry.

 

March 23, 2010

From “Côte d’Ébène” by Donovan Williams

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“You don’t understand me,” Brown cried. “This city’s about to fall! She’ll be killed if she stays! I’m just trying to do my job!”

The bartender sighed. “Listen to me, Marine. Perhaps you are right; perhaps when the rebels come they will kill Ms. Anne. But perhaps not. Perhaps the rebel at the very front of the column was a schoolmate of hers. Perhaps the soldiers that burst in here know her from playing in the streets. She grew up here, and cannot believe the land would allow any harm to come.”

“But…”

“I have survived several coups, Marine. I will survive this one as well. The men are always thirsty. They are thirsty for other things as well, and if Ms. Anne wishes to wait, to see her old school friends’ faces when the men come for her, who are you to deny her? Go. Ms. Anne does not want to leave, and I will shoot you if you try and take her.”

 

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