Now Daken has shrapnel scars on his left forearm.
He’s lost the mullet; now a steel-mesh bandanna plasters his ’wind in place.
He’s got a comfortable grip on his crossbow, and a swagger that shows he’s used it.
The trill in his whistle is sharper than ever, Peyt thinks.
When Dake and the other helixes came into the mess last night, he pretended not to know who Peyt was. His glance oiled right over him. But after dinner, back in the tents, he kicked Jepp Rhysson out of his rack, the lowest bunk in the joint. The one right next to Peyt’s.
At each street corner, Cap signals for a halt. Peyt stops immediately; if nothing else, he’s well-trained in holding back. Waiting for hours, if need be. Being quiet. A quick nod and smoke bombs are tossed onto roofless condos, through glassless windows, into brick husks with tin steeples. More smash through a closed dance club’s beaded doors. Another skitters across a paved schoolyard. Golden clouds gout from the cannisters, mixed with a smog of deception that stings the sinuses like fuck. The bright dye is supposed to be cheery, Carclew says, coughing, muffled behind his beak. Like a sunrise, someone else replies, Hackett maybe, and they all laugh. A golden dawn without any hint of the greys.
They musta caught ’wind of us coming, Rhysson says, and everyone gives him shit for the pun.
Yellow groundcover billows, swells, obscures half a city block. In taupe and beige, with hints of green leather peeking through the talc on their boots, the vultures blend into the fog. Streetlight bulbs are muted or broken, but their stalwart posts make good landmarks in the haze. There’s still enough shadow to camouflage ten thousand greys, Peyt thinks, and Cap seems to agree. Before advancing, he lobs an orange streaker, then a crimson, and another yellow for good measure.
Peyt and Foot wait down the street in front of a convenience store. A faded closed sign hangs crooked on the door. Inside, a pale blue glow emanates from upright coolers. Peyt sure could use a drink. A fuckin’ two litre spring water. A gallon of Pepto. His morning borscht isn’t sitting well. His shoulders are caning. The stretcher’s getting heavier by the second. Empty or not, the thing weighs a fuckin’ tonne. But still, he can’t put it down.
“Ready, Foot?”
“Ready.”
Waiting for the go-ahead, they jog on the spot. Short hup-twos. Left right left right lefts. Within seconds, Peyt’s breathing hard. Sweat soaks into his skullcap, burns his eyes. His stomach somersaults and his guts rumble. Fuckin’ borscht, he thinks, clenching his asshole tight.
“Ready, Foot?”
Foot sighs. “Borysson.”
Peytr curves in on himself, crimps his groaning belly. He inches closer to the corner where Cap and Daken are scoping the deadzone, performing smooth, even scans with their binoculars. The two of them poised, in synch. Cap lowers his specs for a second, three, five. Watches Daken watching for the scurry of rats. Go, Cap signals after a minute, and Dake’s across the road. Just like that. Always first, always Alpha, always brave and bold. Leader of the pack.
The rest of the guys crouch or lean against the building behind them. They pick at their nails. Whisper mods onto their bullets. Lift their helmets, scratch their melons. Dead words slough into the gutters. Disco, centrefold, sassafras. Useless conglomerations of letters. Penny farthing, Cyclops, rhubarb. In a minute, street cleaners will scuttle out of their foxholes, brooming stray thoughts, lifeless chuckles. Collecting them for incineration. Ensuring no secrets are spilled on the sidewalks. Hackett peers into a rainspout as if that’s where the brooms are hiding. Others gaze up, staring at nothing. Yawning so wide their chins triple below their helms.
The stretcher is going to break Peyt’s fuckin’ arms. Dust clogs his mask, so thick he’s going to fuckin’ suffocate. Grime itches under his collar, his cuffs, in his fuckin’ fly. Every step he takes grinds more sand into his creases and fuckin’ ass crack. Peyt’s so filthy he’s chafing. He’s raw.
Daken whistles the all clear.
Man, what a warble.
Cap turns and points. You and you and you. There and there and there.
One after another, soldiers dissolve in the yellow gloom.
Peytr would fuckin’ kill for a bath.
“You ready, Foot?”
“Yes, Peyt. I’m fuckin’ ready.”
That night, Jepp Rhysson reclaims his old bunk. He rips Daken’s nameplate off the footlocker, tosses it on the packed dirt floor, then flops down next to Peytr, snatching the blanket and bunched jacket Daken used as a pillow. Before stretching out, Jepp reaches over and quickly ruffles Peyt’s hair, fingering his ’wind in the process.
Blushing, Peytr glares iron, his balls shrivelling at Jepp’s shameless touch. Fuckin’ carrion bird… . Fuckin’ vulture… . The words rev with fury and now Peyt’s up and towering, quivering, quaking. He throws curses like darts, aiming for the head.
“Fuckin’ right,” Rhysson says, easily backhanding Peyt’s attack. Hand lingering until the letters disperse. “Finders keepers.”
Just as quick as it swelled, Peytr’s rage deflates. Adrenalin drains through his heels and he finds himself sitting, balanced on the edge of his cot. Doesn’t remember bending his knees or propping his elbows on them. With bare feet, he stamps what’s left of his fallen ’wind. Wishes the words would burn his soles like embers.
Earlier, Cap dug a couple jars of grog from his stash, generously passed them around. Peyt took one long haul after another, but didn’t taste a drop. Sweat broke out across his brow and trickled down his neck. He knuckled the water leaking from his eyes, smeared the snot dripping from his nose. Carclew came up and nicked the bottle, chuckling at the sight of him. “You’re fuckin’ wrung, Borysson.”
“Fuckin’ fumes,” Peyt managed and Carclew hooted, pulled down his pants, and blasted some fumes of his own.
The guys were rowdy, revelling in booze and life, their laughter extra loud, drowning out voices of the recently lost. Lamps swung from the tent’s crossbeam and flickered in corners. Shadows danced wildly on the canvas walls, aping the boys’ movements, crowding them into the narrow aisle between beds. Soldiers and spectres stripped to their undershirts, socks off, cargos rolled to the shin. It’s fuckin’ hot in the hootch, even with the flaps roped open, even with four bunks out of sixteen now empty. Hackett was swept first today. Two newbies soon after him. And Dakes …
“Just fuckin’ up and vanished.” Merv’s been explaining what happened all evening. He whistles through his teeth, focuses on the candle in his big hand, melting wax to plug holes in his boots. He spits on the rubber, shakes his head. “I was right there, Cap. Right fuckin’ there, practically clipping his heels.” Next to Daken, Merv’s the fastest runner in their crew. Played quarterback for the Blues, once upon a time—scored two touchdowns in the very stadium they’re supposed to defend—but even he couldn’t catch the bastards that sacked Dakes. “He rounded the corner right infuckin’front of me. Three steps ahead, max. I took that corner three steps behind him, I was clipping his fuckin’ heels, and he was whistling like a champ, whistling into the schoolyard—and gone.” Merv’s wordwind spun in confusion, dogs chasing tails. “Just fuckin’ up and vanished.”
Peyt refused to believe it.
Cap refused to meet his eye.
“Poor fuck,” Rhysson says, his voice all heartbreak and wistful. “Wouldn’t even’ve got a grope on one of them Skybunker girls before his ’wind gave out. Hackett got hisself a good feel, I can promise you that. Chick swooped down on that glider of hers, swinging her big tits right in Lars’ gob… . She was into it, leaning close so’s he could make her wriggle while she took extra-long scooping up his ’wind …”
“You’re full of shit,” Foot says. “Hackett’s fuckin’ arms were blown clear off when me’n Peyt saw him.”
Peyt nods to himself.
“Never said he was using his hands, corpse-mule,” says Jepp, snaking out his tongue, quick-licking an imaginary nipple.
The guys howl and Cap passes h
im the jar. Young Foot hurdles one cot then another, rams into Jepp, sends the grog flying. Glass smashes and the drink is wasted, the night’s long buzz reduced to a small wet patch on the floor. Peyt shudders as Foot’s ’wind tangles with Jepp’s then, both guys huffing, limbs locked and writhing. Shards bite their arms, shoulders, cheeks; blood speckles their sweaty beige skivvies. Jepp dominates, then Foot—they roll twice before jamming to a stop against Cap’s trunk. With nowhere else to go, Jepp frees a hand, pounds the ground in surrender. Soon as Foot relents, Jepp goes in hard, ploughs his elbow into the younger boy’s guts, gets a stranglehold on his ’wind. Foot flops around like a herring until Merv jumps in, tackling Jepp from behind.
Peyt watches from his cot, doesn’t join in. He’s slender, muscles lean but too small for grappling. Most of the guys have shaved heads, nothing to snag the points of their ’winds, thoughts flinging free as their punches. Peyt’s got a thatch of straw that spirals from his crown and spikes at the forehead. It’s thick and babyish, but makes a good buffer under his helmet.
The other guys drink and wrestle to avoid thinking. Of today. Tomorrow. After. What they’ll do if, when the war ends. Useless speculation, Peyt knows, but they wrestle and drink and merge ’winds like they’re strong and tough and in the now. Only, forever, now… . Merv and Jepp are grunting and rearing like stallions, bucking each other off. Their knees grate red on the broken glass. Almost as red as their faces. Maybe I’ll tend mules, Peyt thinks. Nothing fancy. Instead of being one. Maybe I’ll get a stable of cart-pullers. He likes the army’s workhorses well enough. Likes the steam rising off their flanks in the morning, the velvet on their muzzles, the way their lips probe his fingers, toothless maws seeking something soft to gum.
Be my stallion, Peytie, Euri used to beg, when school was off, the neighbourhood gone grey, and they had nothing to do but wait for the haze to lift. They’d tell stories to kill time, make up fake accents for all the different characters, while Daken whistled a soundtrack. They’d play-act the parts, Daken always the sheriff and Peyt the deputy or, if Euri got her way, the horse. A palomino, she claimed, on account of his dappled skin. A Dalmatian, Daken always corrected and they laughed hard at that. A Dalmatian. Peyt wheezes, wipes his eyes. You make up the dumbest stuff, Dakes.
Peytr lies down, zips the blackout netting around the head of his cot to keep his dreams private. His blanket scratches like fibreglass. Brown, regulation fabric, a flimsy shield against fire and penetrating ’winds. There is no real conversation here. There are jokes, sure. Jibes, insults, machismo. There are instructions. Debates. Orders. But no one tells stories. No one really talks.
He rolls over, tries to block out the sound of skin slapping against skin, boots skidding, thundering, grunts and snarls. Tries to ignore the cheering when skulls crack against dirt. He flexes his legs, left right left right left right, working his muscles, pretending he’ll be able to rest. Pretending Dake’s not gone, not a traitor. Pretending he’s not so alone.
Without sleep, there’s no dreaming. Only sketches of memory, flickering reels of scenes from the past. Peyt kicks his heels, watches phantasms play across the tent wall. It’s late, or early. He blinks. Can’t pinpoint the time. It’s late.
He blinks.
Down the hall, the front door creaked open, creaked shut. Footsteps feathered past the kids’ room, but the floorboards tattled, giving her away. A slow clunk-thunking emerged from the living room. Clunk. Thunk. Clunk … thunk.
“Where have you been?”
“Sorry. I didn’t want to wake you.” Pause. “I waited as long as I could.”
“No, Jean. Jeanie. What have you done?”
Who’s that? Peyt wondered, rushing to the bedroom door. Ma always left it open a crack—for Euri and little Zaya, she said. Knowing full well it was Peyt who needed that line of light in the dark.
“What have you done, Jeanie?”
It didn’t sound like Borys. The timbre was wrong. Nasal and wild, like a horse with a grey-snapped leg. Must be someone else. A crook. A dream-thief. But it’s so late, Peyt thought. Even robbers and greys have to sleep …
“Clean yourself up. Now.” The words more whinny than command. “No. Leave that on. We’ll take you to the doc, get you stitched up.”
Peytr inched closer. Put his eye to the gap and breathed silently, through his mouth.
“Won’t make a difference,” Ma said, smearing red on her coat and hood as she hooked them up next to Peyt’s schoolbag. A row of numbers was scored into her palms, seeping. “My part is red-written now.” Borys grabbed her hands, blotted them with his shirt, pressed hard.
Be careful, Da, Peytr thought. Don’t hurt her.
“Scrub and stitch all you like, love,” Ma said, suffering his ministrations. “I’ve made an oath.”
“But, Jean.”
Peytr stopped breathing. Borys’s wordwind was thick, flaking on his shoulders like fallout. It sputtered about shackles, constraints, handcuffs. Flaccid penises. Balls being twisted, severed. The ’wind throbbed, clench-pulsing, and blanched to the colour of aching.
“When will you go?”
Peytr blushed when Jean took Borys’s face in her bloody hands, kissed his tears. When she stroked his frantic ’wind, when she touched it. Fondled it. Brushed it with salt and iron. “When I’m needed.”
“You’re needed here,” Borys said, a crack undermining the force in his tone. “The girls… . And Peytr …”
“I’m not going anywhere now.” She laughed, her ’wind drooping. Condescending. Jean kissed Borys again, long and hard. She smiled. “But when I have to, I will go.”
#####
Sirens blare like the world’s fuckin’ ending.
“Get yer gladrags on, kid.” The netting flings back and a lamp’s in Peyt’s face. Around the tent others flare and bob around, lightning bugs against the dark seeping in from outside. Peytr stretches for the grenade Ma left on the dresser. Arm flailing, whacking a strong pair of thighs. He sits up, blinking stupidly, ’wind lethargic. Don’t hurt her… . Don’t hurt her… . Daken… . Jepp reaches over, traps hovering ‘D’s and ellipses between his fingers, and gives them a liberal squeeze. Peyt gasps, pain shooting right down to his calves. He kicks out, screaming awake.
“Get the fuck off!”
Jepp loosens his grip, brushes off clingers. He’s full-dressed and sober. The sour stink of grog oozes from his pores. “Haul ass to transport. Cap’s got us a wagon. Leaves in ten.”
Peyt’s head is pounding. His hands operate on their own, grabbing pants, fumbling them around his feet. “What’s going on?” He stands, pulls. Does up his belt, then his vest and jacket are on. Never mind the mask and helm; can’t see a fuckin’ thing with it on, can’t distinguish fuckin’ wordwinds from the black. He grabs his ruck, already packed. Cinches the straps. “What is it?”
The greys are here the greys are here the greys …
Sirens keen his legs into motion. He’s running, he’s out in the cold. Sky-fallen clouds are puffing from soldiers’ mouths. For once, there’s a moon. So bright Peyt staggers. Frost on the concrete, sparkling dust, gets trampled dull under stampeding feet. On the strip, propellers whir to life, catching the moonlight. Chips of ice spin off blades, glistening Catherine Wheels.
“One fuckin’ job,” Jepp says, slinging a rifle across his back. “Dumb cunts in Nestor’s crew got fuckin’ overrun tonight. See that?” He gestures at the pickup hitched to a team of roans; the black carcass of a Chevy with dubious tires. Cap stands in its gutted cab, reins in hand. Jepp dekes right, heads for the parking lot. Pushes Peyt toward the med-tent. “Get yer meat tray, mule, and meet us there fuckin’ yesterday. We got ourselves a breach.”
Peyt wishes they could’ve run the three miles instead. The wagon gets them there too quick; before he knows it, they’re unloading at the convenience store, all in a clump. No hanging back this time, no smog-yellow cover. Peyt’s out in the open, deep in the thick. Can’t feel his fingers his hands are clenched so ti
ght. He runs through the smoke, the bombing, the fray—the fuckin’ grey. Can’t see a fuckin’ thing beyond the length of his stride, but he keeps running, keeps running, no Whitey to guide him, just the bone-shaking eruptions, the trail of broken words, the screams. He follows the same route they took that morning, past condos, churches, into the schoolyard. Loses count of how many trips he makes back to the wagon, delivering load after load of the near-dead. Has no idea whose men they are, just that they’re men, real men, spilling red, spilling syllables. He’s got good instincts, he finds them by gut and groan, the division’s best triage man. “Sorry,” he says, over and over, jostling, bumping, tripping over curbs. “Sorry.” Ears bleeding from all the screaming Mee-Mees, the Rababou, he keeps running, a mule hauling meat, kicking corpses face-down so Foot will stop trying to help them, stop bending to pick them up. Then it’s Foot on the stretcher, wordless and chalky, and Peyt wraps the stump of the boy’s arm in the last of Ma’s gauzes, knows it’s too late, the kid’s fucked, but drags him back anyway, he was a good Foot, and he probably deserved a name.
“Sorry,” Peytr says. “Sorry.”
Dawn brings more warmth than light, but even so Peyt’s got gooseflesh and his teeth won’t stop chattering. He trails the litter behind him, no replacement for Foot, not enough able men left to waste on retrieving the wounded. Plodding now, no gumption even for walking. Words bullet past his ears, explode in trenches, shoot blaspheming gouts to steeple-height—and he goes as far as the school and back, again and again, camouflaged in a silt of grey, wearing gloves made of other men’s blood. Deaf to whimpers and last words, he hears the sputter of curses, bullets, grenades, and quiet whistling, hears the stretcher’s steel handles scraping on concrete, thudding across fabric, whistling across skin, hears his pulse throbbing out of sheer fuckin’ luck, breath ragged in his ears, sobs stuck in his throat, and whistling he hears grey whispering, grey snickering, grey snares and trapdoors, grey skittering, grey roars, grey whistling, he hears the clunk-thunking of Borys’s metal leg, the clunking of Ma’s grenade, the jangle of bones clipped in his jacket, horse-knees thudding on bedroom floorboards, cot springs squeaking, glass shattering, grog seeping in the dirt. He hears, clear now, whistling.
Lament for the Afterlife Page 3