Riffey’s vehicle was under a crude carport with rusty corrugated aluminum for the roof. Asadullah climbed a ridge that paralleled the road to the house and walked on it, keeping away from the edge so no one below could see his silhouette.
There were no sounds of dogs. Light through the curtained windows showed movement. Someone was awake. He crept toward the house for a closer look.
The black pit-bull came out of nowhere and crashed low into Asadullah, clamping its jaws around his leg above the knee. They both went down, and the terrorist saw another shape coming fast. It was brown and white and was a larger pit-bull, coming at a silent run. The black pit-bull shook his head and Holland felt fire-like pain in his leg.
He hit the dog with the stick, but it didn’t let go, only grunted as it jerked and pulled. Asadullah raised his leg, getting the knee closer to his chest, and pulled out his knife. He stabbed the dog through the heart twice, then caught the bigger pit-bull on the point of the blade as it leaped for his throat.
The hundred-pound dog got the terrorist’s forearm in its mouth and viciously shook its head side to side for a dozen seconds, then weakened and fell to the dust beside him. The entire attack and fight had been in silence.
Asadullah rolled to a sitting position and looked for another dog. There were none coming. He used the cedar stave to rise, took a long look at the lights in the house, and limped back the way he had come.
By the time the terrorist reached the abandoned adobe building, his wounds throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He crawled into the cab of the old pickup rather than sleep on the dirt floor where he would be killing scorpions throughout the night.
Pulling the pistol from his holster, Asadullah sighed, and soon fell asleep with the gun in his hand. His dreams were fevered.
People chased him across a harsh desert, toward a canyon with a steadily roaring brown dragon in the bottom. He thought the roars sounded like a train coming, a combination of engine noise and hissing steam. When he glanced around, everyone was gone, but the roaring hiss still came out of the canyon.
Asadullah woke with a start. He was burning up, even though the morning was cool. The wounds ached and were hot to the touch, and the muscles around the wounds were deeply bruised.
His arm had been wrenched so badly by the big dog that pain radiated all the way to his shoulder. He opened the pickup door and stood on the rubble covered dirt floor of the building. Riffey drove by, and Asadullah caught movement out of the glassless window in time to see him.
He hobbled to the pickup and started the engine. No one was near the adobe, so he backed out of the building and pulled onto the road, turning to follow the pale rooster tail of caliche dust raised by Riffey’s pickup.
The arm hurt so badly when he steered that he decided to go into a farmacia and buy medicine and bandages. He’d do it quick and not loiter, then get out of there before people called the authorities.
Riffey drove into town at a slow enough pace that Asadullah easily kept him in view. When he parked at a small neighborhood store and went inside, the terrorist drove past it to find what he needed for his wounds.
Two blocks further was a white building on the corner with black lettering that spelled farmacia. Asadullah parked by it and entered the store. There was a small display of cheap, western-style straw hats near the entrance, and he tried several, finding one that fit. He pulled the brim low to help hide his face and stepped to a nearby display rack of sunglasses, picking a pair of aviator-style knockoffs to wear.
The rest of the store contained aisles of various products, each one on a certain side of a particular aisle. Holland recognized a
number of items, but others on the shelves were unknown to him, and he couldn’t read the Spanish names or descriptions that told about them.
The medicine that he needed was at the back of the store, and those he recognized. Asadullah asked the man behind the white counter, “Do you speak English?”
“Yes sir. How can I help you?”
“I was attacked by dogs and have infected bite wounds, fever, and pain.” He slid forty dollars across the counter and said, “For your help.”
The man pocketed the money and entered a small room, returning a minute later with pills, salves, sterile pads, tight rolls of one-inch gauze, white adhesive tape, and ace bandages. Holland looked them over and asked, “Do you have injectable penicillin and syringes?”
“I do, but we are not allowed to sell it without prescription.”
Asadullah said, “I need to pay for this hat and these glasses,” and he put two hundred dollars on the counter. The man looked at the money, then at him, and went into the small room again.
He returned with a white paper sack and placed it with the other supplies. “I should get your change.”
“You have been helpful. Keep it.” He left the farmacia with everything in one plastic bag, got into the pickup and found a place to park where he could watch Riffey’s vehicle, still in front of the grocery store.
Riffey came out five minutes later carrying four plastic bags filled with canned goods and other items. Asadullah followed him again, returning the way they had come.
When Riffey disappeared around the bend, Asadullah pulled into the collapsed adobe again and took his time cleaning and dressing his wounds. When he finished with them, the syringe full of penicillin was next. He punched the needle into his hip and pushed the plunger. The thick fluid grew into a walnut-sized burning knot in the muscle. He took three aspirin, swallowed them dry, then eased down on the pickup seat with the bandaged arm across his eyes and fell asleep.
Asadullah awoke at four AM, feeling tired but clearheaded. The wounds felt tender, but there was no fever. Hunger and thirst gnawed at him.
One more day to recover, and then he would carry out his plan. He started the pickup when the first light showed in the east and drove to the same little store Riffey used the day before. It was closed, so he waited in the vehicle until lights came on and the door was unlocked.
An old woman worked inside, humming to herself while arranging money in the old, manual cash register. She smiled as the man entered and said, “Buenos dias.”