Day Three

by Patricia Spencer

  She heard—or thought she heard—a thump. Very faint, coming from above. She waited, listening intently for what seemed an eternity. Nothing. Perhaps she was mistaken.

  She found her first foothold, and sidled upwards, back against the wall, her eyes focused on the landing above. Three square feet of cracked concrete were all that remained of the top landing.

  Daniel crowded onto it beside her.

  The exterior walkway, once a communal balcony, was a dangling tangle of rebar and broken concrete. But a mortar hole torn through the side wall provided access to the first apartment. She bent her knees and slid down the wall to glimpse the interior room, hoping there wasn’t a soldier standing on the opposite side of the wall with a cocked gun. She edged forward and peeked cautiously inside.

  Bare room, rose-colored paint, front edge of the concrete floor dangling over the street. A narrow footpath snaked through foot-high rubble toward the right. A passage to a rear room?

  She ducked inside. Clear. She motioned to Daniel. “Quick!” They were higher now, more exposed to sniper fire.

  The path cut through the hallway to a rear bedroom with a hole in the side wall. Its narrow crease allowed passage to the bedroom in the adjacent apartment. She suspected there would be a series of such openings to allow interior transit for the length of the building.

  “Brenna.” Daniel pointed at his feet. He was standing in a pool of dried blood.

  She nodded. Judging by the volume and the sickly-sweet smell wafting their way, they would soon be finding a corpse.

  Or maybe many corpses—and not all adults.

  She moved forward, debris crunching beneath the soles of her boots, and reached the last unit. An foul stench extended its infectious embrace from the apartment. This had to be it.

  He grimaced, his pained expression like hers, and stuck his nose and mouth into the crook of his elbow.

  She shifted her weight to her leading foot, and faltered. If this was an apartment full of dead infants—

  Daniel’s hand caught hers. “You wait,” he said softly. “I’ll go.”

  His sweetness touched her. She took his hand. Whatever lay ahead, she’d still have to take the pictures. “Together.”

  He consulted imaginary checkpoints on her face. “Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s get this awful thing over with.”

  She nodded and followed him into the apartment.

  The stench hit her like a falling wall. She cried out, gagging, and fought the urge to vomit.

  Daniel pulled his shirt over his nose.

  A gray-haired, middle-aged woman lay face down on the living room floor. Roza, Brenna presumed. Their interview. The purpled flesh on her hip and thigh was folded back like a trap door. Her skirt and panties were in bloody tatters, and the skin surrounding the injury was so riddled with shrapnel it looked like buckshot.

  Viewfinder, Brenna told herself, her hands shaking as she lifted the camera. Put some technology between reality and perception. Turn off the emotions. Switch to auto-pilot. Concentrate on the particulars of aperture, lighting, and composition.

  Thump.

  She froze, camera halfway to her shoulder.

  Daniel shot her a wide-eyed look of surprise.

  The sound came from the back somewhere, one of the rooms down the hallway.

  Brenna cursed herself. She hadn’t checked the apartment—they could be ambushed. Fool.

  She pointed down the central hallway beyond Roza. Two sets of opposing doors faced each other. The first set was about four feet away, the second about ten feet further on. She took one side of the corridor wall. Daniel took the other. Simultaneously easing up to the doorways, they checked their respective rooms. The kitchen. Nothing. Daniel emerged from the bathroom. Shook his head.

  On silent feet, they crept toward the back rooms. Daniel cut left, she went right.

  Roza’s bedroom had a twin bed against the far wall, a dresser by the door, with a comb and hairbrush atop it, and a burgundy armchair. Very neat.

  “Bren.” Daniel’s chilled voice reached across the hallway.

  She darted across the corridor. He stood, frozen, just beyond the doorway, his back to her. Around his shoulders, she could glimpse baby cribs.

  The nursery.

  She slid her palm across the surface of the door and pressed gently. It swung further open, deathly quiet, and stopped with a soft thunk against some obstruction behind it. The room was robin’s egg blue. Four filthy, paint-chipped steel cribs were parked along the walls, each with one or two swaddled bundles—babies—lying motionless and silent behind bars.

  A lump as hard as an apple lodged in her throat.

  “Are they—“ Daniel whispered.

  Thump.

  Behind the door!

  Brenna and Daniel whirled in unison. A naked tot stood in the crib, fists clutching the rails, gazing at them with dull eyes. His hair was rough as a mongrel’s, and his stick-thin legs were stained with rivulets of dried urine. The bed sheet sponged beneath his feet, oozing feces between his toes.

  “Oh, dear lord,” Daniel said.

  Brenna lifted the camera. There was decent natural light. She would record this nursery exactly as she found it. These are the consequences, she wanted viewers to know. This is what happens when humans behave their worst.

  The boy turned his back, braced his hands on the corner rails, ducked his head—and smashed it against the wall.

  Thump.

  “Jesus Murphy!” Daniel dove for the crib.

  The little head drew back again, aiming for the dirty dent in the plaster.

  Daniel yanked the crib away from the wall. The boy lost his balance and fell on his butt on the mattress. He twisted, glaring out beneath the brown bruise on his forehead.

  Daniel leaned over the crib. “Hey, little guy. What-cha doin’ to your forehead?” With exquisitely gentle fingers, he brushed the boy’s forelock aside, trying to see.

  The boy flew into a red-faced rage, screaming, flailing rabidly.

  Daniel jumped back, shocked, and cast her a bewildered look.

  She shrugged. Who knew how this child got here, or what trauma he had experienced? All she knew was what she saw. A feral child.

  Daniel eased forward, speaking with a steady calmness she found remarkable under the circumstances. “My name’s Daniel. What’s yours—Mr. Fierce?”

  Apparently, it was. The tot stood up again, gripped the railings and viciously rocked his little body. The crib crept toward the wall.

  Daniel closed his fist around a bar, and halted it—earning himself a irate glare.

  Mr. Fierce lurched suddenly, aiming at the headboard.

  “Christ!” Daniel caught his forehead in a cupped palm before it struck.

  The child raved, spitting, and growling. And bit Daniel.

  “Oww!” Daniel yanked his hand away and banged his elbow on the corner of the crib.

  The tot howled louder, his distress as palpable as the fetid air. But what to do? If he left the boy alone, he would continue head-banging. If he restrained him, the child would become progressively more deranged.

  Daniel looked up at her. “Ideas?”

  A feeble cry replied from a corner crib—a rusty counterpoint to the raging toddler. Mr. Fierce looked across the room and silenced abruptly, as if all he needed was the familiar reassurance of that tiny voice.

  Daniel’s face lit up. “There’s two of them!”

  Alive, he meant.

  He released Mr. Fierce slowly, hoping the tot would remain calm. By some miracle, he did.

  Brenna panned the camera, following Daniel toward the squeaky little cry repeating itself in the corner crib. A smidgen of a girl wearing only a cotton top was propped on her side against a rolled-up towel. Her hip was stuck to the sheet with dried excrement. At least, Brenna thought, it wasn’t diarrhea. That depleted the babies in no time, and was a main cause of death among very young children in Kavsak.

  Daniel ran a finger gently down the baby’s bare cal
f.

  She meowled like a kitten eager for her overdue mother.

  “Say, you’re not going to bite me are you, Squeak? Mr. Fierce over there took me by surprise.” He worked quickly, prying gently at the mucky towel. “You put him in his place, though, didn’t you? Well, you stick with me, pumpkin. I’m going to need some advice when I get back to that little ruffian.”

  Through the viewfinder, Brenna watched in fascination, mesmerized by his tenderness. This footage would provide brilliant contrast to all her other images. Here was kindness, from which good came.

  He lifted Squeak out of the crib, carefully supporting her head. Not caring about the filth, he cradled her, gazed into her face, and cooed foolishness. Anyone would think she was a princess.

  Squeak looked finished—not translucent like a preemie—but she couldn’t have weighed more than four or five pounds. Her face was gaunt, her little thatch of dark hair patchy and dry, her skin baggy. She turned her little head sideways and rooted in the folds of his jacket. “Ah, Bren,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “She’s starving.”

  Brenna pulled her face away from the viewfinder. “In the backpack,” she said. “I brought baby supplies.”

  “A house gift?” He chuckled. “You do have manners.”

  “Let’s see how many more we’re feeding,” she said, putting her face to the eyepiece again.

  The next crib held two black-haired boys who were so emaciated it made their heads look abnormally large. Still holding Squeak against his shoulder, Daniel rubbed the boys’ backs to stimulate them. “They look like Heckle and Jeckle,” he said, smiling with delight at finding more responsive children. “Four for dinner, so far.”

  At the next crib, a little girl was burrowed so deeply in muck she looked like a badly-frosted chocolate cake. “Hey, Grub.” Daniel rocked her with one hand on her back. Her dark eyes popped open, she contorted her face, and gave a raspy cry.

  “You hungry, too, Grub? Don’t you worry. Auntie Bren brought lunch.”

  Auntie Bren?

  Even as Brenna crouched to tape the tot in the final crib, she knew the news was bad. He was skeletal, lying on his side, eyes crusted shut, hands and feet a dusky blue. His body was shutting down.

  Daniel rubbed the baby’s back with increasing briskness. The boy did not stir. “Hey, Quiet Boy.”

  Dying Boy, more like. She doubted he’d survive the day. Already, his respirations were irregular.

  Daniel cupped his hand around the baby’s head and stroked his patchy hair with his thumb.

  She zoomed in slowly on Daniel’s face and tilted down to his hand on the baby’s head. After a few seconds, she turned the camera off and set it on the floor. “I’ll get the formula.” She grabbed the backpack on her way to the kitchen.

  The kitchen was small, its plank counters scorched from years of wear. A wash basin, a more thrifty container for dish-washing than a sink, was turned upside down in the dish drainer, beside two aluminum pots and three baby bottles illustrated with cartoon-characters. Two small tins of solid fuel sat atop the stove beside a box of wooden matches and two bricks.

  She plunked the backpack on the counter, unbuckled it, and dug through the baby supplies. She took out five pre-prepared bottles of baby formula and a jar of pear puree for Mr. Fierce. The bottles were chilly. With a clatter, she extricated a medium saucepan from the dishes in the drainer, and looked around for water. If there wasn’t a jug here, she’d retrieve the one from the staircase. She spied a white plastic container beside the fridge. It was almost empty.

  She twisted off the cap, poured an inch of water into the pot and perched it atop the two bricks on the stove. With the scratch of a wooden match, she lit a tin of solid fuel and eased it under the pan. One by one, she set the baby bottles into the water. Five bottles for six babies.

  Down the hall, Grub found her scratchy voice and cried for Auntie Bren’s lunch special. Grub. She smiled. Daniel named them all. He looked past the shit and honored the essential person. Like Squeak, whom he had embraced, poop and all.

  She bet he would have done it wearing that fancy Armani suit of his, too.

  Tiny bubbles simmered around the bottles. She gingerly plucked out a bottle and swirled the tan-colored formula around to distribute the heat. Setting it back into the pot, she picked up the next bottle and did the same, wondering which of the children they should feed first. The strongest, she supposed. That was the rule of triage. Rescue the patient with the greatest chance of survival.

  Survival?? Pshh!

  All these children were going to die.

  Malnutrition, exposure, tainted water, diarrhea, lack of sanitation and medical care. Never mind snipers and shelling, the children were as good as dead already. Kavsak knew no mercy.

  And Daniel, dear man, had gone ahead and named them all.

  She started fishing the bottles out of the water and stuffing them in her jacket pockets.

  “Hey, Bren?” Daniel appeared in the kitchen doorway behind her, still cradling Squeak. “Do you have any of those wipes? We should at least clean their faces before they eat, so they won’t be swallowing poop.”

  Squeak squirmed and meowled piteously as Daniel dabbed her face. “I know, Squeak,” he cooed. “These are chilly, aren’t they?”

  He was a natural, so ready to be a father. Brenna wanted to warn him about getting too attached but she didn’t have the heart to deprive him of the moment’s pleasure. She held up a warmed formula bottle. “Any time.”

  He tossed the dirty wipe across the kitchen. It landed dead-center in the waste can. “Much better,” he declared, holding Squeak so Brenna could see her.

  The miniature details of her were exquisite—her little rosebud mouth, her alert dark eyes with their delicate fan of eyelashes. When Brenna looked up, she was surprised to find that Daniel was watching her, not Squeak, with fascination.

  “Here,” he said. “If you feed Squeak, I can prop up Heckle and Jeckle and feed them simultaneously. Then we’ll feed Grub, and wrestle with Mr. Fierce last. He’s going to be the challenge.” He didn’t mention Dying Boy. He’d read at least that much of the writing on the wall.

  She stared with dismay at the minuscule infant he held out to her. She looked too breakable. Brenna sputtered. “I…uh…me?”

  His blue eyes danced behind his scratched eyeglasses. A smile as dazzling as a sunrise spread across his face. “She won’t bite,” he said. “She promised, didn’t you, Squeak? Plus,” he leaned over the baby and whispered conspiratorially, “she has no teeth.”

  “But,” Brenna croaked, “she’s so teeny.”

  “Which means she’ll find a womanly shape more comforting than mine.”

  She glanced down at her breasts, his meaning dawning on her. The baby would feel more like she was nursing. From her. An odd tingle spread across her bosom, like a telegram from her long-suppressed womanhood. A rush of heat suffused her cheeks. “I…I—” She trailed off.

  “You?” he prompted.

  She didn’t know what to do. She’d never held an infant before. She wasn’t a woman people handed babies to.

  “Come on,” he said, and led her down the shadowed corridor to the nursery. He pulled the scarred rocking chair away from the wall, then guided her backwards until her knees touched the chair. “Sit.”

  She plopped her bottom onto the seat.

  “Make a cradle with your arms. That’s it.” He lowered Squeak into the nest. “The important thing is to support their heads. There. Just let her rest on your arm. Good.”

  The baby felt light and warm. Oh. Brenna’s insides dissolved. She gazed down at the dark eyes, already transfixed on her face. Oh.

  “Nice, huh?” He hovered over her, beaming.

  She looked up and nodded, suddenly feeling shy and exposed.

  “As for the bottle,” he said, easing one out of her jacket pocket, “Squeak knows what to do. Just keep it tipped up so she doesn’t suck air.” He put the bottle in Brenna’s hand, helping her get a c
omfortable grasp on it.

  She tentatively touched the nipple to Squeak’s lips. The baby’s pink mouth opened and hungrily circled it. The little suckling noises foolishly delighted Brenna. She looked up, excited. “It’s working!”

  “That’s my girl,” he said.

  Brenna wasn’t sure which girl he meant, but she liked the smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  “Okay. Let me get that chair from Roza’s room, and feed Heckle and Jeckle.”

  He brought out the chair and placed it directly across from her. “Bottles,” he said. “In your pocket?”

  She lifted her elbow.

  He leaned over her. Before she realized what he was doing, he kissed her on the mouth.

  It stole her breath. Heat raced across her cheeks like a prairie fire.

  “Well, well,” he said, backing up enough to see her clearly. “Brenna Rease blushes.”

  “It’s the light.”

  “No.” He tucked his chin down for a clearer view. “Not the light.”

  He chuckled, fished two bottles from her jacket, and sauntered over for Heckle and Jeckle. Deftly, he scooped the two boys out of the crib and settled in across from her, one boy propped in each elbow. Their heads bobbled like car ornaments. Once they began suckling, they leaned comfortably against him and stayed put.

  Squeak wriggled contentedly into Brenna and tossed a tiny arm over the curve of Brenna’s breast, while her little mouth eagerly worked the bottle. Brenna rocked her, mesmerized, feeling unexpectedly at peace.

  Daniel finished feeding the boys and put them back in their crib. He reappeared—with the camera. He aimed it at her and pressed the record button, mumbling something about astonishing beauty.

  She hardly noticed, she was so entranced by Squeak, so taken by her tiny perfection, the way the baby stared up at her. She leaned down and planted a long soft kiss on her forehead, completely smitten.

  Daniel set the camera down and came back with Grub on his shoulder.

  “You know,” he said, settling down with her, “I could find homes for these kids back in the States.”

  “Americans are too law-abiding to take a kid with faked papers.”

  “Why would they have to be faked?”

  Brenna held Squeak’s foot in her palm and stroked the tops of the raisin-sized toes, reluctant to answer. “Daniel,” she finally said, “These children are the product of rape.”