Jason Jones Versus China

Jason Jones landed in Manchuria around 2:00 AM, local time; still alert and energetic from the sleep he'd gotten on the flight. The airport was, to his eyes, cramped and dirty - he knew that the one he'd set out from back in Iowa was hardly a paragon of the form, but it was angelic in comparison. The halls were perpetually crowded. Twice Jason's small satchel, holding money, travel books, cell phone, and a half-empty bottle of water - all his possessions on this side of the Pacific - was nearly stolen before he even got to the street. Only constant vigilance prevented the thieves' sharp tugs from wrenching the bag from Jason's grasp.

Jason entered China proper in a fit of coughing. The air was nearly visible that day; everything looked a little gray. (Though that might just be the natural state of the rarely-cleaned buildings.) Vendors filled the street, haggling with pedestrians on every side. Both vendor and pedestrian were cursed by the many bicyclists moving slowly through the press, and all were slandered (from what Jason could tell from the tone of their voices) by the taxi-drivers jerking spasmodically through the crowds.

Jason was utterly overwhelmed. He walked through the crowds for half an hour before the press began to lift. Sitting in an unoccupied doorway, he consulted his travel books and English-Chinese phrasebook (all dog-eared heavily), then walked another ten minutes to find a taxi. "多少美元前往空文?", he slowly said to the driver - mangling it in the process, Jason knew. (How many dollars to Kongwen?")

The taxi driver held up three fingers. "三！", he said. Jason carefully reached into his satchel and peeled off three ones without revealing the size of his tiny hoard. He handed them to the driver, who beckoned him impatiently to get in. "走！" he yelled impatiently. Jason opened the passenger side door and sat down.

Even before the door closed, the driver leaned on the accelerator, nearly hitting a woman laden with plastic bags. The taxi was small and dirty and smelled of cigarette smoke. There was no meter. The driver seemed to cheat death at least once every five seconds; careening around corners, shooting through incoming traffic. Jason Jones found it easier, helpless as he was, to close his eyes; and then, as the driver finally escaped the city's bounds and began simply speeding along the long road to Kongwen, Jason fell asleep.

He woke with a start, as a sharp crack echoed in his ears. His first thought was that the driver had somehow managed to pop a tire - hardly shocking, considering the way he'd been driving. As Jason lifted himself from sleep, his second thought was that the crack had been a rifle shot.

His second thought was right. But it was the least of his problems, he quickly realized as the cab came to a halt. Three 'centaurs' surrounded the cab; all looking much the same as the ones he'd seen in Iowa, perhaps a little shorter in the black, wing-sheathed legs, perhaps a little thinner in their equine midriff, but much the same in their human heads and hands. The main differences he noticed were the fluent Chinese one of them spouted at the taxi driver, handing him a bill of some denomination, and the automatic rifles held in the others' hands. As they manhandled Jason out of the taxi and the driver shot away at, if anything, an even higher speed, the centaur doing the talking pulled another rifle off his own back. As the centaurs began to push Jason along, one keeping a safe distance while another jabbed Jason in the back, the third asked Jason "You. You know who are?"

Jason was still somewhat dazed; his rude awakening had left him poorly prepared for centaur ambush. He'd expected to have to hunt down the centaurs; not have them find him! So he did nothing more than shake his head in response to the unexpected question.

The centaur continued in broken, heavily accented English. "You marked. Everyone want you. The Great One (Jason couldn't tell whether there was sarcasm or awe in his voice) want you. The Enemy want you. They offer dollar. Much dollar for you."

Jason cleared his voice as the centaur paused momentarily. "I'm a little surprised. I didn't know that I was so valuable."

The centaur leader responded, "You very value. We poor. Few dollar. Maybe he want you dead. Maybe tor-ture. Maybe tea! We don't care."

Jason was finally waking up now. He had multiple automatic rifles pointed at him; but he didn't care. He was getting angry. He hardly listened as the leader continued, "We not bad. If we not poor, maybe you free. We not tool. A little dollar, and we - forget - you here. OK?" he asked, gesturing with his gun for emphasis.

Jason was already moving. Blood pounded in his ears as he twisted, knocking the barrel behind him upwards as he simultaneously elbowed the centaur in what he hoped would be the solar plexus. A loud whoomph of outrushing breath informed him that he was right, and Jason grabbed the gun as he fell to the ground. A deafening crack meant that someone had fired, but Jason felt no pain. He rolled, bringing his stolen gun up to smash the rearmost centaur in the knees. He couldn't see what the other centaurs were doing, and his blow seemed to have little effect, so he rolled to his feet behind the centaur (who turned too slowly to keep up) and shot him with a three-round burst to the back.

Blood sprayed. Jason grabbed the corpse for a moment, propping it up to serve as cover while he came to his feet. The leader had finally sighted his gun, firing on automatic, but Jason was unharmed for precious seconds. He steadied his own gun and fired, knocking the leader back with a shot to the torso, then turned to fire on the centaur he'd incapacitated with the sternum-targeted elbow.

He was already yards away, and moving incredibly quickly, propelled by his black leg-wings. Jason cursed as foully as he could (for an Iowa farmboy) and fired several shots in his general direction. He missed. Repeatedly. He cursed again and turned to the leader.

The leader was bleeding his life out onto the dirt. He'd somehow found the strength to prop his gun on his chest, but he couldn't quite aim it at Jason. As Jason approached, kicking the corpse out of the way, the leader gasped out, "How you... killer? Just boy! Three! We not killing you! Just talk! Just dollar!"

Jason waited patiently until the leader finished, and then shot him in the head. He felt a fierce thrill of exhilaration at the murder. His bloodlust raged within him; then, seeing the lack of further enemies, subsided.

Jason began the walk back to the road; there to consider his options further. There was centaur blood on his hands again; perhaps for the third time. He wondered for the first time if this was a bad thing.