slammed into the fence, rattling her consciousness, but she thinks she's more or less OK, no concussion. She's just lucky the fence didn't stop the car, she should have taken two seconds to put on her seat belt. On the other hand those two seconds might have been crucial.
No more shots come. She hears shouts, in the middle distance, baffled and alarmed voices calling out in some language that is not English. Her eyes adjust enough to see something looming ahead of her, the mangled remains of some kind of vehicle. Once past it she comes to a halt and looks back. No one seems to be chasing her. She crouches, hiding behind the wreckage, and examines her palms. They are raw and bleeding slightly but not too bad. Her jeans are torn but saved the skin on her knees. She is grateful she didn't fall on any shards of glass or metal.
Veronica hears barks and moans under her breath. She had forgotten about the dogs. She hears motion and voices, but none seem to be coming near. Her eyes slowly re-adjust to the night. She has taken cover behind a matatu that appears to have gotten into a stomping match with Godzilla. Veronica squats there for a good thirty seconds, staring out around the corner of the wreckage, trying to see what's going on, before she becomes aware of the two sets of pale eyes staring up at her from beneath the ruined vehicle.
She jumps back and very nearly screams. It takes her a heart-thumping moment to realize there is no immediate danger. There are two children huddled under the wrecked matatu. They are very small, certainly less than ten. They stare wide-eyed at Veronica. She wonders for a moment what kind of game they are playing. Then she understands: they live here. This heap of torn metal is their home. She puts her fingers to her lips, hoping the symbol is universal. The children wriggle their way deeper under the wreckage, out of sight. She can hear their fast, frightened breaths. Veronica looks around and wonders with something like horror how many more of the scrapyard's hulks of twisted steel serve as homes for AIDS orphans.
She hears a loud clank of metal on metal in the distance, and a few moments later, another. Veronica, beginning to hope that the men and dogs will not pursue her, scuttles to the other side of the matatu wreckage and peers out. There are a half-dozen men around the Land Cruiser and the pickup, watching warily, weapons ready, on guard. One of them holds the two growling guards on leashes. The pickup has been loaded with two big metal boxes that look like coffins. As Veronica watches, the men climb into the two vehicles, the engines roar to life, and the Land Cruiser and pickup truck roll slowly away, to and through the now-open scrapyard gate; turn to the right, away from central Kampala; and vanish into the night.
After a few more breaths Veronica dares to stand up and look around.
Then Jacob cries out, from maybe a few hundred feet away: "Veronica!"
She hesitates to answer, but no one and nothing reacts, the scrapyard appears empty. Even the askari by the gate is gone. "What? Where's Prester?"
"He's right here," Jacob says hoarsely. "They shot him."
* * *
Prester lies on his side, in a shining, swelling pool of his own blood. It is so dark Veronica can hardly see him. Jacob stands helplessly over him. Veronica pushes Jacob aside, drops to her knees beside Prester and checks his airway. He's unconscious but still breathing.
"Get the first-aid kit," she snaps at Jacob.
"First aid? Where is it?"
"The back of the Pajero. Go!"
While Jacob is gone Veronica strips Prester's shirt off and uses the light of her phone to inspect him. The ends of his dreadlocks are soaked in blood, as his little leather fetish-pouch. His breath is shallow and laboured. The entrance wound below his left shoulder blade is relatively innocuous – but as Prester breathes, little bubbles rise from the center of the dark stain spreading across his chest from the exit wound, and Veronica goes cold with dismay. Those bubbles are the classic symptom of an open pneumothorax, better known as a sucking chest wound.
"Call for help!" she shouts into the night at Jacob. "And bring a blanket!"
Prester at least had the good sense to crawl into a little ditch before he passed out. Veronica lifts his arms and legs up onto the lip