A Once Crowded Sky by Tom King, Tom Fowler Page B

his weapons as they release their load.
    “Be quiet,” he says, and he steps toward the tank, avoiding putting his foot on the body of the American GI—who looks almost as young as Soldier did last time—lying in front of him. The turret of the Panzer rotates toward him as his bullets bounce off the machine’s metal armor. Soldier’s boots dig into the French soil, and his eyes look like glass.
    BWROOOOMPH!
    “Oh my God! Soldier, get down!” She leaps into him, managing to tip him over as a shell blasts over their heads, its powder burning in her nose.
    A deafening roar. Bricks of the old church at their flank start to rain down. Even though he’s on his back now, being pelted by the sharp debris clouding the air around them, Soldier gets his guns pointed straight and firing true; he keeps bouncing metal off metal.
    Annoyed, she crawls over his stomach and gets ahold of the brown material of his army jacket. He’s really heavy, and her calves pop out of her toned legs as she pulls and pulls, dragging him out of the way.
    The church groans, gagging and spitting down. She keeps dragging, and he keeps firing. The spire at the top of the building thwacks off and falls forward, gashing into the back of the Panzer, burying the small German crew beneath a few dozen tons of sacred rubble.
    On her hands and knees beside the wreckage, DG tries to catch her breath. Soldier seems similarly wiped; he’s not even able to keep his own weight upright, and he leans heavily on her, still blasting his guns into the newly formed lump of brick, glass, and rock.
    He very rudely doesn’t thank her before falling unconscious, and she’s honestly tempted to remind him of that the next time they’re together, but these damn Koreans have stuffed a lice-encrusted sock in his mouth, so he probably couldn’t apologize even if he wanted to.
    “This might hurt,” she says, and she can’t help but wince as she peels the tape off his cheeks and the gag falls to the floor, insects jumping off and on it as it lands on dark, stained concrete. “Sorry ’bout that.”
    “Thank you,” he says. From her red purse, which perfectly matches her crimson dress (she wore it again!), she pulls out half a loaf of brown bread. While placing small pieces in his mouth, she can’t help but apologize for the poor quality of the food, but he was very hard to find this time, and she didn’t have much time for shopping. Not replying, he first sucks at and then chews the hard balls of wheat.
    “Y’know, it’s supercold in here. I mean, of course you know. But I guess for a guy that spends most of the time all frozeny up, it’s not a big thing. Y’know, if they ever let you out between these wars, we could maybe get a drink or something.” His tongue jabs out, begging more, and she places another chunk on his lip before stuffing the bread back in the bag. “Okay, okay, don’t forget to chew. Now just give me a sec here.”
    She hugs her arms around him and fingers the sharp metal binding his hands to the chair. “Oh. That’s not good. Let me get something.” She fusses through her purse and finds a thin gold key that reflects a light not found in that black room. Again she snuggles around him, feels his breath on her neck, and the key finds its place, and his hands are free. His nails are gone, and he wipes the blood at the edge of his fingers across his naked chest, creating tracks of red that checker his skin.
    Thankfully, Soldier’s doing much better the next time she sees him, or at least he would be if the Vietcong hadn’t just put a bayonet into his belly. And the worst part is Soldier was winning: he was on top of the guy, had his own knife tip right at the dude’s throat—and then that damn Cong managed to twist his rifle around his back and into Soldier. Now the other guy’s managed to grab Soldier’s wrist, to hold the blade an inch above his own skin. Their hands twitch as sheets of rain come down indiscriminately, trying to drown