DAHLIA AND THE PACK

Dahlia lowered her gun.

The old man gave a single nod of approval. He walked over to her and held out his hand, and Dahlia gave him the gun. He removed the magazine, ejected the shell, caught it, returned it to the mag, replaced the magazine itself, and put the pistol in his pocket. She watched with a strange fascination.

Around them, the strike team groaned their way back to awareness. The old man moved through the small clearing where the fight took place. He gathered up weapons, patted everyone down, placed the weapons out of sight behind a fallen log, and then did a second check on each. He helped them sit up, felt pulses and looked into eyes. He flicked a knife out of somewhere—Dahlia never saw where—and cut a strip from Slow Dog’s sleeve, folded it into a compress, and showed the big young man how to hold it to stanch the bleeding. Then he went to Trash, who was blinking in stupid uncertainty as to what had happened, pulled him to his feet and probed the fighter’s skull.

“It’s not broken,” said the old man, “but you’ll be sick for a bit.”

“I—” began Trash, then he whirled and vomited. The old man sighed and patted his back.

The others sat like naughty school kids on the ground, their backs to trees, while the old man went over and lowered himself onto the log. Dahlia heard the creak and pop of old tendons and joints.

“I thought I was past all of this nonsense,” he said. He removed a cloth from a pocket and began sponging the greasepaint from his cheeks. He nodded to Dahlia. “You’re the leader,” he said, not making it a question. “What’s your name?”

“Hey, fuck you,” gasped Trash, but the man put a finger to his lips.

“Shhhh,” he advised. “And sit down before you fall down.”

Trash looked like he wanted to make a fight of it, to try and reclaim the moment and take back some shred of his personal power, but instead he lost his balance and thumped down on his ass.

“You blindsided us,” he muttered.

“Of course I did,” said the old man. “You came in force. What would you expect me to do?”

“You attacked two of our scouts.”

“I counter-attacked. They made the first move.”

Dahlia groaned as she tried to sit up. Her stomach felt like it was filled with hot splinters. She looked at the bough that had struck her. It was wrapped with thick pads of green leaves. When she glanced at the old man, he nodded.

“I could have just as easily sharpened the branches to spikes and positioned it at face height.”

No one said a word.