Free No Man's Land by G. M. Ford Page A

grip before Corso heard the voice. Kehoe’s. Yelling.
    “Hey. Hey. What the fuck you think you’re doing? Get the fuck
offa him. You hear me, motherfucker. Get the fuck offa . . .”
    Corso felt his attacker swipe at Kehoe with his free hand . . .
then, a moment later felt a deep shudder, followed by what could only
be described as a sudden loss of body tumescence, as if his attacker
had suddenly had the air let out of his balloon. Three seconds later,
the guy tilted sideways and fell to the floor without a sound. Corso
scuttled out from under and pulled himself to his feet. Guy looked
like some sort of caveman. Hairy all over like an ape. Like, in his
whole life, he’d never had a shave or a haircut. Corso shuddered.
    Corso was still trying to process what had happened when Kehoe
reached down and wiped the boning knife clean on the dead guy’s
chest hair. One side of the blade, then the other. Real nice and neat
before he stuck it back into his pocket.
    “One of those assholes can’t get a hard-on less he can smell
shit,” Kehoe said with a shake of the head. “Place is full of
them. Long as I been in these places I ain’t never . . .”
    And suddenly the air was filled with shouts and the slap of
running feet. “Here they come,” someone bellowed. Driver moved
quickly to the opposite side of the walkway. Through three layers of
bars and steel grates, the area around the front gate was roiling
with activity. A phalanx of Bradley armored vehicles rumbled just
outside the gate. Along the main road a seemingly endless procession
of troop carriers discharged squad after squad of foot soldiers.
    “Shit,” said Kehoe. “They’re comin’ for us with
soldiers. Party’s over.”
    Driver shook his head. “Half an hour . . . forty-five minutes.”
    he said. “It’ll take them that long to get staged and ready.”
    “You got a plan, Captainman . . . I’m guessin’ now’s the
time.”
    “Get the tanker truck. Bring it around between the buildings.”
    “You want I should bring the driver?”
    “Just the truck. We’ll fetch the driver later.”
    Kehoe started to amble off. Driver stopped him with a hand on the
shoulder. He tucked a piece of paper into Kehoe’s shirt pocket.
“Keys for the oil truck and a bundle I put together . . . they’re
in the central elevator. Access code is in your pocket there.” He
took a deep breath. “You’re gonna need this too.” He reached
into his pants pocket and pulled out a dirty piece of blue rag,
stained here and there by some unidentifiable dark liquid. He offered
the bundle to Kehoe, who kept his hands at his side for a long moment
before finally taking it between his thick fingers. Something about
the feel sent a question to his eyes. Kehoe set the package gently in
the palm of his left hand. Using the tips of his fingers, he folded
away the edges until a severed finger appeared in his hand. The cut
at the butt end was rough and ragged. The fingernail needed cutting.
    Kehoe pulled himself up to his full height and looked Driver in
the eye.
    “Just how iffy we talkin’ ’bout here, Captainman?”
    Driver held his gaze. “About as iffy as it gets,” he said. A
tense moment passed before Kehoe pocketed the finger and began to jog
back the way they’d come. Driver turned a quick right and started
down the stairs.
    Corso collected his wits and trotted along behind. “What’s the
deal?” he wanted to know. “What’s so iffy?”
    Driver threw a wolfish grin back over his shoulder. “Gonna see
if maybe we can’t get the hell outta here before the serious
shooting starts.”
    Corso slid to a halt. “Hey now . . . ,” he began. “A little
prison riot was one thing. You screwed me into showing up for that .
. . but you know . . . like some escape attempt . . . I’m thinking
that’s maybe more than I bargained for.”
    Behind Corso on the walkway, a dozen armed prisoners sprinted
along the concrete. Scattered shots could now be heard from every
corner of the