tank. The wave crashed onto his back, followed by glass and metal rods and about a jillion shimmering sardines. The attacker was swallowed up in the deluge.
Lady Ahn stood behind the tank, still shoving, her face glowing with rage.
The men behind us closed in.
I grabbed a handful of crab, flung it, and hopped forward, kicking with the upturned toe of my sneakers. A swooshing club missed my forehead by an inch. My foot caught rib, the man grunted, and I followed with a left jab. The punch landed on his chin.
Something slammed into my arm. Fire exploded from my elbow to my shoulder blade. The canvas above me swirled madly. I remember punching and gouging, but I'm not sure who all this fury was aimed at.
Again something rammed into my back. I realized it was one of the stalls. It was flattened, and I was lying on top of it. Crabs pinched my neck.
Above me a sickle whistled through the air. I rolled. The curved blade slammed into the dust.
And then a blast filled the air. An unmistakable rat-a-tat-tat and a sinus-cleansing burst of gunsmoke.
Suddenly Ernie stood above me, his face red, cords bulging in his neck, screaming, spraying the poles and canvas rooftops of the market with a stream of lethal AK-47 pellets.
Just as suddenly as it began, the firing stopped. Ernie's hand reached down, I grabbed it, and he yanked me to my feet.
'Out of ammo,' he said. 'Let's un-ass the area.'
'By all means,' I said.
Amidst the splintered stalls and tattered canvas and flopping fish, Lady Ahn appeared at my side. I grabbed her and pulled her close.
'Let's go!'
We ran out of the market, away from the bus station, through the narrow pathways of Ok-dong. Not sure where in the hell we were going.
Near the edge of the town, where the vast expanse of green rice paddies began, we finally stopped, panting for breath.
'Did I lay it on 'em, pal? Or what?' Ernie yelled.
Lady Ahn peered around nervously, at the rickety shacks behind fences of splintered slats and rusted chicken wire.
'Quiet down, Ernie,' I said. 'The assholes might still be in the area.'
'No way,' Ernie said. 'We lost 'em. Once I pulled out this baby..' he patted the AK-47, '… no way they were going to follow.'
I wasn't so sure about that. 'You didn't kill any of them, did you?'
'Naw. Shot over their heads. But I should've blown a few of them away.' He mimed firing the automatic weapon once again. 'Rock and rolll'
What Ernie needed was a sedative. Or a couple of shots of bourbon.
Lady Ahn tugged on my arm. 'We must leave. Quickly!'
'Yes,' I agreed. 'But they'll be watching the bus station. And there aren't any taxicabs way out here.'
'We will find a way,' she said. 'I will show you.'
Twenty minutes later, we stood inside a tin-roofed shack peering at a small tractor with a square wooden platform bolted behind the driver's seat. Designed for transporting fifty-pound bags of grain.
A snaggle-toothed farmer grinned at us. He'd never in his life seen such an entertaining display as the three of us. 'How much does he want?' I asked.
'Ten thousand won,' Lady Ahn answered. Twenty bucks.
'And he'll take us all the way to Taejon?'
'On the back roads only. He'll let us off near the outskirts. Not in the town itself.'
'Okay,' Ernie said. 'It's a deal.'
The farmer also threw in three bowls of rice gruel and some turnip kimchi, which we ate while hiding inside the tin shack.
When night fell, the moon rose almost full but not quite. If we were going to save Mi-ja, we had to reach Seoul by tomorrow. The three of us crammed ourselves into the back of the tractor, the cackling old farmer at the wheel. The farmer fired up the engine and we drove off down the bumpy country road, heading once again toward the provincial capital of Taejon.
My legs had cramped into knots and my butt was as sore as a bad boy's rump at a corporal punishment convention. The ancient tractor bounced up and down with every rut. The straw-hatted farmer stared straight ahead into the night. Ernie kept up a steady stream of cursing.
To make matters worse, the heavens opened up as if they had only one last chance to water a parched planet.
Lady Ahn snuggled up against me, clutching the skull in the soaked burlap bag, and I held a plastic sheet over our heads. Ernie had lost everything in the fight in the fish market and sat with his arms crossed, hugging the AK- 47. Rain ran in rivulets down his straight nose and puddled on cursing lips.
I had offered him the use of my shirt or the underwear in my bag but stubbornly he had refused. Finally, he gave in and grabbed my overnight bag and set the whole thing atop his head. It didn't provide much shelter.
I thought about the Mongols who had attacked us, trying to bring the memory of their faces vividly into my mind.
They were tough rascals. Dark-skinned and wiry and with an apparent relish for combat that only men long used to violence could attain. They held Mi-ja, and she was totally at their mercy.
The tractor slammed down hard into a pothole. Soil reeking of septic tank splashed up and engulfed us in a rancid wave. Ernie emitted a particularly colorful series of expletives but the old farmer just kept churning forward.
Soon the rainwater had washed much of the mud off of us. Through it all, Lady Ahn sat next to me. Uncomplaining. As long as she held the skull in her hands, she seemed happy.
Streetlamps started to appear at the side of the road. And then huts and buildings and even a two-story yoguan with a rain-soaked wooden sign over its door.
The farmer stopped the tractor, turned off the ignition, and the engine coughed, sputtered, and died.
'Yogi isso,' he said, still smiling. Here you are. 'Taejon.'
I unraveled my legs in sections, stepped out onto the pavement, and shakily brought myself to the standing position. Ahead in the distance lay a sea of more lights and even high-rise buildings. Bright blue and yellow neon sparkled through the rain and I could make out the tiny letter- ing atop one of the skyscrapers. The Pyong-an Tourist Hotel.
Luxury. But much too far away. We'd settle for this small establishment in front of us. The Somun Yoguan. The Westgate Inn.
I paid the farmer. He started up the engine of his tractor, and waved to us as he drove away. Still grinning.
Easy money, he was probably thinking. If we were foolish enough to offer it, he was damn sure going to take it.
We pushed through the heavy oak door of the inn. After a couple of minutes, the chubby woman who owned the Somun Yoguan overcame her shock at seeing two rain-drenched Americans accompanied by a soaked-to-the- skin Korean woman of regal beauty. We paid for two rooms. The owner led us down creaking wooden hallways. Rounding a corner, she slid back a paper-paneled door.
It was a little square room with no beds, just folded sleeping mats and wood-slat floors heated by steam ducts running beneath the foundation.
The owner left Ernie and me, guiding Lady Ahn to her quarters. She returned a few minutes later with a metal tray piled high with hot rolled hand towels and steaming cups of barley tea. When I rubbed the towel on the back of my neck and sipped on the tea, a semblance of color started to return to my shriveled skin.
Ernie was the last to use the byonso. While he was gone, Lady Ahn tiptoed down the hallway. Without a word, she took me by the hand and led me to her room.
