“Five thousand,” says the Bad Man. He grins and tosses his head to get a strand of greasy black hair away from his eyes.
They take Greg, which leaves Tommy and me alone. I should have done something to help Greg, but I was too scared. Sarge says a good soldier doesn’t make excuses; he just does what needs to be done. I’m not a good soldier. We hear Greg crying in the main room, and Tommy scoots closer to hug me. I’m ten; he’s only six, and way more scared than me. I rub his shoulders and pat his head and tell him Greg will be all right, that everything will be all right.
Greg screams, and hollers, and begs, and I know he’s not going to be all right, he’s not gonna be alright at all, and I reach in my pocket and squeeze the soldiers. Sarge, Sniper, and Bazooka. I squeeze them the way Tommy squeezes me. Then I let them go, so I can put my hands over Tommy’s ears.
Tommy doesn’t know what’s happening – he hasn’t been picked yet. My third time was two weeks ago, and I still hurt down there. I bled for days, and still cry when I have to poop. Greg is eight. Billy was seven and didn’t make it through his first time. Maybe the extra year will make a difference. Part of me hopes so, but another part thinks nothing can be worse than going through it again, because you know what’s going to happen.
“Please stop, please stop, please, please, please, AAHHHHH!” Greg’s screams hurt my ears. Tommy squeezes harder. He whispers, “I want my mom, I want my dad. I’m sorry I listened to the Bad Man. I’ll never do it again, I promise.” Maybe it’s me whispering.
“Shut this kid up!” yells Pig.
“Most a my clientele like the screams.”
“Well I don’t.”
“Let me gag him.” The Bad Man sounds irritated. “Hold him still, damn it!”
“NO!” yells Greg. It’s the last word he says.
“There. Enjoy yourself.” There’s banging on the floor; fast, like a drum. Must be Greg kicking. His kicks get faster. We feel the floor vibrate. Tommy trembles like a hamster I held in my hand a long time ago.
“Be brave,” says Sarge, “for Tommy.” I pull Tommy’s head to my chest. I don’t know how to pray but I close my eyes and ask God for help anyway. God doesn’t answer, doesn’t even send happy thoughts, just reruns of nightmares.
I used to have six soldiers. Tosser, the one with the grenade, left first. Then Sparky, the radio operator. Bugle Boy went last week. We started with six, too. Mark, Billy, Chris, Greg, Tommy, and me, gagged and hog-tied under a tarp in the bed of a pickup truck.
It took forever to get here, wherever ‘here’ is. The Bad Man locked us up, fed us PB and J sandwiches, and made us shower before each ‘guest.’ Mark and I were oldest. Mark made it through the first time but got beat up pretty bad. When he got picked again a week later, he gave me a creepy smile and waved good-bye. A minute later the guest screamed and hollered, “Jesus Christ, the son of a bitch bit me!”
There was a bang like the loudest firecracker ever made. Then it got so quiet I thought my eardrums were broke, but they weren’t, cause the guy yelled, “You could’ve hit me, dumb shit!” and the front door slammed and a car started and tires squealed.
The Bad Man walked in right after. “Hey kids, let’s build a bonfire!” His eyes were wild and he was breathing heavy, and he kept laughing in short, sharp barks. We followed him to a clearing out back, where we tossed firewood into a huge pile. He poured gasoline and threw a match. When the flames were tall as a man, he said, “I’m going in the house. Any a you idiots wanna take off, go ahead. It’s five miles to town.” He pulled a pistol from his belt. “A course, I’ll be coming after you, and put a bullet through the back a your head, but what the hey, the choice is yours.”
He came out with Mark’s body and threw it on the fire. All five of us were there. Nobody ran away. We should have. I maybe could have made it. But the little kids would’ve followed me, and they’d get shot for sure. But if nobody ran for help we were all going to die, one by one. I kept thinking the one way, then the other. So I did nothing. I wasn’t brave like Mark.
A couple of kids puked, maybe from the smell of burnt meat. I barely smelled it, or the smoke. The flames gave no heat, my eyes shed no tears. Like a zombie, more dead than alive, my brain no longer felt or cared what happened. That’s when I threw Tosser on the fire. I figured he’d be better off with Mark than with a coward, but Sarge said, “You’re not a coward. These are your buddies. A soldier doesn’t leave his buddies behind.”
Sarge said that twice more. Once after Billy, and again after Chris. They weren’t shot, they just didn’t make it through what the men did. Both times the Bad Man made us build bonfires. At Chris’s fire he toasted marshmallows on a stick and made us eat them. The fire turned the white skins to black husks the same way it did to Chris. That’s when I decided to kill the Bad Man. I didn’t know how, I didn’t have a plan, and the idea scared me so much I pissed my pants when he looked my way.
Sparky and Bugle Boy left with Billy and Chris. Each loss proved I’m not soldier material. If I was, then Greg wouldn’t be suffering in the next room.
“Nobody is born a soldier,” says Sarge. “Events shape us, mold us. We don’t even notice until one day we’ve become what we need to be.”
“How will I know when I’m a soldier?”
“You’ll know.”
No weapon plus no plan meant no time soon. “Sarge, what’s it like to kill someone?”
Silence. Maybe he never killed anybody.
“He has to die,” I say.
“He does,” agrees Sarge. “Once in a long time, a person comes along who’s pure evil.”
“It’s going to feel good killing that monster. Wonderful.”
Sarge says nothing. He probably thinks I’m too young to understand what killing means. Or maybe he doesn’t understand why killing the Bad Man will feel so good.
The front door slams and Tommy presses his face into my shirt, sobbing. A car engine revs, then fades away. The Bad Man will come soon. I hope Greg’s with him.
I dig into my pocket and pull out Sniper. “Keep this. He’ll protect you.”
The door bursts open and the Bad Man strolls in. “And then there were two,” he says. “I’ll have to do more recruiting soon.” Tommy shrinks back and wedges himself in a corner, but it attracts the Bad Man like a magnet. “Come on, Tom. Up, up, up. We have another bonfire to build.”
I go to the main room. Greg is on the floor by the sofa, face down, not moving, not crying. I don’t want to look at him, don’t want to get close to him, but I can’t help it. For sure he’s dead, but I turn him over to check. His face is blue. The corner of a rag sticks out from the tape over his mouth. There are bruises on his neck. His tears are still wet. I dry them with my shirt.
“Bazooka can stay with him,” says Sarge. A good soldier doesn’t leave his buddy behind. I pull the soldier from my pocket and put it into one of Greg’s shoes. They’re the only clothes he has on.
Sarge says, “Look on the table.”
A dirty plate with a fork and knife. A steak knife.
I glance behind me – the Bad Man is yelling at Tommy, telling him to stop the damn crying. I grab the knife and start to put it in my sock, but Sarge has a different idea. I slip it into Greg’s other shoe.
Tommy and I stack wood, the Bad Man pours gasoline, the flames jump with a ‘Whoosh.’ The Bad Man claps and laughs, his face aglow in the firelight. He dances around the fire, then trots to the house. He comes out with Greg’s body, but he isn’t happy anymore.
He drops the body next to the fire and grabs me. “You have it, don’t you, you little bastard.” His hands push into my pockets, waistband, socks and shoes. He finds Sarge. I don’t have anything else. “Where’s the knife?”
I shrug. He slaps hard enough to spin me around and knock me to the ground. He throws Sarge into the funeral pyre. I stare at the fire, unable to move. Not Sarge, not Sarge. I need him. The Bad Man moves to Tommy. “You have it, brat? Cough it up, or you’ll go in the fire before Gregory.”
<
br /> A thing twists in my head, some cold dark thing that lets me move again. I pull the knife from Greg’s shoe and come up behind the Bad Man. Sarge is burning, melting, screaming in terrible pain, but he shouts three words. “Do it, soldier!”
I plunge the knife into the Bad Man’s back, jerk it out, stab it in again. He yelps, jumps, spins around. I stab his chest. He pulls the gun from his belt, but it doesn’t make any difference. I stab his gut. And stab again. And again. Again, again, again, again, again.
He’s on the ground, not breathing, blood everywhere. I stare at him a long time, waiting. Waiting for it to feel good. Waiting for it to feel wonderful. But it doesn’t. I’m all empty inside, like my gut turned into a giant sinkhole and the rest of me fell in. I pull off my shirt and drape it over Greg’s body. Tommy’s crying. I hold him ‘till he stops.
“Tommy, see that road? Follow it. You’ll get to a town. Stop the first person you see, ask for help. Get the police. Understand?”
“What if there’s another bad man?”
“Sniper will keep you safe.”
He pulls out the plastic soldier, and I say, “You hear that, Sniper?”
“Sir, yes sir!” He talks like I’m Sarge. That’s almost funny, Sniper thinking I’m a soldier.
Tommy’s face screws up like he’s going to cry again, but he gets his words out. “What about you? You’re coming, too.”
“I have something to do here. Go on, hurry while it’s still daylight.” He hugs me, then runs down the road. He stops twice to look back before disappearing around a bend.
The logs pop, the smoke stings, and the flames invite me to join their dance. Sweat trickles down my face and chest. Sarge’s screams sound like Greg’s, and Mark’s, and all the other boys I didn’t save. Well, you won’t be alone, Sarge. A good soldier doesn’t leave his buddies behind.
The bonfire’s pretty high. I’ll need a running start. I back up ...
... then trip over Greg and fall on my butt.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he says.
Greg is dead and his mouth isn’t moving, but he keeps talking anyway. “I have Bazooka. All of us have a guardian soldier, thanks to you. Now Sarge will lead us where we need to go.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No you’re not,” says Sarge. I can’t see him, but he sounds normal. No screams. “There’s a six-year-old boy on a strange road with nightfall coming. He’s seen people get killed. He’s scared and alone. You’re a soldier, and you’re his buddy. Where do you think you belong?”
Greg adds, “Not to mention how Tommy’s going to feel if you off yourself.”
When I get back on my feet, Sarge and the others are gone, but somehow that feels okay. I jog down the road after Tommy.
Cuffs by Matthew C. Funk
It seemed to Darrell like he was always locked into something: Paying bills. Pushing a broom at the print shop. Pregnant wife nearing nine months. Bible to study. Tires to patch. Fridge to fill.
One task clicking to the next in a chain of hard, little links.
And now New Orleans April rain shutting the night around his Honda Civic—the kind of rain where the sky has no ceiling, just walls upon walls.
Darrell turned at Claiborne, the sign erased by the rain but still clear in his memory. Now was the mile-long homestretch.
A car left the curb behind him.
Home would be putting macaroni on the stove. Changing clothes into the last clean laundry. Then rubbing Cathy’s feet and trying to find something about his day worth telling.
Darrell’s thoughts of Cathy lifted his cell phone from where it was charging on the car. Then he remembered that she didn’t like him to call on Thursday afternoons. Wednesday, she demanded it. Thursday, she’d be napping.
Or was it the other way around? Then he noticed the rear-view.
He lowered the phone. The car behind him was close. It was wide and low and so dark Darrell could only make its shape out of the night as a nervous field of ricochet rain.
He sped. The car crawled to match his speed.
Blue and red light flashed atop it.
Darrell glanced up, seeing his creased brow in the mirror. Permanent trenches were etched in his brown forehead. They’d been cut by one task after another, tightening like a leash around his head.
And now this. Whatever this was.
Darrell pulled over and waited. The car parked behind. Only rain moved.
Tension tugged his neck as passing time pulled the chain of tasks taut—Cathy might worry, he might not make it through Leviticus, the roof might be leaking again.
A flashlight erupted through his window. It tapped.
Darrell cranked down the window, squinting into the explosion of light, wondering how the cop had made it to his car without Darrell seeing him. Even now, shapeless behind the flashlight, it was like talking to the downpour.
“Good evening, Officer.”
“Step out of the car.”
“Excuse me?”
“Step out of the car.”
Darrell reached for the cell phone—instinct seeking a tether.
“Do we have a problem?” The cop sounded Irish and angry.
“No. No.”
“Yes we do. Step out of the car.”
Darrell did. He considered disarming the situation with explanation or humor. Either could go badly. If this could happen, anything could go badly.
The cop turned Darrell against the car. His hand had a damp all its own, even in the rain.
It slithered down to gather Darrell’s wrists behind his back. Panic lanced through him.
“Hey.” Darrell said.
Metal rattled in answer. Darrel twitched. An elbow pinned his spine.
“Hey, what’s this about?” High-pitched like a child. He felt like one too. Tiny, unlearned, subject.
“You know what it’s about.”
“No, I do not.” Darrell got his mettle back just in time to feel the cuffs sling around his wrists.
He wanted to pull them wide. Toss the cuffs off. Run.
Darrell didn’t. Two seconds later, the cuffs closed. They bit. They were not coming off.
Darrell’s pulse echoed with this: They were not coming off. Not until the cop was ready. He couldn’t tell whether the drum roll going through his nerves was coming from the rain or his chest.
“Officer, you have to tell me what this is about.”
“No I don’t.” The cop turned him. “Walk.”
Darrell did. It hurt. For the first time in his life, obedience was a physical pain.
“Okay.” Darrell said. He looked around at the sagging slum houses. Pieces of them were still missing where Katrina had taken ragged bites from Claiborne. Darkness made the remains seem sculptures of tar.
This was no place to run. But Darrell could feel it was the time to.
He didn’t.
They reached the back door of the black cruiser. The cop opened it and pushed Darrell inside. He shoved himself upright, angled out, but the door clanged closed as if misaligned.
The cop got in. Darrell got his first look at him—face like a young skeleton above a brown raincoat; red nose; red mullet like a house fire.
“Officer.” Darrell didn’t know what sentence went with that word.
The cop lit a Marlboro Red.
“Officer.”
The cop rubbed his nose.
“Officer!”
“Sergeant.” The cop shifted the car into drive.
“Sergeant, why am I under arrest?”
“Who said you’re under arrest?”
“What?”
“You’re not under arrest.”
“Why am I in handcuffs, then?” Their bite was beginning to blister.
The cop drove for a long time. Darrell tightened and tightened and he couldn’t help but feel he was splitting.
“Why am I in handcuffs, Officer?”
“Sergeant.” The cop turned right, turned right again. “Sergeant Durham Mahoney Junior.
Badge #315. Born in Bywater. Raised by Shreveport foster care.”
Mahoney pulled over in front of slender house.
“NOPD since the Twin Towers came down.”
Mahoney parked.
“Favorite color, red.”
Mahoney snapped a black cotton sack loose and hanging between his thumbs.
“What’s that for?” Darrell knew this was all wrong. Knowing it made no difference. “Why are you telling me all this?”
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