EarthChild
Page 7
She stood stiff as steel for a moment, then gasping, she ran to the bedroom door, throwing her weight against it. Two of the soldiers reached for her, holding her, while the third, a woman, went into the bedroom and switched on the light. In a few seconds she returned with the baby.
Stunned, Kitty watched as the woman snapped a tiny ID bracelet onto his ankle, walked to the door with him, and was gone.
"I’ll get the rest of his things," said the superintendent. She moved her great bulk toward the bedroom. As though from a great distance, Kitty heard drawers opening, closing. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. The woman emerged carrying a pink nightgown, two little shirts, and a white blanket. It wasn't until then that Kitty began to scream.
* * *
She sat where they had left her. She sat as still as if she were an empty husk. Only the slight movement of air in and out of her lungs demonstrated that she lived. She sat until the night passed and the morning sun slanted into her window, mocking her, profaning her, with its cheerfulness.
She moved then, purposefully, ignoring the pain in stiff, resisting muscles. She walked into the tiny kitchen and closed the door behind her.
She drew off her clothes, stuffing them meticulously into the cracks and crevices that ran along the door and the single closed window. When she was satisfied, she reached behind the top edge of the stove and switched on the gas line. The pilot light gave her trouble at first. It persisted in coming back on no matter what she did to extinguish it. Finally, it succumbed to the soaking wadded dish towel she laid over it. Then she turned the gas full on.
She sat down next to the open oven, hunched and naked on the floor, hugging her arms against her empty belly. And as the gas began to fill the room and flood her lungs, she rocked her body slowly back and forth and hummed a lullaby.
Chapter 10
Kurt lifted his pack to his shoulder again as the line began to move. He tugged at the dog leash. One end was clipped to his belt, the other attached to his brother's. "Wake up."
Eric, head cradled on a soiled canvas bag, opened his eyes. "Kurt?" He looked around uncertainly, shaking sleep from his head.
"Come on. There's food in the barracks up ahead. I can smell it." In the fine mist of rain, his black hair had tightened into thick tousled curls.
The line stopped again.
A little girl began to cry. Doubling her hands into small fists, she pummeled a girl of about twelve. "I'm hungry."
The girl dropped to her knees and captured the little fists. "I know, Cindy. I know." She hugged the child to her.
"Where's Momma?"
"Home." A look of pain came over the girl's face. "She's home."
"I wanna-wanna go home, too." Gasping sobs stole her breath. "I'm hungry."
"I know. I know." The bigger girl fumbled at a sack and drew out half an apple. The flesh was brown, the skin shriveled. She looked at it longingly for a moment, then handed it to the child.
In half an hour the line began to move.
* * *
The outside door to the mess hall opened an inch. The soldier guarding the door said something to someone inside, then shouldered his rifle and stepped aside.
The door opened wide to a nearly empty hall. Other children still inside pushed out through double doors on the opposite wall.
The smell of hot stew came from the hall. Kurt, still leashed to his brother, pushed ahead, crowding into the space between serving table and steel railing.
The first of the children carried trays to the long tables, shoving body against body on rough benches, larger children helping smaller.
A fat woman in her fifties slopped stew into crockery bowls. Another woman cut bread in thick slices. A grim-faced sergeant prowled behind the serving line. A half-dozen other soldiers took up posts throughout the hall.
Kurt took his tray and headed in tandem with Eric toward a table.
"Jesus Christ!" The huge stew pot crashed to the floor propelled by a rifle butt. "Glass! There's ground glass in it!"
A soldier standing near Kurt upended his tray with a well placed kick. A swipe of his hand sent Eric's bowl flying through the air. Other men ran along the tables throwing crockery to the floor amid sobbing children.
The two women in the serving line stood frozen under the aim of the sergeant's rifle. The floor ran with rivulets of gravy clotted with lumps of carrots and potatoes that glistened in the light with splinters of glass.
The sergeant's hands were tight on his rifle. "Get those kids to the medics."
Soldiers herded the group that had begun to eat toward the double doors. Someone else locked the incoming door. "The rest of you kids, sit down."
A little boy scarcely taller than the serving table, clutched his tray and stared bewildered at the two women. "I'm hungry."
The fat woman's eyes narrowed for a moment. Suddenly she began to laugh-silently. Without a sound, great shaking gales of laughter rippled through her body. As quickly as it had started, it stopped and her face twisted into a caricature of itself. She spat full into the little boy's face.
Kurt sat with his brother at the long table and watched as the soldiers led the woman away. He thought of the knife he carried in his boot. It wasn't large. The blade was only eight centimeters long, but it was better than nothing. He could use it if he had to. Thinking about the knife made him feel better.
* * *
After a long delay and a scanty meal, Kurt and Eric waited again. This time the crowded lines pushed toward a makeshift lab where a dozen technicians snapped on tourniquets and drew blood samples into glass tubes.
A young woman reached for Kurt's arm. He flinched involuntarily at the needle in her hand. "It's not poison," she snapped in annoyance. "It's only a needle. Empty. See?" Then she laughed. "You kids." But he didn't see the humor. The needle stung at the bend of his arm. He watched as dark blood ran into the tube. The girl pulled a numbered bracelet from a box and fastened it to his wrist. A plastic tape bearing the same number dangled from the bracelet. She twisted it off and attached it to the blood sample. "Memorize your number," she said. "And don't try taking that bracelet off."
Ahead of him, a small boy wailed in pain and fright at the stab of the needle.
At the next stop, a thin-faced woman entered his name and number into a computer console. "See to him, will you?" With a jerk of her head, she indicated the sobbing little boy. He seemed to be alone, pushed along the line like a wisp of flotsam. Kurt stared at him. Blue-green eyes full of tears stared back. The child's chin twisted and he began to wail again, stabbing dirty fists into his eyes.
Eric knelt beside him. "Scared to death." He brushed tangled strands of coppery hair from the youngster's face and patted him on the shoulder. "You can stay with us." He picked up the end of a name-tag dangling from the little boy's shirt. Sean McNabb. "You can stay with us, Sean. I'm Eric and this is Kurt. Well take care of you."
Kurt felt a flash of annoyance. Didn't they have enough to worry about? Who needed to think about a kid on top of everything else?
The child's crying subsided into little sobbing gasps. He stared at Eric as a loud-speaker voice boomed into the room directing them toward sleeping barracks. The human wave moved on. "He's so little, we're likely to lose him," said Eric. "Give me your end of the leash."
Kurt stared for a moment, then unsnapped the leash from his belt and handed it to Eric. He watched as Eric fumbled with the child's belt. "I'm going to tie us together, Sean. That way we'll stay together. See? No need to be afraid now."
Sean stared solemnly at the leash and blinked. Then he clutched at his groin and began to cry again. Eric took him by the shoulders. "What's the matter?"
The little boy threw his arms around Eric's neck and whispered in his ear. "He's got to pee," he told Kurt. "All right, Small Size. We'll find you a place." He slipped the youngster's pack from his shoulders and tossed it to Kurt. "Carry this for him. He's worn out."
Kurt slung the little pack on top of his own and followed as Eric and Sean walked hand-in-hand ahead. He found himself resenting the child, feeling shut out-and the kid was barely more than a baby. It was stupid to feel that way. Unreasonable. But he couldn't seem to help it. He felt half-ashamed of himself-and even more resentful as he jogged along behind staring at the two of them until the child began to cry again. Concern grew on Eric's face, "What's wrong, Small Size?"
A trickle glided down the little boy's leg. "Aw look, Eric," he said in exasperation. "He's wetting his pants."
* * *
Kurt bunched the thin pillow against the iron rail at the head of his cot. He leaned against it and stared out of the barracks window at the first gray light of morning. In the bed next to him, Sean curled in a small-boy lump. Even in his sleep, his chubby fingers caressed the leash that tied him to Eric, who lay just beyond.
Outside, past the treeless field dotted with narrow white outbuildings, a tall chain link fence topped with three rows of barbed wire separated the children from the rest of the city. In the distance, he could hear the dull rumble of a transport. Probably bringing food, he thought. There were a lot of kids to feed. During the night he had heard a muffled series of explosions and had seen the dull red glow against the horizon of another transport blown to bits. They liked to hit the ones with food, he thought.
He was hungry; he had been hungry since he got here. Swinging his legs to the floor, he sat on the side of the cot and surveyed the double row of beds in the gloom. No one stirred. He dropped to his knees and fumbled with his pack. From inside he drew a hardened piece of cheese wrapped in a wadded napkin. It wasn't more than two centimeters square. The juices flowed in his mouth as he looked at it. He chewed it slowly, crumb by crumb, making it last. But it didn't satisfy. His stomach continued to grind against itself.
He stared at Sean's little backpack. Eric had tucked a piece of rye bread into it for the boy. He tried to imagine it-the sweet-sour taste of it. He needed it more than the kid. The kid was small-not growing much now, probably. He stared at the little backpack, gray against gray in the semi-darkness, and then looked at the sleeping child. A scalding shame fought against the impulse. Stealing from a baby. But he was hungry. Maybe half. Just half. He reached for the pack and stopped. From outside in the hall came footsteps. The door opened. Lights flashed on.
Rows of boys stirred. Hands pressed protestingly over blinking eyes.
A small group of soldiers stood next to a man in civilian clothes who read from a list. "The following people are to come with me at once.
Billings-42067891
Castro-34257790
Curry-37165292
Hernandez-37642989
Kraus-41738890
Vogel-42839989."
Kraus. Kurt stared at his bracelet. It wasn't his number.
"It's mine," said Eric, half-asleep, puzzled.
"What is it? What do they want?"
"I don't know."
The man began to drone the list again. One by one, the boys whose names were called gathered near the door. Eric got up, found himself restrained by the leash, and unhooked it. Sean stared at him with wide blue-green eyes and started to get up. Eric's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Ill be back soon, Small Size. Go back to sleep."
He joined the little group of older boys by the door. The man checked his roll again and then led them outside.
Kurt felt uneasy, but he didn't know just why. He pulled on his clothes and made his bed, tugging at the sheets, tucking them into neat corners. When he was finished, he sat on the bed, wrinkling it again as he lay back and stared out of the window at the pink dawn. He whistled a tune that came to him, blowing the notes softly under his breath, so as not to disturb Sean who had gone back to sleep along with most of the others. Finally he dozed, but the uneasiness didn't go. away. It stalked his dreams.
* * *
He awakened at a touch. Eric was looking at him with a face so pale, so strained, that Kurt was startled by it. "What's wrong? What's happened?"
Eric slumped on the bedside next to him. "They're sending me home. I have to go in a few minutes."
Kurt felt the thrum of his blood rushing in his ears. His voice sounded far away as he asked, "Why?"
"It didn't take. The process… It didn't take." Eric raised his head slowly and looked at Kurt. "Some of us were too old for it. Too mature. I have to get dressed. Get my stuff together." He made no move to get up.
Kurt's fingers curled in his palms. He wasn't going to believe it. He had lost all the rest of them. How could he lose Eric, too? He stared at his brother, searching his face, saying the first thing that came to his mind, "They made a mistake."
Eric's eyes widened for a second, as if Kurt had imparted new information. Then he blinked, shook his head, said, "No." He stood up then and went to the duffle by his cot and began pulling out clothes. "At least I'll be with Dad. He needs me."
No. Damn it. No! "No, he doesn't," Kurt said aloud. I do, he thought. I do.
He watched unbelieving as Eric dressed quickly and stuffed his few belongings into the messy duffle. In the pale morning light the other five boys dressed too, filling bags and packs, stripping beds in quick motions. "You can't go out there. You'll be killed. They'll kill you."
Eric shook his head. "Not when they know about us. They're telling them now. We're on the news. They gave us these…" He tossed a bright orange armband onto the bed and stared at it for a few seconds. Then he picked it up and wrapped it around his arm. He looked down at the sleeping boy. "You'll have to take care of Small Size." He picked up the duffle with one hand and slung it on his back.
Their eyes didn't meet. Kurt stared at the floor. He stood quietly as if he were the eye of a small but violent storm. He wanted to lash out-to strike. And he did, without warning. "Dad doesn't want you. He wanted to kill you. He told me so."
Eric winced, jerking his face away as if he'd been struck. He stood rigid as wood for a moment, then turned and walked toward the
door. And suddenly Kurt was running after him, reaching for his arm, saying, "It isn't true. It wasn't you. It was me." The hot tears burned down his face. "It was me."
Eric stopped and looked at him. It was a look that Kurt would not forget-a look of mingled pain and love, and something else-regret. Eric's hand groped toward his, squeezed once, then released. "Goodbye," he said. And then he was gone, and there was nothing left of him in the room. Just a thin, bare mattress on an iron bed. It was as if he had never been there at all.
* * *
He lay on his cot after Eric left and stared at the wall. He didn't hear the early morning buzz of activity around him. He felt outside of it and utterly alone. The little hand jostled his shoulder once, then twice, "Kurt? Here, Kurt." He looked at the solemn little face.
"Here, Kurt. Beckfast." A grubby little fist offered him a slice of stale rye bread.
His stomach lurched from something more than hunger, and he shook his head and turned away.
The child persisted, "Here, Kurt."
"I don't want it."
The little face fell. Then Sean plopped to the floor next to Kurt's bed, looked at the bread for a moment, then put it to his mouth and began to chew.
A rumble grew in the distance. Closer. A shout went up from a group of boys at the other end of the barracks. "Look at that. He made it. Food!" The transport rolled slowly through the open gate.
Kurt stared out of the window. Beyond the gate he saw the smoke from a dozen fires. Some were the smoking remains of food transports. Others, smaller ones, were the camps of the disillusioned men and women who roamed the streets in search of prey in a world that was falling to pieces. As soon as soldiers rounded up one band, another took its place. He tried to imagine them. They blame us, he thought, as if we caused it all. As if we were the ones who wrecked the economy and shattered their lives and condemned them to die. But that was one transport they wouldn't get. The thought gave him grim satisfaction.