"What's dee problem?" the man asked.
"Well," Deserter began, "I just can't look after my daughters without some help. I mean I was hoping-"
"We cannot help you take care of them," the Frenchman said. "But if you want to release them to us, we will send them to a camp for children where they will get everything they need."
"And you can go veezeet them whenevah yoo want," the big black chimed in. "Here, I can give you some extra food for yourself, you see?" he said, indicating stacks of cans and packages of other completely unheard of delicacies, such as candy bars and cigarettes.
Deserter began to look very unhappy.
"What?" the Frenchman demanded.
"May I-" he stuttered, indicating the bathroom. The Frenchman gestured for him to go ahead. He hated it when this vermin used the bathroom because it had to be cleaned from top to bottom when they were done. They were worse than pigs. He liked pigs. In fact, he was thinking very sadly of his father's farm when the grenade exploded beside his head. The shrapnel scythed through the big black man, rendering him into a blob of fresh liver. The two little girls had their throats torn out and bled to death by the time Deserter exited the bathroom and grabbed the Frenchman's FAMAS bullpup.
The attackers had been firing non-stop into the compound since the explosion and bullets ripped through the tin of the Quonset and thudded into the dead bodies, jerking them spasmodically. Deserter clung to the ground and tried to crawl towards the entrance but the constant fire kept him pinned.
Outside the .50 chattered at the unseen attackers, spraying the heavy lead slugs in panicked wedges at nothing and nobody. A dozen civilians lay dead as the operator swung the big barrel back and forth. Clive sighted him and fired. The man flew back from the gun, a hole in his forehead and the barrel tilted upwards. The marines inside the library had more time to respond and were now methodically sighting in the attackers, clearly identified from the muzzle flashes of their rifles. The tank crew had been Clive's first target and three men lay on the ground, one of them raising his arm, beckoning for help or perhaps to surrender. Clive sighted him again and put the slug into his open mouth.
Clive was laughing hysterically now, swinging the M24 carefully from target to target, inhaling, watching the reticle fall gently and then pulling the trigger.
Three marines leapt from a window in the library out of the line of fire and made it to the tank before anyone could get a bead on them. The first they knew that the tank was operational was the moment the Abrams 120 mm. shell exploded in the top floor of the old building where Clive was crouched behind a window.
The beast came to life after that, machine guns spitting out a thousand rounds a minute as it waddled into position. The first RPG missed and sailed right into the library, exploding inside in a cascade of stone and glass but the second missile, about thirty seconds later lifted the turret. The third one exploded in the shooters hands as he was raked by automatic fire from the library roof where at least five UN marines had congregated behind a .50 caliber that nobody had counted on. The attackers continued to pour fire into the library, but they were at the end of their capabilities when the Z10 appeared, it's cannon raining steel down onto the barely concealed attackers. It withstood a withering ground fire from M16s and AR15 rifles, the bullets clanking and bouncing but unable to penetrate and emptied its bays of Hellfire missiles before it peeled off to get more.
The short battle had lasted perhaps twenty minutes when Deserter crawled out from the collapsed Quonset, still clutching the bullpup, blood streaming from a head wound. He started to run and the .50 caliber on the roof separated his torso from his legs.
Albert heard the firing, heard the massive explosion of the tank round and then the RPGs. He saw the Z10 swing around in a smooth, elegant arc as it turned into the battle zone and he heard the chatter of the machine guns and the repeated hammering of the Hellfires as they slammed into the ground.
Smoke was rising in numerous columns over the railroad station. He heard the last, long burst of the .50 as they walked it into Deserter and then he heard everything stop.
He was down the line, almost a quarter of a mile in front of the station. He had set the pipe bombs along the cross ties with the detonators jammed under the lip of the track in such a way that the rocking motion created by the train should set them off. In case it failed, he had kept several back and waited behind cover ready to throw them. The train was on time and he saw its blazing, liquid headlight first and then heard the ululation of the diesel air horn as it came out of the curve. He wasn't even sure that the pipe bombs had enough force to derail the beast as it tore through the morning air. Normally the train would have started to slow down before it reached the location of Albert's first bomb but this time it didn't even hesitate. They had been warned. It rolled right over the first bomb without detonating it and in a few seconds was streaming past Albert in a thick, horizontal blur and he realized he couldn't throw anything into its path without blowing himself up as well. In less than a minute the thunder passed and the train wavered in the shimmering waves of it's own heat as it disappeared.
Albert was still holding the pipe bomb. He disarmed it and put it in his pack where it clinked against half a dozen others. He walked down the track and stopped at each of the three locations he'd installed the explosives. The nearest one to his position had fallen from its perch and lay between the ties, its bolt shot but no explosion. The next one was in place but hadn't detonated and the first one he'd planted had snapped and not detonated either. It didn't seem possible that all three would fail. He looked at them and then backed away, leaving them on the tracks where they fell.
As Albert ducked into the woodland outside of town and started back to his truck, he heard sporadic shots and one long burst from the .50. The gunship had returned and it hovered over the scene but did not fire. He moved as fast as he could but every time the pipe bombs clinked together he wondered if it would be the last sound he heard.
He had no way of knowing what had happened but it seemed doubtful that anyone had survived, especially after the gunship arrived and started spitting missiles at every suspect location. Would he ever find out? Did it matter? Did anything matter, anymore? If you can deliberately murder two twelve-year-old girls, what matters? What can matter after that?
"We are just like them," he said out loud, marveling, as if he had just discovered that his mother had been a whore all along.
The truck was untouched. The Nissan was parked beside it. He pressed the ignition switch and the truck bounded to life as if it had just come back from a nice Bahamian vacation. The motor purred and the transmission meshed without a carbuncle.
He hit the back roads at seventy five miles an hour, the wind pouring in through the smashed windshield and the empty drivers side window. He drove with one hand on the steering wheel and the other gripped around the AK. He slowed for the turns just enough to keep four wheels on the ground and didn't even look at the family trudging along one of the roads like pilgrims in an Easter pageant.
He clambers over the field at Magneson's, the truck bouncing wildly and he has to force himself to slow down, to be reasonable.
He as been gone for a little over two weeks. He winds the truck along the oxbow road and stops where he always stops.
He takes out his glasses and crawls to the edge of the tree line and peers down the heathered slope to his house. He watches intently, and then he sees it again.
It's just a flicker, almost like a leaf catching the sunlight.
PART 2, CHAPTER 3
It reminded him of deer hunting, of waiting, breathing slowly, not even breathing sometimes, not blinking, not stretching, just waiting until the birds and the insects, the air itself, told the deer that nothing calls it but the gentle magnetism of grass.
The leaf flickered again and the foliage parted as two boys emerged from the woods. The taller one was not the oldest because he waited when the other grabbed his arm and pointed and then he fell in behind the
slightly smaller boy and they ran across the kill zone. Albert's hands shook as he tried to recall where he had placed the mines. He had removed every mine before he went looking for Deserter. He had counted them and roamed the property for hours, going over and over the grounds to make certain he was leaving nothing behind; but now that certainty wobbled out of shape in the presence of the two boys, perhaps eight and ten years old who were running across the kill zone to the edge of the woods. He lowered the glasses, closed his eyes and went over the reclamation again in his memory, reset every detonator and extracted every steel pipe...
They made it to the other side and were looking right at him without seeing him and he watched them crouch behind a tree and then a doe with twins emerged from the woods and began grazing not a hundred feet from them. They stopped every few seconds and looked around, ears twitching and then resumed pulling at the grass. The two boys jumped out from behind their tree and started running towards the deer. The mother looked up and watched them and then her tail flashed and she leapt back into the woods followed by the twins. He heard the boys shouting and then he watched them walk slowly back across the field to the house.
A woman emerged from the house and shaded her eyes and watched the two boys coming towards her. When they saw her, they started to run again and she went back into the house and they followed.
Albert lowered the field glasses and sat back against a tree and closed his eyes. There was no way for him to advance without causing alarm and possibly a reaction that no one wanted. The sight of the big black truck with its shot out windows lumbering down towards them could not but create terror. If he showed up on foot, they might take a shot at him. He was presuming there was an unseen father and husband somewhere, maybe out hunting, maybe inside. In that man's place, Albert knew he wouldn't hesitate.
He stepped out from the woods unarmed for the first time in many months. He carried no weapon, not even the Emerson knife. He kept his hands straight up in the air and walked towards his own house, calling out every minute or so: "Hello...Don't shoot," and the like until he was close enough to see the boys staring at him through the window with their mother behind them. The door opened and a man stepped out. He was a very ordinary looking man that reminded Albert of himself more than anything else. His hairline was receding and his glasses lent him a benign appearance. Albert could see the fear in his face as he stepped forward. He was unarmed and Albert lowered his arms, which were starting to ache.
Neither wanted to speak first and they stared at each other for a full minute, each attempting to gauge the other's intent, Albert bearded and rough with a blood stain on his right thigh and the man's lips moving in silent prayer.
"We'll just leave," the man said finally, his voice pitched somewhat from the fear.
"It's alright," Albert said. "I'm not looking for anything..."
The man did not know whether to be relieved or not. He wanted to be. He wanted to relax and be able to turn his back but he looked at Albert and thought of his wife and the two boys and his eyes seemed to crack. But Albert watched the man's shoulders relent and he started to breathe easier as well. He didn't know whether he admired the man or despised him for a fool. Their positions reversed, Albert would have killed the man three times already.
"I'm Albert Smythe," he said.
The man inhaled quickly and nodded.
"You left the note-"
"Yes, Albert said.
The man came forward then, his hand outstretched and Albert took it.
"I guess it isn't right but I'll invite you into your own home," the man said and held the door for him.
Albert felt a slight adrenalin rush as he walked into the house and his eyes grasped the familiar objects and contours and shadows that he had not expected to see again.
The two boys and the woman stood back, apprehensive but not terrified as he walked into the living room and looked around.
"This is his place," the man said.
The words struck the woman and he saw her eyes flicker but she showed no other reaction. The boys were less inhibited and their faces formed into curves of disappointment.
"Well, thank you for all you've done," the woman said after a moment and released the boys who looked at him pensively but stayed with her.
"You don't have to go anywhere," Albert said. "You can stay if you want."
The parents exchanged a long look that Albert could not decipher. The boys brightened but remained diffident and within the range of their mother's hands.
"We would be very grateful," she said.
"Yes," the man agreed and raised his hand to shake again but retracted it and flushed at his own display of relief. Albert was embarrassed by the man's mortification and he shrugged as if it all was quite natural.
"There's always people here," he said idiotically.
He made a move to get a drink from the whiskey that remained untouched on the cabinet and they parted for him like the red sea.
"You want a drink?" he asked.
The man hesitated only a moment and then eagerly accepted the glass with several inches of Wild Turkey and the woman asked for less but was just as grateful to receive it.
"Jesus," Albert breathed as he sat back on the sofa and inhaled the dark fume of alcohol laden with rye, corn and barley. The parents sat down as well, though they were still tense and he expected it would take quite a while before they relaxed to a natural state, if they ever did.
"Cheers," the man said and they drank a modest toast.
"Don't you even want to know who we are?" the woman asked after her second sip.
"I am Walter," the man interjected, "and this is Marjorie my wife. The older boy is Richard and the younger one - he is the taller - is Peter."
That was all the conversation anyone seemed capable of for a while. The boys remained silently at their mother's side, staring at him.
Marjorie did not finish her drink but found the silence too uncomfortable and stood up.
"I'll get the room cleaned up," she said.
"No," Albert said, almost too quickly. "Don't change anything...whatever you are doing is fine."
Albert did not understand that she needed to do something to relieve the burden his generosity placed on them all.
"Really," he continued. "I probably won't be around very much and you are looking after things, so it's okay."
"We could at least stay in one room," she said.
"No, no," he insisted. "Just keep everything the way it is."
She sat down again but stayed on the edge of the chair and leaned towards him.
"Why are you doing this?"
"It's really not a problem," he said vaguely. "You're fine."
"You don't think it's a bit odd?" Walter finally asked. "I mean you don't know us and you certainly don't owe us anything."
"Well, you know how it is," Albert said, taking a gulp of the whiskey. "Man have I missed that," he laughed, feeling the power of the hundred proof juice as it finally hit his brain.
Walter and Marjorie seemed to give up at that point and stopped pestering him. He offered the bottle again but they declined. He filled his glass and leaned back on the sofa. They took it as an opportunity to leave him alone. They went outside together and he heard their voices but not their words. Sleep dragged him down before he could think about it much further.
It was the smell of cooking that woke him. It was dusk and he was alone in the living room lying on the sofa but he saw her setting the table and he smelled a stew of some sort on the stove. He sat up, looked at his unfinished drink and shot it back in one gasping second. He heard the chunking of an axe splitting wood and the shouts of the two boys as they played some game outside. She looked at him but said nothing and returned to the stove.
"Smells great," he said, standing up. She smiled a little but did not take up the conversation. He wandered down the hall to the bathroom and closed the door. He had not showered in almost three weeks. It had never occurred to him how he smelled until he was al
one in the small bathroom and he removed his clothes. His body was streaked with blood and sweat and grime that had softened and dried repeatedly as he pushed his way through the woods or roiled in nightmares on the cot or waited in a wet corner under a tree, urinating in his pants because he could not move.
The fire fight at Brantford had just been this morning! The smoke from Hellfires and tank rounds likely still drifted over the library. The bodies were still being recovered. The two little girls were most probably dead, or worse and how many others? Strangelove? Deserter? Rumplestiltskin? Clive? Randolph? Here, Marjorie is setting the table for supper while Walter tops up the wood box and Richard and Peter chase deer in the woods and Albert feels hot water running down his back and his chest and legs, coursing over the scabbing hole in his thigh and curling in the drain in a colloid of sand and grit, sweat, blood and bile.
Marjorie had even left him a folded towel. He looked in the mirror and surprisingly enough, recognized himself for the first time since Ginny had been killed at Wilmot. He still could not understand why her death had affected him whereas so many others had not. It was too easy to say that her innocence sharpened the iniquity, that her helplessness multiplied the crime. The two little girls were just as innocent and he stood down and let Deserter take them. Ginny's death angered him in a different way, not simply evoking a latent vengeance or hatred but holding up the mirror that showed his ineptitude, his utter and absolute failure to protect anything, especially that which could not really protect itself, like Ludwig and old Bolivia and Ginny. Her death showed him his own vanity for what it was, but he had not dared to see that yet. Until now, until this minute, perhaps. Was that why he could look at himself in the mirror again? Had the last pitiful delusion evaporated and it was just himself standing there. Old Albert. The invisible man was back and he recognized him.
When he emerged from the room in fresh clothes, limping slightly but not uncomfortable and not in pain for the first time in weeks, they were seated at the table waiting. A place had been set for him and he smiled and sat down, trusting they weren't going to start praying but accepting whatever they offered.
As Wind in Dry Grass Page 32