Come to the tunnel’s road with sudden panic, that it close with bombs. But the hole be clear. Is perfect in a patch of naked street. Must only cross this space. Before this final risk, I resting longer to a building side. Watch everything and breathe my strength. Stroke on First Runner’s back. A wind begun, and moving branches sketch in corner-eye. Keep flinching to a motion, and it be a waggling arm of pine. Ya, when I try to bring Kalash to aiming pose, is useless sweat. First Runner’s legs be there and there.
Yo, I lose my last impatience. Step out perilous to the moon.
And a roo step instant from a building side where he been waring. Raise his gun in aim.
I weaken sudden, lose my breath. Almost drop First Runner, and must grab her. Got no sense to think.
But he ain’t shoot. Roo yell out to my deafness. Jerk his rifle.
I take a breath, but feel no air. My legs gone queery, need to sit. Roo jerk his rifle again. Shout his mouth.
And I call rooish, Got sick enfant here. Ain’t shoot.
Can see, this Russian speech take him in puzzling. He ease his gun. I smile to this, as my mind lose its telligence. Can think no complications, so I only roo, Be gratty. I nod to the tunnel’s hole.
Then I step forward, concentrate on only walking my weaken legs. Smile foolish, and I muttern roo, Be gratty, brother. Be gratty.
Roo be a dark-fur child, most like Bashir. Can be sixteen, is small. Last I see him, he let down his gun. He watch with troubling eyes. And, steppen-step, we sink into the blackness. Lose from sight.
Scarce remember this tunnel walk. Been black, it been exhaustion. Been minutes where I known I cannot walk no more. And I walk on. Then another minute so, another, through an hour. Past Pentagon, the tunnel flooding nasty to my ankles. Know this be mally, but be weak to fear. The water be only another tired weight that drag my feet.
Felt when I begin, I never lasting to the tunnel’s end. So I decide on Farragut exit. We come out on the Mall; hope soldiers be retreating from the bridge. If they already gone, I bring First Runner to the White House. Ain’t no hope, but it be warm. Is food.
And I step forward and step forward. Try every means to do this easier, but it be the same. Shift First Runner – but then I only frighten how she flopping loose. I touch her bandage, but feel nothing with my frozen hand. Be dark, be deaf. And be no help. Step forward and step forward.
Yo, at Foggy Bottom shelter, where I pause to check, she living. But at Farragut, she be dead.
Ain’t comprehend at first. Be resting on the Farragut ledge in its good light, watch gratty to her bandage thigh. It show no extra blood. On a neatly bed beside, a soldier lying dead, but this ain’t fear me somehow. His stiff face seem to care as I lean down to small First Runner’s face.
Ain’t no breath. And when I feel her throat, ain’t beat. Be thick and cold.
Then I look down at myself, and find her blood.
I carry her to the White House. Gone stupid in despair, and only remember how a Lowell child bring back from dying once. He drowning in an icen pond, and they go soak him in warm water. He live again, spit out his drown.
Mall be empty, ain’t no child. Nor be thousand footprints – we come early somehow, though it seem I struggle through all hours. And I bring her to my room, Queen’s Bedroom of this empty mansion. Run a heaten bath. I rest her in this water in her clothes. Talk thoughtless to her stillness. The water pinken slow, and she lie dead.
Then, soggen how she be, I carry her to my bed. Yo, always in my injure mind, I know that Mamadou coming. Remember how he said First Runner been his only person left. How I said, ‘Thought I been yours,’ and he look to me seriose. And I feel her blood gone cold, gone sticky on my legs, my belly. Cannot meet him so. It be too much.
I tear these clothes away. Wash at the sink with wetten towel, scrubbing hasty at my skin. Be three towels red before I done. Yo, in this, my ears begin to hear. Ring shrill inside, but through this ring, I hear the water’s push.
Got no other clothes, so I put on Maria dress. Clad the grandy coat the Commandant given me in better time. Put on heely boots – walk clumsy but they got no blood.
Last before I leave, I go back to First Runner. Lean by her and say soft, ‘You good. Ain’t nothing harm you more.’ Words feel insulting once they said, but cannot think no other words. So I only kiss her brow. Pull blankets on her smallness, cover up her terrify eyes.
Then I sling Kalash again, and go back to the night.
73
OF MY LAST WAR
As I cross the empty mall its snow, I gone in stranger minds. Be thinking blind of Pasha. How we find him in that burning house. He run, and Driver shoot at him. Roo wheel back with his pistol, and I walk up, terrify and bold. I hold his gun nose to my chest. He look at me, besweaten scary, and all children love each other. He let go his gun.
The vampire live.
And then he killing Deema and Karim, shoot Mamadou. But he saving me away, all children love each other. Or he need myself to get him food, the vampire live. And on our journey walk, he want to murder the Armies, but he lose this chance. These Armies must be shot by Soledad, while she weep desperate lost.
The vampire live. I braving poisons for his life. He cannot die. He hold my hand like animoses, every day I been a god – and rid me, when his chance become. All children die who love each other, but the vampire live.
He tell me we can win at Quantico. Promise me the cure.
I come to the bridge, and still its length be empty. Only movement be at Arlington, flashes where bombs strike the land. Explosions sounding far, it almost be a comfort noise. Yo, a smutten mist drift toward, across the river’s blackish shine, and I be gripping Kalash like I prepare to fight this distance. Be thinking how Pasha been fourteen, and watch his burning city. How I kill him with this gun he given me. He kill myself. All children love each other when they dead.
I grip Kalash and grip Kalash. Cold deaden in my face, my hands. I watch the flashing hill and my nose run with cold, but I ain’t crying. I ain’t remember life, I only know this night that cannot be. This sky that kill its earth. And first, it only be a petty strangeness when the soldiers come.
Bridge be a milen length, and they show first as squirming dots, a dirty bothering in my sight. But they running quick, and soon I see them individual. No flashes chase them. Cannot feel they flee from nothing special. They cross this snowen path through air like running be a pleasure game.
Get briefer panic, they be roos. But their disorder fleeing, ya their every looks, show they ours. Yo, then ain’t nothing I can do. Must wait, cannot change anything. So I stand helpless, furiose, as the first soldiers come.
Quanticos–Marianos all wear dapple clothes for war. This end of the bridge, they mostly walking, lost their fear. But they spread apart in darkness, cannot see their faces right. So I take off my coat. Bare myself in Maria finery. Stand middy to the bridge, and I stare desperate for my Mamadou. For Crow. For any penal who will tell me word.
Soldiers come in threes and twos. Some talking in a fever haste, some staring grim to nothing. One child pass me weeping, while another soldier yelling to him, threaten a fist into his face. And their numbers ever thicken, until the bridgen height be dark across with struggling children. Yo, now I standing in Maria dress, each person stare. But all be Quanticos with hostile eyes. Be strangers.
One officer come with scary looks, say, ‘Ma’am, you need some help?’ I ask him hoarse for Mamadou, penals, but he only say, ‘You’re not going to know until tomorrow, serious. You got to come with us.’ But I rid him with some lie about Patricia fetching me. Turn back to watching all wrong faces, rubbing my icen arms.
This waiting lengthen to impossibilities. Every child who pass me, my eyes catching to him hungry, then fall away in cheaten grief. Once a gait, a flashen face, be Mamadou in my eyes, and I call out, run toward. But he turn and be a stranger flinching from my savage looks. Then I go furiose against all penals, how they never come. Try seeking Taco – be lucki
er to seek a child I wanting less. But the soldiers only clutter my sight with needless faces, until each child seem like a separate insult. Is like each say in passing, Mamadou dead.
In this, bombs scarcen fewer. Hush away and leave their bruisen haze unmeaning to the sky. Be only pittering guns, sound harmless in their quietness. And here the coming soldiers start to thin. Be twos and ones. Some carry injure children, slung on backs, or held between two people. Be their familiar cries and mutterings, scarce in growing night. And then the forward bridge be bare of life. Be only one last soldier come alone. He stumble as he pass, look superstitious dread at me. Break to a limping run, and his steps eager to a final hush.
The bridge be empty. Gunfire only be a memory of noise that yearn in mind. Night can hear again, the breeze and river like a rougher silence. On Arlington shore, some trees be burning. Arlington House got a pinkish glare that dull and sharpen in moods of smoke.
I stare, and conscience whisper to me, I must leave. The Russians come. But I stand trembling in the cold, glare furiose at that far hill. My blood be one red wound.
And time bleed into my despair. The bridge be empty dumb, its snow all eaten gray with footprints. I look back to the Mall sometimes, but this bring me angry, thinking how I walk here, still with hope.
When the first explosion come nearby, I startle vicious. Turn quick and see a goliath orange bloom of fire and smoke. Only then I comprehend, it be the District burning. This be fires set by Marines. Ya, this explosion growing into roar, all ammonition bursting wild. Feed red into the ashen smoke, that pump into the air like flowing water, sprinkle its blacken flecks. Another explosion burst, bloom huge. Be like a fire monster lift its head, look hungry to the city. Ya, the horizon gleam mysteriose and reddish to the north. Fire rushing like a second river flowing dry and restless toward. The city lose its air in roar, like breathing out its life.
Then it comprehend, I be the only living child in Washington. Others all creep off in darkness. Their city burn behind, and Ice Cream Star remain in careless witness.
When the gunfire come again, I be unheeding in my trance. Accustom to this noise, become like birden voice in woods. Only slow, my conscience wake. Gunfire come from Arlington – and I squint back in worry, scout for Russians on the bridge. But it be clear.
Then my worst madness rise. I gaze along this bandon bridge, and think how Mamadou be a genius. I think, guns be himself, he fighting still. Ain’t dead for nothing. Penals do some vally desperations, then they coming here. I grab him in my arms, and be all victories farouche.
Ain’t know how long this ravish unsense live. I stand and heed the burning city, the guns beyond the water. Magine how the NewKing come across the bridge, all penals by. Be Crow with mally noise, my Taco. If tunnels burn, can swim the river out. Still can be right.
And this hope live, while fires grow brazen around, the air be sweaten warm. Continue while the gunfire thinning slow, come seldom. Die to nothing.
Arlington be silent. Nor the bridge change in its white unlife. The river pass, and I breathe in the hating stank of smoke, and start to weep. Weep at the uncaring hill, the bridge that will not bring them back. Weep at the muzzy stars, mind gone in thousand hysterias of grief.
And my weeping die – like all my bell and wolfen children – and my heart go clear in pain. Heart fill me like a knife. I wipe my tears on my rough coatsleeve, look toward Arlington’s shore. Fire on the hill be gone, and it be only ugly white.
I know, like nightmares I remember, Pasha Vampire there. My white Polkovnik there, with all his powers, with cure that can be mine. Mamadou there, and Crow. Be dead or prisoners on that shore. Yo, the bridge shine in my eyes. Be only death between.
Then I pull on my coat. Stretch arms into its warm and whisper, ‘Shee your Russians. Shee you all.’ And I spit upon the ground. Swear low at any god that be, and go.
I start across the bridge. I head for Arlington.
Come out from the fire’s ardent air, and colder night be gratty. Breath come clean and sharp, is like a truth that hurt inside. I keep Kalash at readiness, be scouting forward for no Russians. But all be silent. Hear only my crunching steps in snow, my short insisting breath.
When I look back to Washington, be only smoke to see. Come up in bunchy trails beside the moon. Cannot see the palaces, but the whitish monument stand clean apart without no hurt. Be like a simple burial stone for this whole murdern city.
Come over the bridgen arch, and still be no one. Here I pause. Take off my coat again, wrap this upon Kalash to hide her. Figure, I come in girlish finery, sans no showing gun, be chance the roos ain’t shoot me.
Here, the hill be clearer in my eyes. Can see a monument wall, bash down in places from artillery. A patch of cemetery show small campfires by the rumple trenches. And I see some itsy people, moving in this patchen white.
I creep in to the bridge’s stony railing. Its top reach to my chin, must only stoop and I be hid. So I stalk forward, crouching. Scout through the railing sometimes, see how roos be doing various. Their dapple clothes confuse in dapple ground. And, as I come toward the bridge’s end, I start to hear their noise – a passing truck, a shouting voice, a muttering that change in wind.
At the bridge’s end, be trees. Block all these roos from sight. I straighten here, grab up my skirt. Run to the broken memorial wall, duck in its friendly shadow. Then I take a deeper breath. Feel how my ravish fear bring all my blood into attention. And I step onward, walking easy past this final hiding. Come to a darkness under trees, can see the whiten graves beyond, the stripy looks of snow and earth. Among, be working roos. A shovel rise and strike, and first I think they make new trenches. But, as I come, can see these shovels claw into the higher banks. Scatter their dirt into a trench beside. Then it come natural in mind, what work this going to be. Like we always joking in our trenching work, they bury children. Make a rooish cemetery in the cemetery’s skin.
I come up stronger. Grip to Kalash, and find a useful hold beneath the coat. Yo, now can see the hill entire. Be every dozen roos in carrying task, a haste of grandy shadows. Night be patchy larm of voice and crunching feet and digging. Bright among, there be a fire, with roos stood talking round. From their slaggen posture, can guess that all their work be booze.
When the first roo notice me and pause, my heart twist queery. He straighten, point with lazy gun. Child beside him shift and look. Then all the drunken roos ware up their rifles as I come toward, heart watery in my chest. Yo, now I come to my first murdern body, pause my step before.
Be a blackish child in dapple uniform, face down in earth. Legs finish in an unshape darkness, speckling far in snow. Ya, in a trench beside, can see another – sitting curlen with his head thrust back to show no face. Below his brow is jaggen bone and meat, a reddish scrap hung down. Unhurt ear look perfect neat beside. I fetch into stillness. Look up again to find, everywhere along this hill, be Russians watching me.
I loose my hands slow from Kalash. Begin to raise them in the air, skin flaming in the cold. And I step precarious around the child kilt at my feet. Keep eyes to the drunken roos, and gather breath to call.
Ain’t time to even fear, when footsteps run to me behind. A yell come stark, then someone catch my arm and pull it vicious. I strike against without no thought, turn wild, and find Bashir.
I stare up to his hawken looks without no mind to use. He shout some rooish in my face, rage breathless. Shout and shout, before I comprehend.
Why you here? Why you here? You cannot be here! Why you here?
I start laughing somehow, and this bring Bashir ferocious. He grip into my shoulder, shake me rough. Begin a grosserie of cursing, where I comprehending only words for imbecile and dead. And he finish again with Why you here? in choken voice.
I touch to his gripping hand. Roo hoarse, ‘Need Razin, brother.’
He stare a moment, shattern in his face. Glance back to the roos around the fire, who all be watching interest. Then his mouth twist angry. ‘Nay. You dead here
. You already dead.’
Feel some impatience, how he talking pointless, and I roo, ‘Ain’t care, how I be dead. Need Razin.’
Then someone call his name behind. Still holding to my arm, he turn and yell. Some laughing voices answer. Then a clutch of roos walk out from forest shadows, smiling curiose. Be seven, all with hawken face, dark fur. Is queery, how they so alike, ain’t telling who be which. Only their beards be various grown. Ya one got fatter gun, wear necklace of long bullets round himself. And it inkle in my mind, these be Bashir’s Kavkazky people – his vally children who behaving honest like no roo.
One child with thinner beard say weirdo words, ain’t rooish. Then they laugh hilarious. Bashir grit, shake his head. He talk back unhappy in that weirdo speech, but end with Razin.
Kavkazky roos show mock impression. One clout Bashir against his head, and start a longer speech of dispute. Another Kavkazky talk in louder, naying his big hand.
As this squabble rise, a yellow roo come staggery from the drunken fire. Call down. Bashir let go my arm. Turn shouting, grab his gun to ready. And all Kavkazky roos go spitting vicious in this second. Yell shrill, and fix their guns to shooting pose.
Yellow child halt surprisen. Shout some quick filth, and turn back, calling peevish to his friends.
Bashir turn furiose to me. ‘You see. Now we be kilt for you.’
‘Nay, he rid,’ I roo unsteady. ‘You fear him bone.’
Bashir swear underbreath, while the fat-gun child put hand upon his shoulder. Fat-gun child talk low, like he speak gentle to a spooking mare. Then he clap twice on Bashir his shoulder. Say in rooish, ‘Is normal.’
‘What be, my brother?’ I roo dumb.
Bashir look to me tired. ‘What you ask. We taking you to Razin.’
‘Bone.’ I smile my mouth. ‘Be gratty.’
The Country of Ice Cream Star Page 58
