More screams. It went on for a long time. There were other sounds-meaty twisty ripping noises. Fleeing feet. Commotion.
The President waited tensely for it all to die down. He knew better than to run when bullets were ripping the air, although his nerves screamed for him to flee.
The gun sounds were still ringing in his ears when he heard footsteps coming for him. They crushed the railbed gravel.
The President's eyes snapped open. He got ready to duck under the caboose.
To his astonishment, the Vice-President-his eyes still holding that perpetual hurt light that never changed from debate to photo op, his clown grin almost ghoulish in its unwavering fixity-stepped into view.
"We are safe now," he said, reaching down. "We have survived." He held a bent putter in his other hand.
The President let himself be helped to his feet. His ankles and knees felt like Slinky toys waggling in opposite directions.
"What happened?" he asked shakily.
"The meat machines have been neutralized."
"Meat machines?" the President asked. Steadying himself against the caboose, he peered around to the other side.
He gagged. For he could see why the Vice-President had called their erstwhile attackers meat machines. They had been torn limb from limb. The fortunate ones. Their ham-bone joints gleamed white at the torn-off shoulders and knees.
The President threw up his water. The Vice-President straightened the putter's shaft with a quick two-handed motion and restored it to his bag.
"You did all that with a putter?" the President said incredulously.
"Yes. Why?"
The question was asked with such a straight face that all the President could do was mutter, "Well, not much loft in a putter." He felt very weak. " I don't think I can go on," he said.
"We must survive," said the Vice-President.
"Amen," said the President fervently.
" I will carry you."
"No, no-you've done enough."
But the Vice-President was having none of it. Like a caveman, he took the chief executive around the waist and hefted him onto his hip like a feather pillow.
"This isn't really necessary."
The Vice-President stepped out into the road and started walking with a steady metronomic gait.
"Isn't there a more dignified way to do this?" the President wanted to know as he bounced on the Vice-President's anvil hip.
"You are too weak to walk. I am strong. I am very strong. "
"Thank goodness for that. Those fellas were trying to kill us. You just took them apart."
"Yes. We cannot go to the embassy now. We must enter the city undetected if we are to survive."
"How are we gonna do that:"
" I will find a way," the Vice-President said. "We must seek sanctuary."
"Let's find one with food. I'm getting hungry."
"What would you like?"
"Anything. "
The Vice-President's camera-lens eyes regarded an approaching truck. "Bread?" he asked.
"Sure. Anything. Even plain white bread would taste good."
No sooner were the words out of the President's mouth than he was set onto the roadside. His head no longer hanging upside down over the concrete, he looked around him.
The train was not far behind. It stood there like a long inert worm of metal. Passengers' screams were more audible, but no one had ventured from the cars.
The Vice-President stepped into the middle of the road, his arms raised. He was trying to flag down a blue-and-white van coming up the road.
The van stopped and the Vice-President stepped up to the driver's side. The driver rolled down the window and asked, "Como esta?"
Without warning, the Vice-President delivered a straight-arm punch. The driver's head slumped out the window, unconscious.
When the Vice-President came back for him, he was wearing that idiot Alfred E. Neuman grin of his, as if nothing had happened.
"Did you have to hit him like that?" the President complained.
" I did not speak his language, and we can trust no one," the Vice-President said, and under his arm went the President again. He was bundled into the back of the van. The door slammed and darkness closed over him.
"Hey!" the President shouted.
"Enjoy your meal," said the Vice-President's voice.
The truck started up. It rattled worse than the caboose.
The President became aware of the tantalizing smell of fresh bread. On one hand and both knees, he felt around in the back, encountering plastic wrapping on shelves upon shelves of plastic wrapping.
He tore one open and began to devour handfuls of soft aeirated bread. It tasted like Wonder Bread. It would have tasted better, but the awful exhaust smell was coming up through the floorboards. Still, it was good to eat solid food again.
After he had filled his stomach, drowsiness set in. The President fell promptly asleep. His last loggy thought was to wonder what had come over the Vice-President. The guy had become a positive tiger.
Chapter 14
The plane that ferried Remo and Chiun to Mexico City International Airport was a rickety propellerdriven Douglas C-47 of museum vintage.