Part 13 (1/2)

Chapter 60: War is....

September, 1944. Somewhere in France. A lone M4A1 Sherman clanks into a clearing, the turret and pushed above a heavy morning mist. On the side of the tank, painted in awkward white letters, ”Beezle's Boys” stands out against the olive drab hull.

”We're lost, I tell ya,” grumbles the gunner.

”Go stuff yourself,” the driver mutters. ”The rest of the platoon was just here.”

The commander chances a peek out of the top hatch, and he doesn't like what he finds. The ground is red, as red as clean sheets soaked in blood. The mist dissipates and reforms in small skyward tendrils like smoke pouring from the cracks in the ground.

”Slow up,” he calls to the driver.

The tank slows to a putter. With another glance skyward, the commander pulls back into the turret, his last vision consisting of two log-like fingers descending to catch the tank in a pincer grip. Men tumble inside as the war-machine lurches into the air. The commander catches himself against the inner wall of the turret, his damp hands pressed against molded steel. He grasps the periscope and peers out.

Two enormous, smoldering eyes meet his. He cranks the periscope, finds chiseled cheeks in burnished red the size of Buicks, a goatee hanging like a mansion chandelier from a pointed tee-pee chin, and a mouth full of sharp teeth as big as toddlers. The metal walls of the Sherman vibrate with deep laughter as the teeth part. The commander opens his own mouth.

”s.h.i.+t.”

The men tumble again, the tank tossed inside that nightmare mouth, lost inside the black gullet of the thing.

Chapter 61: Attrition.

He stared at the screen. The screen returned the gesture with a vibrant glow.

Tick-tick-tick, his fingers punched the keys. A quick head shake, and the word vanished with a backs.p.a.ce tick-tick-tick.

”d.a.m.n.”

The screen glared. The man narrowed his eyes.

It was time, now or never, a whole array of overused idioms and limp metaphors. The man grasped his jaw in one hand and s.h.i.+fted it back and forth. The bone came loose with a muted pop. Unhinged, his mandible dropped open like the entrance to Wind Cave.

He started with the mouse, sucking down the cable like a wispy bit of pasta. The keyboard came next, a test run to see if the larger bits might fit. Tick-tick-tick a few keys dragged across his teeth was they slid into his throat--which, as it happened, expanded like a rubber balloon to accommodate the awkward snack. The speakers popped in, one-two, and the man sat back and took a deep breath.

The monitor would come last, he decided. With his fingers, he stretched his lips over the CPU tower, forcing it in in with a few, quick taps. The cords, cables, and other loose paraphernalia rocketed down his widened esophagus.

The monitor didn't glare anymore. The man left it, alone, screen blank and muddy, on the desktop. He had won.

This time.

Chapter 62: The Man in the Hallway.

A man waits in the hallway outside my bedroom. He hasn't moved for the past few minutes, just hovering, lingering-casting the jagged, shadowy outline of his face on the wall. We play this waiting game almost every night. I know Mom would laugh, turn on the light and say, ”See silly. No one here.” But she works tonight, and I'm alone in the house with Dad and the man in the hallway. I build a coc.o.o.n of my thick comforter and squirm inside, warm but s.h.i.+vering. I pull the blanket over my head, vanis.h.i.+ng, making the shadow of the man disappear.

Dad moves around downstairs; I can hear his heavy-booted feet stomp across the kitchen tile, the house quiet and dead save the sound of his feet and the opening of the refrigerator and the fizzing sound of a beer can popped open. I think about crying out, yelling for him, but I'm afraid of what might happen.

My covers, bulky and warm at first, stifle now, and I sweat under the weight. Slowly, gradually, I slip the blanket from my hot face and breathe in the fresh, cool air of my bedroom, delicious after the sticky humidity inside the coc.o.o.n. I can now hear the m.u.f.fled voices of the TV as they float up the stairs and into the hallway. The man remains out there, just on the other side of the stairs. All I see is the crooked shadow, but I know.

Watching his shadow almost drives me to sleep-slow, plodding sleep that creeps gradually into my room with soft feet and a gentle touch. I've learned tricks though. I pinch my arms and legs, s.n.a.t.c.h a bit of extra skin and squeeze hard between forefinger and thumb. This helps fight the sleep. In the early morning light, I often study the purple blooms where I pinched too hard.

Tonight the TV mumbles stop before I pinch or sleep, and I hear my father tromp into the kitchen again. His boots move toward the stairs now, just at the bottom, and the light snaps on, brightening the stairwell and hallway. The man in the hallway is hidden, a dissolving shadow in the light. The stairs groan under my father's weight, old wood rubbing together, and I hear him stumble and curse. I can almost smell the stale alcohol on his breath. I'm sweating still; even with my head out of the coc.o.o.n, small beads form on my forehead. I try to lift up, climb out of the bed, but the heavy comforter resists, and I'm weak from waiting. The creaking sound edges up the stairs, and the man in the hallway waits. I have to warn my dad.

The sounds merge-my pounding blood, the heavy steps, and the breath of the man in the hallway-and I close my eyes, squeezing them so tight I feel it in my teeth. I break and yell, ”Dad!”

I hear a quick sound, a m.u.f.fled thumping on the stairs followed by the heavy, dull crash at the bottom. I draw into the coc.o.o.n again before I open my eyes and wait for my panting to subside. Slowly, cautiously, I peer out again to see the light in the hallway and no hint of the man-either hiding or gone.

When my mother comes home, she struggles against Dad's body, crooked and limp as it blocks the front door at the base of the stairs. I don't see her because I am here, in my bed, but I can hear the door unlock, and the soft pounding of wood against his body, her gasp and sudden sobs. Then the dialing of a phone, the quick sharp words, more sobs and the sound of the ambulance. I roll over, away from the open doorway and the hall-still bright after Dad turned on the light-and wait.

Chapter 63: Vintage Suns.h.i.+ne.

Two boys wiggle through the last few feet of earthen tunnel and drop, one after the other, onto the concrete slab below. Small puffs of dust dance into their flashlight beams.

”Bomb shelter,” the smaller boy says. ”Really old bomb shelter.” His draws his beam across a shelf of cans. The labels, once displaying bright fruits and vegetables with bold words, now wear a layer of filth that mutes the colors. ”S'pose there's still anything in these cans?”

”Dunno,” the big boy mutters. Shooting from the hip with his flashlight, he lumbers to the shelf in front of him. ”This one looks good.” He sets the light on the shelf and pulls the can toward him. ”Heavy,” he grunts.