“I can’t do that,” Eda said.
“I’ll kill you,” Mr. China said without hesitation. “Stand in front of me, you leave me no choice.”
“I know,” Eda said. “But I will be standing in front of you.”
Mr. China groaned and it sounded like an earthquake. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the tattered remains of a black wallet. He opened it up and Eda saw that it was empty, apart from one thing. There was a photograph inside one of the inner pockets.
“They give wallet back after searching me,” he said. “Because I ask. Because of this. More important than all the guns in the world.”
He handed Eda the photograph. The image hadn’t aged well over the years – it was scratched and faded and Eda had to tilt it towards the fire before she could make sense of it. She was looking at a young Chinese girl, about three years old. The girl was impossibly cute with long black bunches and a gap-toothed smile that beamed back at the camera.
She glanced at Mr. China. He was staring at the photo, not blinking.
“Your daughter?” Eda asked.
He nodded.
“Daughter.”
“This was taken before the war?”
“Yes. Same dark hair as you. Same age, if she had lived.”
Eda handed the photo back and stared out towards the crashing surf that pounded towards the Dead Island shoreline. White foam sprayed everywhere. The horizon that had swallowed up Manny’s boat was now pitch black.
“Why are you showing me this?” Eda said.
“Don’t want to kill you,” Mr. China said.
Eda smiled. “Didn’t you try to blow me up in a hut today?”
“Not you. Him. Enemy.”
“That makes me feel so much better.”
They sat in silence, watching the fire together. It was a long time before anyone felt the need to talk again.
“Don’t fight me tomorrow,” Mr. China said, staring at the photograph in his hand.
12
That night, Eda lay inside her sleeping bag listening to Goldman toss and turn beside her. He coughed on and off throughout the night like a man trapped underground, gasping for air. Occasionally he’d drift off into a light sleep, snoring softly.
His old hand, speckled with lines and sunspots, resembled a giant bird claw. While half asleep, Goldman would mutter names that Eda didn’t recognize, and the hand would hover several inches off the mat, grasping at thin air.
Eda watched the old man, frightened that he might slip away at any moment. She’d once read a book about people who died and came back with stories about the afterlife. Eda recalled that many of these ‘returners’ reported seeing the spirit of one or more of their loved ones waiting for them. It was a nice idea and Eda hoped it was true. But this kind of scenario raised one problem.
Who’d be waiting for her?
She closed her eyes, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come. Outside, the guard at the door was breathing every bit as as loudly as Goldman snored. Was he asleep standing up? When another guard showed up to take watch later on, the two men spoke at full blast for at least ten minutes, disregarding the fact that there were people inside the tent trying to sleep.
Eventually the night fell silent. Eda could see the shadowy outline of the second guard standing at the door. It was bright outside, considering the late hour and a full moon had broken through the clouds, bathing the Dead Island shoreline in a crystal white light.
Eda’s thoughts turned to the duel.
Manny had returned to the island about an hour ago. He’d stopped by the tent to let Eda know that Commander Torres had approved her offer to take Goldman’s place in the morning.
Of course she had.
Torres couldn’t call off the duel, not now. The troops were ecstatic at the prospect of some light relief, at the notion of America and China dueling it out for nothing more than their viewing pleasure. Cancelling the shootout would be a sickening blow to morale.
Eda had never doubted that she’d be fighting Mr. China. Not once she’d made the offer.
She tossed and turned inside the thick sleeping bag, which at the very least was keeping her warm. She wanted so badly to drift off, to sleep and to forget about the duel for a few hours. But although it came in spurts, proper rest evaded her.
The sound of crashing waves was a constant companion throughout the sleepless night.
Eventually the first rays of sunlight crept into the tent. More and more birds began to squawk and sing somewhere over the island, announcing the new day.
It wasn’t long afterwards that Eda heard the first load of boats in the distance. The engines gradually got louder, going from a faint hum to a loud, piercing growl as they closed in on Dead Island. Even from afar, she could hear the grunts singing and shouting and laughing.
Eda lay in a daze, staring at the worn fabric on the roof of the tent. A scattering of threads hung loose up there, some several inches long and reaching down for her like strands of rope.
She stared at these threads, listening to the arrival of the Third East Coast Unit.
They sounded drunk already. In all likelihood they hadn’t gone to bed the night before. How could they? The excitement of the America-China duel had been too much for them. All that was left of the two hated superpowers and their great armies had now become sport for the pauper nations. Dead Island was the final battle of the old war. Not surprising then, that the grunts had kept the party going all night. This was an early victory in the conquest and victories were to be celebrated.
Hurried footsteps approached the tent. A moment later one of the invaders – a fifty or sixty something man with gaunt, sunburned features poked his head through the entrance flap. He grinned at Eda first, showing off a set of yellowy-brown, tobacco stained teeth. Entering the tent, he walked over to Mr. China’s sleeping bag in the corner and shook the old soldier on the shoulder.
Mr. China rolled over in slow motion. Dark shadows surrounded his eyes and Eda wondered if he’d spent most of the night lying awake too, just a few feet away from her.
Mr. China climbed out of his sleeping bag, fully dressed. He picked his cap up off the groundsheet, dusted it down and put it on his head. He wiped down the front of his red uniform and sighed.
He followed the grunt out of the tent. Eda watched him go but Mr. China didn’t look at her.
Eda had to block out their unexpected exchange on the beach last night. Seeing Mr. China as anything other than Goldman’s boogeyman would get in her way when she was looking down the rifle barrel. She had to forget about the gap-toothed girl with the cute bunches. The girl was dead anyway, what did it matter if her old man joined her?
Goldman was sound asleep at last. Eda took a closer look just to make sure he was still breathing. She saw his chest going up and down slowly. The stubborn old man was hanging in.
Not long after Mr. China was taken away, a pair of young soldiers marched into the tent to collect Eda. They seemed sober enough. Between them they carried a basin of water and some breakfast, which was no more than a bowl of oaty mush. Eda grimaced as the plate was set in front of her, but she picked out a spoonful and brought it to her mouth. It was hot and sugary. She gulped it down quickly.
The food revived her a little. It also revived the butterflies in her stomach, which began to flutter again.
She knelt before the basin and splashed cold water on her face. At the same time Eda replayed the shooting lesson with Goldman over and over again in her head. In her mind she was back on Carson Beach, back in the shooting range, standing amidst a thousand shards of broken glass and firing at the bottles on the wooden crates. She hit the target every time. It was all coming back to her – technique, stance, everything she needed to remember was slipping through an open door in her head.
But was it enough? Could she kill faster than an aging, but experienced veteran?
The answer leapt out at her.
She shoved it away.
The invaders stood at the door
, waiting and watching. One of them shuffled about nervously, hopping from one foot to another like he was standing on hot coals. Eda remembered that it was a big day for the spectators too. There was a lot of money riding on this duel.
How many of them had backed her?
Eda signaled that she was ready to go. She turned back to look at the sleeping Goldman. Walking away without saying goodbye felt wrong but if she woke him Eda would have to tell the old man that she’d hijacked his place in the duel.
And that wouldn’t go down too well with Goldman.
She followed the guards, stepping outside. It was a cold morning on Dead Island, a mild wind blowing in from the water. Eda walked over the dirt and grass, down towards the rocky beach where a large crowd had gathered. Before she got far however, Manny appeared in the distance. He walked over quickly, dismissing the two soldiers who nodded and kept walking towards the crowd further down the beach.
“Good morning,” Manny said. Purple-blue shadows under the officer’s eyes hinted at a rough night. His shirt was crumpled, suggesting he’d slept in his clothes.
“Morning.”
“How are you feeling?” Manny asked. He made a face as if to scold himself. “Stupid question I know.”
Eda nodded. “Stupid question.”
Manny scratched at a dark shadow of fluff that had sprouted on the base of his chin.
“It’s not too late,” he said. “You do know that right?”
“I don’t think your cousin would agree with you,” Eda said. A gust of wind crept past the collar of her rain cloak, clawing its way down her neck. She pulled the collar tight to her skin.
“But it’s not your fight,” Manny said. “This is not your fight.”
“Of course it is.”
Manny looked down at his boots. “Why don’t you accept my cousin’s offer?” he said. “Become an advisor and just tell her what she wants to hear? All you’d have to do is point at a map and travel with us – you wouldn’t have to take part in any of the…details. You’d just be an advisor. I could go and talk to her right now, work it out. Surely that’s better than being shot dead on the beach?”
“You think I’m going to lose Manny?” Eda said.
Manny let slip a quiet gasp. “Aren’t you scared?”
Eda glanced over at the large fleet of speedboats floating in the shallows off the coast of Dead Island. Further down the beach it sounded like a carnival was building up steam.
“I’m scared,” Eda said. “But I’m not sure I’m quite as scared as you are. You don’t look too hot Manny.”
Manny nodded. “I hate this,” he said. “All of it. I hate it more than you’ll ever know Eda. I hate the fact that I’m looking at someone who might be dead in an hour…”
He bit his lip.
Eda listened to the boisterous crowd in the distance. “Aren’t you supposed to be a soldier Manny?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be with them?”
Manny laughed softly. “You want to know what I did back home?”
“Sure.”
“I wrote poetry,” the young man said. His brown eyes drifted towards the waters off Dead Island. “And not one person in my family ever knew about it, back then or now. Nobody knows, except you.”
There was a roar from the crowd. Loud whoops and cheers drowned the island in noise.
Eda cast her eyes towards the action but she couldn’t see much except the swaying of a large, drunken crowd. They were like one giant organism, moving in time with one another. She wondered if this latest bout of raucousness signaled the arrival of Mr. China on the dueling ground.
The butterflies kicked hard.
“You were a poet?” Eda said, trying to ignore the background noise.
“I used to disguise myself in rags,” Manny said. “About three or four days a week I’d go into town, far away from our nice home in the suburbs. I’d sit down on the sidewalk and lay out sheets of poetry that I’d written. Just for pennies. I never thought I’d sell any but I did. I was quite the hit for a while – people seemed eager to consume what I’d written. Why not? Many of the people back home had lived through the hardships of the occupation. They valued love, nature and beauty – these were the things I wrote about most. I’d sit side by side with all the other traders and artists and while there I’d write some more poetry.”
“So what are you doing here?” Eda asked.
“I love my cousin,” Manny said. “And she loves me. We’ve always been close you see; we both inherited our family’s hatred for tyrants. Our destiny is here in America, both of us.”
“And what does that look like?” Eda said.
“We’re going to build something new,” Manny said, “something better than the Yankees ever built.”
“Why don’t you let your cousin build it without you?”
Manny shook his head. “My cousin needs me to help her run the unit. Where I come from, military leaders don’t tend to last long and the Third is a notoriously fickle regiment. She’s under constant pressure to project strength and you’ve seen it already. That’s why she killed that man on the beach yesterday.”
“I didn’t think she was sticking up for the sisterhood,” Eda said.
“It was nothing more than a show of strength,” Manny said. “If you’re a woman it’s even harder to lead a regiment so you’ve got to be twice as impressive as a man. It’s tough. I’m here to guide her decision-making as best I can. Family is everything and as her next of kin, I’m the official second-in-command of this unit. So you see Eda, we’re in it together, all the way to the end. Blood is blood.”
“Sounds like a good title for a poem,” Eda said.
“I’m sorry Eda,” Manny said. “You’re about to fight a duel and I’m rambling on. Forgive me, it’s just that there’s no one else I can talk to around here without pretending.”
“It’s been good talking to you Manny,” Eda said, offering her hand. “And don’t worry, if I lose, the dead don’t tell secrets.”
Manny took it and squeezed. His grip was surprisingly strong.
“Are you ready?”
Eda nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good luck,” he said, letting go of her hand.
“You bet.”
Manny called the two grunts back over and they escorted Eda down the slope and back onto the rugged terrain of Dead Island’s beach. At least two hundred people in military uniform swarmed the dueling ground. There was a lively, jubilant atmosphere and most of the grunts carried transparent cups with an amber-colored, frothy liquid swirling around inside.
Eda could smell the alcohol, a toxic wind shooting up her nostrils. Her head was pounding. The rank chemical odor that filled the air made her feel dizzy and that was the last thing she needed right now.
The crowd let out a feverish roar upon her arrival. They parted reluctantly as the guards delivered her onto the dueling ground where Mr. China was waiting. He didn’t look at her as Eda was taken to her mark, about fifteen paces directly across from her opponent.
A small wooden platform had been erected for the occasion. Commander Torres sat upon a high-backed metallic chair, dead center on the platform. Eda’s attention was drawn to a bright red and yellow oriental style-pattern running down the armrests of the chair. The pattern appeared to be in the shape of a long dagger or a sword.
Torres picked at a bowl of fruit as she watched Eda arrive. The commander’s high-ranking advisors, including Manny, stood behind her in a neat line.
“Our brave substitute is here,” Torres yelled.
This was met by a deafening howl of approval from the grunt horde. Eda wondered if they understood what their commander said or if they were just cheering at the sound of her voice.
Torres put the fruit bowl down and stood up slowly. She said something in her native tongue and the crowd went wild again.
Mr. China’s face was a void on the other end of the dueling ground. He wasn’t blinking and Eda got the impression he saw nothing of the outside world.
Two grunts carrying M4s approached the duelists. One of them went over to Mr. China and the other walked towards Eda. They dropped the rifles on the ground simultaneously, a few feet from the duelists’ feet.
“Your weapons,” Torres said. “It’s what you were carrying when we found you.”
She clapped her hands together and stared into the crowd.
“Music.”
A man stepped out of the swarm of drunken bodies and walked to the edge of the dueling ground. He was carrying something in his hands – it was a plaid bag with five black pipes poking out like tentacles. The man waited for a signal from Torres. When he got it he began to blow into the end of one of the pipes, emitting a low, unpleasant droning noise. His face puffed up with the effort. Eda winced at first when she heard the ugly sound coming out of the bag. A moment later however, the droning transformed into a cheerful high-pitched melody. The music whistled through the air and the invaders went crazy, dancing arm in arm with one another and singing at the top of their voices.
“Bagpipes,” Torres screamed over the music.
She was dancing alone on the stage, clapping her hands, and surveying the happy crowd in front of her. Eda got the impression of a delighted parent watching her children play.
After a few minutes, Torres hollered into the crowd again. The piper ceased to play and when the music suddenly dropped out the island fell eerily silent.
“The rules are simple,” Torres said, addressing the duelists. “What we have here is the final battle of the End War, also known as the Great Global War or the America-China war. Eda represents the United States of America and the man who won’t tell me his name is fighting for the People’s Republic of China.”
Eda looked at the crowd. By now they’d lined up on either side of the two duelists. Excited, sweaty faces leered back at her. As they listened to Torres introduce the duelists the grunts guzzled cups of beer like it was a race to see who could pass out first.
“Guards,” Torres called out.
Ten grunts spilled out of the crowd, all of them carrying rifles. They split into two groups, standing on either side of Torres, and slightly ahead of the four officers. Five of the gunmen pointed their weapons at Mr. China. The other five aimed at Eda.
After the End Trilogy Box Set Page 41