EarthChild
Page 8
In an hour, the wall speaker announced breakfast for his barracks. He had gone beyond hunger to a kind of empty sickness. But he got up and walked outside toward the mess hall, ignoring the little boy who tagged along behind him, running to keep up, tripping at times on the dragging leash that dangled from his waist.
A low-flying plane suddenly broke under the clouds and skimmed the tops of the buildings. Someone yelled, "Look out!" Instinctively, Kurt sprawled into a ditch as the plane released its load overhead. Cushioned packages hit the field next to him. Then the plane was gone.
A crowd gathered around the scattered cargo. "Food," someone said. "No. Something else."
Kurt stared at the packages that littered the field. A few had ripped open, tossing the contents in all directions. Seeds. Packages of seeds. Beans, squash, all sorts of vegetables. Groups of soldiers gathered the packages and carried them away. Seeds. They were going to be here for a long time, then. He turned away and headed to the mess hall. The little boy followed.
A group of children were leaving as they entered. They were handicapped. Profoundly retarded. With a start, Kurt realized that they would never grow up. Forever children. Never dying. Never changing. He pushed into the serving line automatically, and Sean followed. "Kurt. Where's Eric?"
Eric was gone-turning to dust. He stared at the vacant eyes of the forever children. Eric was gone.
The last food transport had carried a load of avocadoes. Nothing else. The one before that, dairy products. Milk, cheese, avocadoes.
Sean slipped into a tangle of bench and dog leash and managed to plop his tray onto the table next to Kurt. He drank his milk and ate his piece of cheese. His avocado, split in half, had only one bite taken from it.
Kurt pointed to it with his spoon, "Eat that."
Sean stared at it for a moment and shook his head. "It's bad, Kurt."
"Eat it anyway. Here. Put salt on it." He handed the shaker to Sean.
Obediently, Sean sprinkled the salt and took another bite. Then he leaned his head into the plate and began to cry. Strands of coppery hair fell into sticky green avocado.
"Cripes. Why are you crying?"
Blinking blue-green eyes wet with tears. A sobbing gasp, "Where's… where's Eric?"
As if in answer, a woman at the door called out, "Kraus. Eric Kraus. 41738890. Kraus."
Kurt scrambled to his feet. "What is it?" he asked the woman.
"Eric Kraus?"
"I'm Kurt. His brother. They sent him home a while ago."
She looked doubtful, then said, "Well, in that case. I guess you can have this." She handed him a sealed flexi-sheet. "Priority communication."
He snapped open the sheet. He read:
DEAREST ERIC,
YOUR DADDY DIED THIS MORNING AT SIX-THIRTY. I WAS WITH HIM. HIS LAST WORDS WERE OF YOU.
MAMA
Dearest Eric. She wasn't even going to let him know. Your daddy died this morning.… His too. His daddy…
He wanted very much to cry, as if to cry would dissolve the sick, hard lump he felt inside him. He wanted desperately to cry. He couldn't.
* * *
He wandered around aimlessly for the rest of the day, oblivious to the little boy who followed him. Finally, as the day lay down to rest in purple shadows, he went back to the barracks and pulled his oboe from his pack. Fitting it together he began to play while Sean watched from the next bed.
The music that came out was the opening solo of Rebirth, but the irony was lost on him. He thought only of the sound he made, a sound as somber, yet as beautiful, as the graying tones of evening around him.
When at last he paused, the little boy asked him again, "Where's Eric?"
"Gone. He's gone away."
"Gone where?"
"Home."
Sean hugged his knees and looked at Kurt. "I'm gonna go home too."
"You can't."
His face crumpled. "Can. I'm gonna see Eric and Momma." Then he brightened, "My momma's pretty. Is your momma pretty, Kurt?"
He looked at the floor. Dearest Eric…
A woman wearing a uniform came into the barracks, pausing at each cot, checking names and numbers. She came to Sean, "We'll have to reassign him," she said as if to herself and wrote something on her chart.
"Why?" asked Kurt.
"He's too young to stay here with the older boys. We're reassigning to permanent quarters. He can't stay here."
Sean looked up at the woman with eyes wide and frightened. Then he crept away toward the door.
"But why? He doesn't know anybody else." Kurt found himself on his feet. He didn't understand why, but suddenly it seemed of vital importance to make the woman understand. "He's just four. He doesn't have anybody. Just me."
"I'm sorry. The only exception are family members. We're trying to keep them together."
"But he's my brother." He felt astonished at the lie. Why had he said it?
The woman looked at her list, "But you have different last names."
"We had different fathers." He saw Eric's face-as real as if he stood there. His last words were of you… "We had different fathers."
"Oh." She looked at him sharply, and he met her gaze. "Well then, I'll assign you together." She moved on.
Somehow he felt proud of himself. Inordinately proud. He turned back to Sean's cot, "Did you hear that, little brother?"
But Sean was gone.
* * *
Uneasily, he stepped from the barracks, calling softly, "Sean."
The streetlights of the camp cast pools of light outlined by shadow. Again, "Sean."
Across the field, a transport rumbled into the compound and stopped. The guard spoke to the driver. His back was turned away from the open gate.
Beyond, outside, Kurt thought he saw a small figure move away toward the shadows. He found himself running toward the gate, dodging behind oil drums and outbuildings, keeping out of sight. They'd stop him if they saw. They wouldn't let him out.
He stopped in the dark ten meters from the gate, in the shadow of the transport. Light spilled onto the ground beyond. He heard the shift of gears. The transport began to move between him and the guard. He ran, heart pounding, toward the outside.
He slid into the shadows just beyond the gate. A campfire flickered through a clump of trees and bushes ahead, sending fingers of light through the low branches. He stared into the night, willing his eyes to adjust to the dark. Listening, he heard a faint murmur of voices-and something else-the rustle of leaves. He stalked the sound. It paused, then moved again toward the light of the fire. Then he saw him, Sean, moving toward the circle of light. The leash dangled from his waist and slithered behind him through the leaves. The men's voices grew louder.
Stop. The thought screamed in his head. "Stop, you little dummy," he whispered. But he knew he wouldn't. He was going to go right up to them like a moth to the flame and ask for his momma. "Oh please, stop." He crept closer.
>
Sean stepped into the light of the campfire and gravely regarded the two seated men. Ice formed in Kurt's belly.
One of the men looked up, then rose in a half-crouch. His lips twisted into a smile, his voice was slurred. "A little pig… A little pig for the fire."
Oh God. Run. Why didn't he run?
The other man put down a nearly empty bottle and slowly focused on the little boy. Sean stood with legs wide apart and stared. The first man moved toward him. "Here pig. Here piggy." A gun shone darkly from his belt, but Kurt sensed with horror that the man had other plans for Sean.
A glimmer of surprise, then fear flickered in the wide blue-green eyes.
Oh run. For God's sake, run!
He ran-turning away from the outstretched hand, little legs pumping, tangling in the dragging leash. He fell to the ground and scrambled to get up, but a hand twisted the end of the leash and pulled him close to the man's face. "Do you know what we do to little boys around here?" His meaty hand covered the boy's throat, stroking it, pinching.
Sean's eyes were wide with terror. He shook his head, barely moving it.
The man laughed and, with a quick motion, unhooked the leash and wrapped it in a slack noose around Sean's neck. "First we tie them up like little pigs." He drew the noose tight. The other man laughed and swallowed again from his bottle.
Kurt felt a cold sweat break out and drain from him. Fumbling, he reached in his boot and took out the little knife, the blade rounded at the tip, but sharp as a razor along its edge. It opened in his hand.
He circled slowly until he stood behind the man just in the shadows. Then he leaped, flying like an animal at the man's back, legs wrapped around the man's waist, knife at his throat. The force threw them both to the ground.
The other man stared, in drunken satisfaction as they struggled. The knife bit into the man's throat. "Lie still or I'll kill you."
The man lay under Kurt's weight, breathing hard gasping breaths. With his other hand, Kurt grabbed the gun, and jumping back, aimed it. "Get out. Both of you. Get out or I'll kill you."
As they scrambled away, he scooped up Sean and began to run back toward the camp.
When they reached the fence, he lowered Sean to the ground and leaned against the locked gate for support. Air shuddered in and out of his lungs. Then he dropped to his knees beside the little boy and took the leash from around his neck. He started to toss it away.
"No. No, Kurt." The boy reached for it and began to cry.
Kurt took the tear-stained face in his hands. "It's all right. We don't need it anymore."
He stared at the woods, at the dots of campfire light that glowed against the sky. He could see their faces, all of them. He could feel their resentment, their hate, like a tangible thing. And then, like smoke, he saw them gray and fade. He saw them for a moment as mist. Ephemera. Bones to ashes. Ashes to dust.
He turned toward the camp and shouted to the guard. Startled, the man ran to unlock the gate.
He picked up Sean. The little boy said, "I don't like it outside, Kurt," and buried his face in his shoulder.
He looked at the child he held. Only four; he was only four years old and the only world he knew was dying. And suddenly Kurt realized that he would be the oldest some day. He was fifteen years old, and he was going to inherit the Earth.
He stroked the boy's hair. It wasn't much of a world out there, he thought. Not much of one. "We'll have to build a new one," he said to Sean and, without looking backward, stepped through the gate.
PART TWO
Mouat-Gari Year Five
Chapter 1
The clang of first dinner bell rang through MacDill Compound. It was answered by an echoing growl from Sean McNabb's stomach. He brushed a sweaty strand of coppery hair away with the back of his hand, pulled off the battered catcher's mitt, and tossed it into the field box. "Hurry up, Jorge. Let's eat."
"Well give me a couple of seconds, will you?" The dark-skinned boy retrieved the baseball wedged between a clump of weeds and the barbed wire fence and threw it to Sean.
He caught it deftly, feeling its sting against his palm, and tossed it into the ball slot.
The two trudged toward the cafeteria until Jorge stopped and stared at the row of elementary school buildings. He rolled up his eyes and groaned.
"What's the matter?"
"I forgot. It's my weekend to feed the Kindy pets."
Sean's stomach growled again, "Well, do it after."
Jorge hesitated, then he said, "No. I better do it now. It won't take long."
"Long enough to put us at the end of the line," grumbled Sean, but he followed Jorge to the kindergarten, which stood apart from the other buildings, separated by a small playground.
Jorge pushed the door open, and they entered the wide hall. Their footsteps clattered across the old wood floor. Room One was on the left.
"It's hot in here." Sean pushed open the door to a room cluttered with bright pictures on the wall.
"Yeah. They keep the windows closed on the weekend."
Jorge walked up to the fish tank against one wall and opened the lid. A half-dozen goldfish boiled to the surface, mouths gaping. He measured out a small spoonful of food and scattered it over the surface. "They tried having the Kindy kids feed the pets, but they were too dumb. One chunk-brain put half a box of food in one of the tanks and killed all the fish." He closed the lid and headed toward a door at the back of the room.
"Where are you going?"
"Got to feed Pepper Pot."
"Pepper Pot?"
"Guinea pig. She used to be just Pepper because she's black. But now that she's going to have babies, she's got a pot belly. That's why she's in here"-he rolled his eyes suggestively- "privacy." He pushed open the door to the long, narrow cloakroom. It was stuffy and dim, lighted only by a row of windows near the high ceiling.
The guinea pig rustled the cedar shavings that lined the old aquarium. "Hi, girl," said Jorge.
Sean, pressing closer for a better look, caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Whirling, he said, "Who's there?" He jumped back in time to see a small figure slip behind a large stack of boxes.
"Come out of there," yelled Jorge.
In a moment a small, black-eyed boy of about five stepped out.
Jorge stared at the child. "What are you doing in here. You're not supposed to be here."
The boy stood, legs apart, chin thrust out belligerently. "Nothing." An elliptical birthmark pulsed at the angle of his jaw; his hands, clenched into fists, hugged his belly.
"Bull," said Jorge. "Have you been messing with Pepper?"
Suddenly suspicious, Sean bent over the tank that held the guinea pig. Fumes struck his nostrils. "It smells like kerosene-or gas." He glared at the boy. "He poured something in there."
"She bit me," said the child.
"Well what do you expect?" Jorge turned toward the little animal. "She's pregnant."
Suddenly Sean yelled, "Look out! He's got a match."
The matc
hed flared as it arced through the air into the tank. Instantly the soaked shavings flamed.
"Oh God! You damn slink-" Sean plunged his hands into the tank and drew out the screaming animal. Clutching the guinea pig, he stared dumbly at his hands as the pain seared into his skin. Black smoke billowed as the flames shot into the air.
"Get out of here!" Jorge reached a hand toward Sean, grabbing, propelling him toward the door. As he did, it slammed shut and they heard the sound of metal click against metal.
"Locked! He locked us in." Jorge beat against the heavy wood door. Fists hammering, he yelled for help until the swirling smoke made him choke. Coughing helplessly, he sank to the floor next to Sean.
The pain in Sean's hand was making him sick. "Here," he managed to say, "you can breathe over here." He pressed his face toward the narrow space at the bottom of the door, and then, remembering, moved the guinea pig closer to the crack.
Huddled together as smoke darkened the room to night, the boys sucked air from the tiny crack. Jorge's voice was a strained whisper: "We're going to die."
"No… window… got to open it." Sean tried to sit up. Then, choking, the pain hot lead on his hands, he began to vomit.
* * *
The boy stopped running when he was out of sight of the kindergarten building. Without looking back, he paused to catch his breath and then walked slowly toward the cafeteria.
By the time he found his dormitory group, he was very calm and his face was composed.