course.”
He leaned over and gave me a hug. Not too tight, not too long. A quick hug. Squeeze.
Release. Anything more would seem like a good-bye.
Good-bye, Cassie.
Branch turned to his commander and said, “First priority, sir?”
And Vosch nodded. “First priority.”
We stepped into the bright sunshine, the man in the gas mask and the girl with the
teddy bear. Straight ahead a couple of soldiers were leaning against a Humvee. I hadn’t
seen them when we passed the Humvees before. They straightened at the sight of us.
Corporal Branch gave them a thumbs-up and then held up his index finger.
First priority.
“How far is it?” he asked me.
“Not far,” I answered. My voice sounded very small to me. Maybe it was Sammy’s teddy,
tugging me back to childhood.
He followed me down the trail that snaked into the dense woods behind the compound,
rifle held in front of him, barrel down. The dry ground crunched in protest under
his brown boots.
The day was warm, but it was cooler under the trees, their leaves a rich, late-summer
green. We passed the tree where I’d stashed the M16. I didn’t look back at it. I kept
walking toward the clearing.
And there he was, the little shit, up to his ankles in bones and dust, clawing through
the broken remains for that last, useless,priceless trinket, one more for the road so whenever he got to where the road ended
he’d be the Man.
His head came around when we stepped inside the ring of trees. Glistening with sweat
and the crap he slopped in his hair. Streaks of black soot stained his cheeks. He
looked like some sorry-ass excuse of a football player. When he saw us, his hand whipped
behind his back. Something silver flashed in the sun.
“Hey! Cassie? Hey, there you are. I came back here looking for you because you weren’t
in the barracks, and then I saw…there was this—”
“Is he the one?” the soldier asked me. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and took
a step toward the pit.
It was me, the soldier in the middle, and Crisco in the pit of ash and bone.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s Crisco.”
“That’s not my name,” he squeaked. “My real name is—”
I’ll never know Crisco’s real name.
I didn’t see the gun or hear the report of the soldier’s sidearm. I didn’t see the
soldier draw it from his holster, but I wasn’t looking at the soldier, I was looking
at Crisco. His head snapped back, like someone had yanked on his greasy locks, and
he sort of folded up as he went down, clutching the treasures of the dead in his hand.
20
MY TURN.
The girl wearing the backpack and carrying the ridiculous teddy bear, standing just
a couple of yards behind him.
The soldier pivoted, arm extended. My memory’s a little fuzzy about this next part.
I don’t remember dropping the bear or yanking the gun from my back pocket. I don’t
even remember pulling the trigger.
The next clear memory I have is of the black visor shattering.
And the soldier falling to his knees in front of me.
And seeing his eyes.
His three eyes.
Well, of course I realized later he didn’t really have three eyes. The one in the
middle was the blackened entry wound of the bullet.
It must have shocked him to turn around and see a gun pointed at his face. It made
him hesitate. How long? A second? Less than a second? But in that millisecond, eternity
coiled on itself like a giant anaconda. If you’ve ever been through a traumatic accident,
you know what I’m talking about. How long does a car crash last? Ten seconds? Five?
It doesn’t feel that short if you’re in it. It feels like a lifetime.
He pitched over face-first into the dirt. There was no question I’d wasted him. My
bullet had blasted a pie plate–sized hole in the back of his head.
But I didn’t lower the gun. I kept it pointed at his half head as I backed toward
the trail.
Then I turned and ran like hell.
In the wrong direction.
Toward the
He leaned over and gave me a hug. Not too tight, not too long. A quick hug. Squeeze.
Release. Anything more would seem like a good-bye.
Good-bye, Cassie.
Branch turned to his commander and said, “First priority, sir?”
And Vosch nodded. “First priority.”
We stepped into the bright sunshine, the man in the gas mask and the girl with the
teddy bear. Straight ahead a couple of soldiers were leaning against a Humvee. I hadn’t
seen them when we passed the Humvees before. They straightened at the sight of us.
Corporal Branch gave them a thumbs-up and then held up his index finger.
First priority.
“How far is it?” he asked me.
“Not far,” I answered. My voice sounded very small to me. Maybe it was Sammy’s teddy,
tugging me back to childhood.
He followed me down the trail that snaked into the dense woods behind the compound,
rifle held in front of him, barrel down. The dry ground crunched in protest under
his brown boots.
The day was warm, but it was cooler under the trees, their leaves a rich, late-summer
green. We passed the tree where I’d stashed the M16. I didn’t look back at it. I kept
walking toward the clearing.
And there he was, the little shit, up to his ankles in bones and dust, clawing through
the broken remains for that last, useless,priceless trinket, one more for the road so whenever he got to where the road ended
he’d be the Man.
His head came around when we stepped inside the ring of trees. Glistening with sweat
and the crap he slopped in his hair. Streaks of black soot stained his cheeks. He
looked like some sorry-ass excuse of a football player. When he saw us, his hand whipped
behind his back. Something silver flashed in the sun.
“Hey! Cassie? Hey, there you are. I came back here looking for you because you weren’t
in the barracks, and then I saw…there was this—”
“Is he the one?” the soldier asked me. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and took
a step toward the pit.
It was me, the soldier in the middle, and Crisco in the pit of ash and bone.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s Crisco.”
“That’s not my name,” he squeaked. “My real name is—”
I’ll never know Crisco’s real name.
I didn’t see the gun or hear the report of the soldier’s sidearm. I didn’t see the
soldier draw it from his holster, but I wasn’t looking at the soldier, I was looking
at Crisco. His head snapped back, like someone had yanked on his greasy locks, and
he sort of folded up as he went down, clutching the treasures of the dead in his hand.
20
MY TURN.
The girl wearing the backpack and carrying the ridiculous teddy bear, standing just
a couple of yards behind him.
The soldier pivoted, arm extended. My memory’s a little fuzzy about this next part.
I don’t remember dropping the bear or yanking the gun from my back pocket. I don’t
even remember pulling the trigger.
The next clear memory I have is of the black visor shattering.
And the soldier falling to his knees in front of me.
And seeing his eyes.
His three eyes.
Well, of course I realized later he didn’t really have three eyes. The one in the
middle was the blackened entry wound of the bullet.
It must have shocked him to turn around and see a gun pointed at his face. It made
him hesitate. How long? A second? Less than a second? But in that millisecond, eternity
coiled on itself like a giant anaconda. If you’ve ever been through a traumatic accident,
you know what I’m talking about. How long does a car crash last? Ten seconds? Five?
It doesn’t feel that short if you’re in it. It feels like a lifetime.
He pitched over face-first into the dirt. There was no question I’d wasted him. My
bullet had blasted a pie plate–sized hole in the back of his head.
But I didn’t lower the gun. I kept it pointed at his half head as I backed toward
the trail.
Then I turned and ran like hell.
In the wrong direction.
Toward the
Similar Books
