Melanie moves to my side as if she’s made up her mind to go with me. She’s standing stiffly upright and her fists are clenched. Her mother helped her with her hair this morning, and she shakes her head, and her red ponytail writhes against her back. She’s never been one to shy away from doing what needs to be done. She looks as if she wants to find survivors and nurse them back to health. She looks as if she
needs
to find someone alive, to somehow give the gift of life in the midst of all this taking.
“Trust me,” I say. “They’re worse than dead.”
I don’t have to pretend that I’m pleading. Her eyes are forest green, darker than her mother’s, but flecked with gold. When she feels strongly about something, the flecks are very bright, but I don’t look away now. I know it could go either way, my daughter deciding to obey or defy. I’ve never been good at predicting the outcome of our battles of will. I try to put my arm around her but she sidesteps and squats and I stand like an idiot, looking down at her, wanting to make things better. I stand with her until my silence is too pathetic to bear, then I turn to the task at hand.
I scramble down into the roadcut, my knees bitching all the while. I tell myself I’m checking for survivors, but I hope I won’t find any. I feel naked when I step onto the freeway. Dark smears descend from the crown of the northbound lanes. Blood on shaded asphalt is the color of blackberry jam. I look for the wild woman who screamed her righteous cry into the face of death, but there’s no way to pick her out of the motionless crowd. The bodies are fanned out like blown-down timber, dead adults shielding dead children. They’ve been shot to pieces, nineteen bodies, all present and accounted for. The coats and shoes and socks of the adults are gone. The pockets of their pants are turned inside out. They’re traveling light now, without the blessings and nuisances of their corporeal husks.
The monsters have won again, if one can make the assumption that mortal sin will no longer be punished. The east-side drainage ditch is lousy with 5.56 brass. I pick up three of the empties and put them in my pocket. Maybe someday I can present them as evidence. I can’t deny that I’m pissed off enough to kill. If I were in charge of this sector, I’d insert Force Recon teams into these hills so the ambushes would go the other way, and peace would break out due to a general lack of freelancers.
I look down and see scraps of bubble wrap from the airdropped package, but the package itself is gone. There’s a group of bloody footprints. I follow them. They lead to a big ponderosa pine. A body is stretched out, its head propped against the base of the tree. It’s one of the ambushers; I’m sure of it. It’s a big bastard and it has a single, center-mass shotgun wound and two gold coins weighting its eyes. There’s another bullet hole in the center of its forehead. The body has a baby face. It’s the body of a big kid, and it’s smiling.
There isn’t a blood trail from the road to the tree, only footprints and spatters of blood. I guess the bastard got hit on the road and walked under his own power to the tree. The shot between his eyes came later. I remember the final pistol shot we heard, and it could’ve been this headshot. It’s a reasonable assumption and I tuck it away.
The body’s hands are knuckle-down at its sides, and there’s a pint bottle of whiskey lying atop its open right palm. It’s a bottle of Jim Beam. I pick it up. It’s three-quarters full. I unscrew the top and take a sip to rinse my mouth. Maybe I’d meant to spit it out, but I don’t. I swallow and a small warmth flares around the edges of my soul. It brightens the sky and makes my shadow stronger. I take a bigger drink and it’s one good thing in a world of bad ones.
There’s an open pack of Marlboros on the dead ambusher’s chest. I drag a pack of MRE matches from my pocket and light up. Holy
needs
to find someone alive, to somehow give the gift of life in the midst of all this taking.
“Trust me,” I say. “They’re worse than dead.”
I don’t have to pretend that I’m pleading. Her eyes are forest green, darker than her mother’s, but flecked with gold. When she feels strongly about something, the flecks are very bright, but I don’t look away now. I know it could go either way, my daughter deciding to obey or defy. I’ve never been good at predicting the outcome of our battles of will. I try to put my arm around her but she sidesteps and squats and I stand like an idiot, looking down at her, wanting to make things better. I stand with her until my silence is too pathetic to bear, then I turn to the task at hand.
I scramble down into the roadcut, my knees bitching all the while. I tell myself I’m checking for survivors, but I hope I won’t find any. I feel naked when I step onto the freeway. Dark smears descend from the crown of the northbound lanes. Blood on shaded asphalt is the color of blackberry jam. I look for the wild woman who screamed her righteous cry into the face of death, but there’s no way to pick her out of the motionless crowd. The bodies are fanned out like blown-down timber, dead adults shielding dead children. They’ve been shot to pieces, nineteen bodies, all present and accounted for. The coats and shoes and socks of the adults are gone. The pockets of their pants are turned inside out. They’re traveling light now, without the blessings and nuisances of their corporeal husks.
The monsters have won again, if one can make the assumption that mortal sin will no longer be punished. The east-side drainage ditch is lousy with 5.56 brass. I pick up three of the empties and put them in my pocket. Maybe someday I can present them as evidence. I can’t deny that I’m pissed off enough to kill. If I were in charge of this sector, I’d insert Force Recon teams into these hills so the ambushes would go the other way, and peace would break out due to a general lack of freelancers.
I look down and see scraps of bubble wrap from the airdropped package, but the package itself is gone. There’s a group of bloody footprints. I follow them. They lead to a big ponderosa pine. A body is stretched out, its head propped against the base of the tree. It’s one of the ambushers; I’m sure of it. It’s a big bastard and it has a single, center-mass shotgun wound and two gold coins weighting its eyes. There’s another bullet hole in the center of its forehead. The body has a baby face. It’s the body of a big kid, and it’s smiling.
There isn’t a blood trail from the road to the tree, only footprints and spatters of blood. I guess the bastard got hit on the road and walked under his own power to the tree. The shot between his eyes came later. I remember the final pistol shot we heard, and it could’ve been this headshot. It’s a reasonable assumption and I tuck it away.
The body’s hands are knuckle-down at its sides, and there’s a pint bottle of whiskey lying atop its open right palm. It’s a bottle of Jim Beam. I pick it up. It’s three-quarters full. I unscrew the top and take a sip to rinse my mouth. Maybe I’d meant to spit it out, but I don’t. I swallow and a small warmth flares around the edges of my soul. It brightens the sky and makes my shadow stronger. I take a bigger drink and it’s one good thing in a world of bad ones.
There’s an open pack of Marlboros on the dead ambusher’s chest. I drag a pack of MRE matches from my pocket and light up. Holy