Life During Wartime

by Lucius Shepard

  An explosion nearby shook the ground, orange light illuminated the figures of the soldiers, freezing them in a tableau, transforming the outlines of trees and shrubs into a bizarre menagerie of shapes. Mingolla and Debora crouched behind a bush, but the soldiers turned their faces to the light like pilgrims brought hard upon their central mystery. The explosion seemed to calm them, and once the glare had faded, they continued on in silence.

  They crossed the valley without incident, but as they crested a rise overlooking the ruined village where they would await transport to Panama, a soldier about twenty yards ahead of Mingolla was flipped into the air by a burst of flame beneath his feet, and rifle fire began striking around them. Mingolla pulled Debora down, going flat. Screams and agitated voices came over the transmitter. His mouth was full of dirt, and he was very afraid. He aimed his rifle at the shadowy brush and opened up; the sound of his fire was drowned out by the crump of high explosive ammunition. The voices and the gunfire seemed to be speaking as one, blending into a weird percussive language. So much noise and fury, Mingolla felt a hot wind was blowing at hurricane force, driving red splinters of fear through him. Debora wrangled her rifle out from beneath her and began to fire; he could feel its heat and vibration on his face. Then it was over. The guns fell quiet, and the moonlight appeared to reassemble, to fit around every shape, making them sharp and recognizable again. Cooling the air. Normal voices filtered in. A groan.

  “Got a live beaner here!”

  “Bring him, man!”

  “Sebo! You in there, man? You awright?”

  “It’s his leg…suit’s gone tight to his leg.”

  “Gimme his numbers, goddammit! What’s his numbers say?”

  “He’s alive! Leg looks fucked, but he’s alive.”

  “Get the I-Ops down the hill!”

  “His medipac’s doin’ for the leg…He’s cool. Hell, he ain’t feelin’ nothin’.”

  “You okay, Sebo. You hit a mine but you okay.”

  “His leg’s fucked! Check the readout…just little bits of bone floatin’ ’round in there.”

  “Dumbass shit! Shut up!”

  “You talkin’ ’bout my leg, man?”

  Two of the soldiers hauled Mingolla and Debora up, hustled them down the hill toward the village. Behind them, Sebo shouted, “Whaddaya mean…what’s wrong with my leg?”

  The village—a few acres of huts and dirt streets—looked to have been trampled by a giant: roofs staved in, walls crumpled, poles splintered. Ruy and Mingolla and Debora sat beneath the overhang of a canted roof. Tully and Corazon sat apart from them, and farther off stood a group of soldiers. Under the strong moonlight, the snapped poles and crushed thatch took on a dirty grayish black color, and the street glowed lavender gray. All the shadows were sharp and crooked like they might be in Hell. Rocket bursts flickered above the distant hills.

  “Almost home,” said Ruy.

  “You stupid fuck!” Mingolla had to make an effort to keep from hitting him. “This bullshit tour ’bout gets us killed, and you sit there mouthin’ off ’bout home.”

  Ruy, a cross-legged shadow, gave no reply.

  “When will the plane come?” Debora asked.

  “First light,” said Ruy. “It’ll fly us to an airstrip near the city, and we’ll enter the barrio after dark.”

  Three more soldiers came down the street, two of them supporting Sebo, whose leg dragged in the dirt. His combat suit was scorched to the knees. They sat him down between Ruy and Mingolla and removed his helmet. He had close-cropped black hair and a weasly dark face dirtied by a growth of stubble. Mingolla recognized him as the vet who had accosted him in his hallucination, who had recognized him. Sebo was sweating freely, lines of strain bracketing his mouth. The other two soldiers—Bobby Boy and Eddie—removed their helmets and went to their knees beside him.

  “Your suit juice ya up ’nough?” Bobby Boy asked. He was a hulking kid, crewcut and moon-faced, his features small and regularly spaced, giving him a bland moronic look.

  “Yeah, I’m makin’ it.” Sebo slurred the words.

  Mingolla stared at him, trying to put his presence together with the arm in the mural, with everything else.

  “Chopper can’t get here for a while, man,” said Eddie, settling back on his haunches. “But you be fine.”

  Sebo gazed off into the sky, wetted his lips.

  Eddie took out a packet of Cration cookies. He split one of the cookies in half, licked the filling of white icing. Offered one to Mingolla, then to Debora and Ruy. They all refused. “Don’t know what you’re missin’,” said Eddie. “These ol’ sugar things make ya tranquil. Ain’t that so, Bobby Boy?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah,” said Eddie. “Cool ya right down, these fuckers. Just the thing after a firefight.” He grinned, winked, his face cinching into lines of wily good humor. “Maybe they lemme do a commercial once I get home, man. I say, ‘Suckin’ the middles out these doobies got me through the great war.’ How ’bout that?”

  “Probably sell a million,” said Mingolla. He looked around at the village, the sad gray wreckage, still holding a faint smell of animals and men. The ghost of a smell. Wind feathered the thatch, making the shadows tremble.

  “Razors,” said Bobby Boy dreamily. “Man, they cut so smooth you cain’t even feel ’em. Cain’t even feel when you hangin’ open. Don’t know you bad off till blood’s comin’ in your eye. Man, you can make somebody think twice ’bout hookin’ wit’cha if you gotta razor, man. ’Cause he don’t want nothin’ to touch him he cain’t feel how bad it is. Razors,” said Bobby Boy. “Smooth.”

  His lazy tone of voice gave Mingolla a shiver.

  “Don’t be talkin’ that shit!” said Eddie. “Fuck! Boy never had no dealin’s with razors. He just stoned and like hearin’ hisself talk mighty. You bullshit to the bone, Bobby Boy.” He licked the icing from another cookie. “To the bone!”

  “Maybe,” said Bobby Boy. “But I know ’bout razors now, see. From thinkin’ ’bout ’em, I know ’em. Gonna get me one when I get home.”

  “Fuckin’ retard,” said Eddie, and winked at Mingolla again. “Hey, Bobby Boy! ’Member when we first come to this ol’ village?”

  Bobby Boy turned to him, the movement slow and distracted. He ejected an ampule from a dispenser in his hand, popped it under his nose, and breathed deep. His face seemed to lengthen, grow leaner.

  “Hear what I say, Bobby Boy?” Eddie asked.

  “Yeah, I ’member.”

  “That was ol’ Bobby Boy’s baptism of fire,” said Eddie. “He didn’t know what to make of this shit. He be poppin’ Sammy every coupla minutes, screamin’ and blowin’ holes in the smoke. Then when he calm down a little, he wanders into one of them huts. He’s gone for like minutes, y’know, and finally he comes back, he says, ‘Somethin’ fuckin’ weird’s in there, man,’ he says. ‘What’s that?’ I ax him, and he say, ‘There’s this beaner, man, he’s sittin’ there. Gotta hole in his forehead, and his brain, it’s sittin’ there in his fuckin’ lap.’ He gawks at me. ‘Like he’s holdin’ it, y’know. Like he’s wantin’ to put it back in. Y’oughta come see, man.’ And I say to him, ‘Bullshit, man! Ain’t nothin’ make a wound like that.’ ’Course I know the caseless ammo these rifles fire, man, they blow a shallow hole. I seen this kinda shit plenty of times. I just woofin’ with ol’ Bobby Boy. And he gets real upset. ‘Man,’ he say. ‘Man, I’m tellin’ the goddamn truth. Dude’s sittin’ there with his fuckin’ brain in his fuckin’ lap.’ And I tell him, ‘Naw, Sammy’s got you all confused.’ Well, lemme tell ya, ol’ Bobby Boy, he’s screamin’, tellin’ me how weird it is, how it’s true, and meantime, I give the signal to my man Rat to torch the goddamn hut. And when the hut goes up, I thought Bobby Boy was gonna bust out in tears. ‘I seen it,’ he says, ‘I swear I did.’ We had the boy believin’ he was crazy for ’most a week. That was really fresh, that was. ’Member all that, man?”

  Bobby Boy nodded and said gravely, “I was a foo
l.”

  Eddie chuckled. “Sometime the boy come close to makin’ sense, don’t he? Yeah, well. We all fools to be sittin’ ’round in the middle of this mess.”

  “Hey,” said Sebo. “Hey, lady.”

  Debora looked over at him. “Yes?”

  “C’mere, lady.” Sebo’s face was shiny with sweat, his grin was without mirth. “Hurt so bad, I need me some sweet talkin’. C’mere and talk at me, huh?”

  “Wouldn’t be doin’ that, woman,” said Eddie. “Old Sebo, he just wanna grab holda your jaloobies. That’s all he be wantin’. Sebo, he get horny when he hurt.”

  “Me, too,” said Bobby Boy; he reached out a hand toward Debora, moved the hand around, like an artist gauging the balance of different sections of his work.

  “Cut that shit out,” said Mingolla.

  Bobby Boy turned his stunned moonboy gaze on him. “What say?”

  “Hey!” Eddie gave him a shove. “Lowrate, will ya, cool? You got that dingy Spec Four redhead bitch for postholin’, man. Leave these folks be.”

  “She lookin’ nice,” said Bobby Boy in the same tone he had used to talk about razors.

  “C’mere, lady,” said Sebo. “Little talk ain’t gonna hurt nobody.”

  “Got somethin’ better to do with my tongue than talk to her,” said Bobby Boy.

  Ruy got to his feet, menacing Bobby Boy. “This is insupportable,” he said, and then, to Eddie: “Can’t you control him?”

  Eddie shrugged.

  A smile melted up from Bobby Boy’s face. “Thank ya, Jesus,” he said. “This here’s Bobby Boy Macklin praisin’ your name for givin’ me this scrawny bastard to mess over.”

  “I tol’ you to lowrate, man,” said Eddie anxiously, and Mingolla, realizing that Bobby Boy was very much on the edge, set himself for a fight. No way was he going to try to influence Bobby Boy: Ruy must know how hard it was to influence someone behind Sammy.

  “Sebo!” Eddie maneuvered himself between Ruy and Bobby Boy. “Know what I’s just thinkin’ ’bout? ’Member that ol’ girlfriend of yours, one who wrote you the letter ’cusin’ you of bein’ a killer?” He gave Mingolla a friendly elbow. “We wrote her back, faked the colonel’s signature, and tol’ her Sebo was a fuckin’ hero, went ’round feedin’ the starvin’ kids and all. Shit! Woman wrote back, sounded like she ’bout ready to air mail her snatch to ol’ Sebo.”

  “Get outta my way, Eddie,” said Bobby Boy. “I’m gonna crumble this Frito.”

  “Fuck you are!” Eddie glanced around wildly as if hoping to light on a solution. “Know what, man? Know what we can do? We can run a game!” He shouted to some soldiers gathered by the wreckage of the next hut. “Where that prisoner at? Bring his ass!”

  One of the soldiers grabbed a shadowed figure lying on the ground, hauled him up, and hustled him over. Flung him down. A kid of about eighteen, skinny, long black hair flopping in his eyes. Crop of pimples straggling across his chin. He was shirtless, his ribs showing. On his right shoulder was a bloodstained bandage.

  “How ’bout it, Bobby Boy?” said Eddie. “Sebo? How ’bout a game?”

  “Yeah, I s’pose,” said Bobby Boy sulkily.

  “Awright!” said Sebo, sitting up straighter.

  Bobby Boy punched the kid in his injured shoulder, and the kid cried out, rolled away.

  “Bastard!” said Debora. “Leave him alone!”

  Bobby Boy stared at her and made a throaty sound that might have been a laugh.

  “Listen up, lady,” said Eddie. “Bobby Boy will fuck with you, so you better let him have his fun.”

  She looked to Mingolla, and he shook his head.

  Some of the soldiers moved off along the street, planting what appeared to be large seeds, covering them with dirt, patting it smooth. Planting lots of seeds.

  Bobby yanked the kid up to a sitting position. “What’s your name, Frito?”

  The kid spread his hands in helplessness. “No entiendo.”

  “Somebody ask him in Spanish,” said Bobby Boy.

  Mingolla did the duty.

  “Manolo Caax.” The kid looked around hopelessly at the others, then lowered his eyes.

  “Cash…huh! The beaner’s named for fuckin’ money,” said Bobby Boy as if this were the height of insanity.

  Sebo giggled, his eyes glassy from painkillers. “I’m bettin’ on ol’ Frito,” he said, “I do believe Frito’s got what it takes.”

  The others began making bets.

  “Ask him if he got any information,” said Bobby Boy.

  When Mingolla asked, the kid said, “I know nothing. What are you going to do? Are you going to kill me?”

  Mingolla didn’t answer; he found it easy to reject the kid and realized this was because he had already given up on him.

  “What’s going on?” he asked Eddie.

  “Got frags buried all over,” said Eddie. “Coupla guys get behind the beaner, fire at his heels to keep him movin’, and we see if he can run the street without triggerin’ a frag. He don’t move fast ’nough, the boys’ll wax him.” He grinned, but sounded more tense than enthusiastic.

  Debora leaned close, whispered, “I’m going to stop it.”

  “No, don’t.” He caught her arm.

  “We can’t let them do this!” she said. “I don’t care if…”

  “You better care,” he said. “You better just leave it alone. We can’t save everybody. All right?”

  Ruy was looking at them with interest.

  “All right?” Mingolla repeated, and Debora gave a resentful nod, looked away.

  Tully sidled over, Corazon at his side, and said, “I can’t touch ’em, Davy. Can you do somethin’?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “What you talkin’ ’bout?” said Bobby Boy.

  “Just talkin’,” said Tully. “Ain’t you got not’in’ better to do dan fuck wit’ dis kid?”

  “Naw,” said Bobby Boy mildly. “Not a goddamn thing.” He was almost as tall as Tully, with broader shoulders, and Mingolla thought Tully was a little afraid.

  “Buncha damn chickenshits, mon,” said Tully. “Fuckin’ wit’ a kid.”

  “You could be next, nigger.” Bobby Boy went eye to eye with him. “How ’bout that?”

  “Watch your mouth, man!” Eddie stood and shoved Bobby Boy back from Tully.

  Ruy tapped Debora’s arm. “Can’t you do anything?”

  She turned a bitter glance on Mingolla, then said, “No.”

  “Hey,” said Bobby Boy. “One of y’all ’splain to Frito how it’s gonna be.”

  Again Mingolla did the interpreting.

  The kid glared at him with stony hatred. Bobby Boy, his eyes aglitter in the moonlight, gave the kid an affectionate pat. “I know y’can do it, Frito. Don’t lemme down.”

  Two soldiers led the kid toward the start of the course at the base of the hill about a hundred yards away, and he kept staring back over his shoulder at Mingolla as if he alone were responsible.

  “Hee-hee,” said Bobby Boy. “This gonna be good!”

  “Does he have a chance?” Debora asked.

  “Slim,” said Eddie. “Frags all over, and they be drivin’ him toward ’em with fire. He be runnin’ too quick to be lookin’.”

  Tully looked dubiously at Mingolla, and Corazon added the eerie weight of her stare. Mingolla fixed his eyes on the three figures at the base of the hill, the two soldiers in their moonstruck helmets, the kid a darker and less distinct figure between them.

  “Let’s do ’er!” Sebo shouted. “Get outta my way, Bobby Boy! I can’t see shit!”

  With a mean glance at Sebo, Bobby Boy shuffled to the left.

  The two soldiers at the end of the road shoved the kid forward and fired bursts behind him; the kid sprinted left toward a gap in the wreckage, but more fire cut off his escape, set one of the crumpled huts to burning. He came zig-zagging down the street, eyes to the ground, bullets throwing up dirt at his heels. Bobby Boy whooped, and Sebo was babbling. Debora buried her face in
Mingolla’s shoulder, but Mingolla, full of self-loathing at his lack of moral strength, his pragmatic convictions, forced himself to watch. The kid tripped, went rolling, and Mingolla hoped one of the grenades would explode and end this cruelty. Gunfire pinned the kid down. He crawled, scrambled to his feet, was knocked sideways as a bullet detonated a grenade at his rear; he teetered beside a little mound of dirt, nearly stepped on it, but leaped aside. The soldiers followed him, their fire coming closer and closer. Eddie shifted up and down on his heels, cheering in secret, and Bobby Boy was giving out with breathy yeahs and shaking a balled fist, and Sebo was leaning forward, intent, his wound forgotten, and the stuttering fire was instilling a fierce tension in the air around them, and the kid sprawled, scrabbled, jittered, appearing to be moved by an invisible finger that pushed him in a dozen lucky directions, keeping him inches away from the little mounds of dirt with their gleaming seeds. It was as if he were doing a magical arm-waving dance, as if he were a crazy spirit from the heyday of the village, from the time when the sapling walls of the huts were freshly skinned and yellow, the thatch green and full of juice, and pigs were stealing mangos from the children’s plates, and even in the worst of times the men would gather around the well and smoke cigarettes that they bought for a penny apiece at the store on the hilltop and boast about the milk cows they planned to buy once the crops were in, and it really seemed the kid was going to make it, not only make it—Mingolla thought—but that his mad spinning run was carving a secret design that would resurrect the old gone days, the days before the war, bring the gray wreckage into order, and restore it to color and motion and life, and everything would begin again, and the soldiers would vanish, and Mingolla would be a child dreaming of some unimaginable sweetness…But then the kid stopped running. Stopped dead less than fifty feet from the end of the course. The firing broke off, and Mingolla knew that the soldiers harrowing him must be thunderstruck by this sudden turn. The kid was breathing hard, his chest heaving, but his face was calm. Dark chips of eyes, mouth firmed and stoic. Looking at him, Mingolla believed he could see his thoughts. He realized that somewhere along the way the kid had understood that it didn’t matter whether he made it, that the course he was negotiating was one that had been negotiated for centuries by his countrymen, a device of excess and oppression, a bloody game for amused profit takers, and he just didn’t see any reason to continue. Maybe the kid didn’t know all this in words, maybe in his own mind he had simply reached a point of exhaustion and malaise, a point that Mingolla himself had reached from time to time. But that knowledge was in him, enervating, heavy as stone. He wasn’t going to run another foot, he was going to stand there, and by standing gain the only victory he could.