One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 3, page 1

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Chapter 3: Sarıman Standoff



Fírí Parızada flicked her half-smoked cigarette out the open window as she put her auto in park. Her hands shook so bad she could barely hold the cigarette to her lips, anyway.

Nobody was shooting at her. Nobody was near the blue truck. Maybe Zhíno had killed them, after all. But no, up the long gravel driveway, silhouetted by terribly bright lights, stood a big man holding a rifle. Fírí’s heart missed a beat. The gun wasn’t pointed directly at her, but still the back of her neck tingled and her throat dried.

Fírí knew she should flee, hit the fuel pedal and go, but instead she croaked, “I’m sorry!” and held up both her empty, trembling hands.

Somebody shouted, “Leave the automobile.” The voice was much too high-pitched for such a large man.

Only then did Fírí spot a second man lying on the driveway, his rifle aimed directly between her eyes.

Fírí gasped. Her face paled beyond its typical pallor.

It was too late for her to run now. This must be the guy who had shot Zhíno. He had hit him when they were already five hundred meters down the road. Surely he could kill her any time he wanted to. Fírí’s head began to swim. She would’ve been safer staying with Zhíno. At least nobody had his gunsights on her then.

She had to do what this gunman said. Out of the auto, whatever else he demanded, or else she was dead.

Fírí took a deep breath and coughed. “All right! All right! Don’t shoot! I’m unarmed. It was Zhíno, not me.”

She put the auto keys in her sweatshirt pocket and slowly opened the door.

Up the driveway, the large man’s deep voice rumbled indistinct. He towered directly over the prone man, who spat something back in response but never turned his head away from Fírí.

The night air swirled through the auto, chilling Fírí’s sweat-soaked palms and tousling her hair. With one hand, she pushed her golden locks away from her face; with the other, she reached back inside the auto for her duffel bag of shoes. She certainly wasn’t going anywhere without that.

Fírí stepped out of the auto, holding the shoe bag out to the side, her other hand in the open, as well. The two men hadn’t moved; the prone one still had his rifle trained directly on her. Fírí breathed deep, forcing air into her lungs, attempting to calm herself. If she freaked out, this guy would surely shoot her dead.

Fírí took another deep breath and held it. Was death really that bad? It sure seemed like an easier solution than having to deal with the smuggled guns and Zhíno and starting a new life away from everybody and everything she ever knew.

She exhaled slowly and began walking across the asphalt road on legs of jelly.

“It’s not my fault,” she called. “Zhíno went crazy. I hope you’re not hurt.”

“Stop!” screamed the man lying on the driveway.

Fírí stopped, just off the pavement and onto the gravel of the driveway. Her heart pounded so loud, she could barely hear what the man said. He was quite young--a kid, really. She squinted into the floodlights. Was this actually who had shot Zhíno? Or was it the older man--elderly, one could say, from his baldness and halo of gray hair--who was casually standing with his rifle on his shoulder?

“Miss?” called the old man. “I’d leave if I were you. Bhanar here won’t shoot you. Right, son?”

Bhanar was a foreign name. Was he really this elderly man’s son? But the old guy didn’t have an accent. The kid seemed to have an accent. He was too young to be his son, anyway. The old man must just call every kid “son.” But that still didn’t explain why this Bhanar kid was here in Sarıma, pointing his rifle at her. Shouldn’t he be back home in Zhuphío or wherever?

The foreign kid yelled, “No bag! Where is the pistol? Down the bag!”

And shouldn’t he have to learn the language before entering her country? She wasn’t about to take orders from some semi-literate foreigner, gun or no gun. Let him shoot. Life was becoming more trouble than it was worth. If he killed her, he killed her. No point worrying about it.

The cold wind toyed with Fírí’s chin-length hair, blowing it into her face. She kept her hands at her sides. She wouldn’t let the foreign kid kill her for something as stupid as brushing her hair out of the way.

Fírí held tight to her shoe bag. “It was Zhíno who shot at you, not I. I clearly have no gun. Please point your rifle someplace else.”

But the stupid foreigner again screamed, “Down the bag!”

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