Bullets flew toward her.
"Etty, get down!"
But she kept firing. And George gripped the wheel. The jeeps ahead had stopped. He hit the brakes. They rumbled to a halt, and Etty fell, and the bullets were everywhere, and she screamed, and blood pounded in George's head. Pounding. Pounding. Beating inside him. Beating like he beat the drums in Symphonica's basement so far from here. Etty looked at him, blood on her forehead, fear in her eyes. And George howled.
He leaped out the jeep.
He stood on the roadside.
He raised his rifle and saw the enemy ahead. They were only a few feet away. Three of them, standing in the ditch. Bahayans. Gaunt, fierce, death in their eyes.
They aimed their guns at him. And George was back there. Back at school as the bullies tormented him. Back at home as his father beat him, called him a freak. Back at boot camp as Clay Hagen brutalized him.
And George howled.
He pulled the trigger, firing on automatic.
One Bahayan fell.
Another.
Bullets slammed into the jeep and the dirt road around George. One bullet hit his chest, cracking an armored plate, plowing a wedge of agony across his ribs. Another bullet shattered the armor on his shin, nearly cracking the bone. But George stayed on his feet. And he kept firing. Kept screaming. And the third Bahayan fell.
George stood there, panting, shaking. Staring at three men he had killed. But they were barely more than boys. Younger than him. The youngest barely looked older than twelve.
It was the first time George had ever killed.
The battle only lasted a few moments longer. Earth's superior firepower finished the job quickly.
George looked around him. At the blood. The bullet casings. A dead corporal beside him, a friend George had just played poker with last night.
He shook. He could not breathe. When Jon tapped his shoulder, George jumped.
He spun toward his friends. Jon and Etty faced him, eyes soft.
"George?" Etty whispered. "Are you okay? You got shot in the chest." She touched his dented battlesuit. "That shot could knock down a water buffalo."
George managed a shaky smile. "I'm bigger than one."
Then he had to run around the jeep. He fell to his knees and vomited and wept.
That night, the army camped deep in northern territory. A place where the jungles still grew. A place of danger and savage dark beauty.
Planes had flown here throughout the war, bombing, carving a road through the forest. The soldiers called it the Fire Road, and you could see it from space—a long scar through the rainforest, splitting the world.
The armored vehicles parked along this stretch of ash and death. They would not move again until dawn, and everybody found something to do. Sappers raised metal barricades along the road, while other soldiers lit campfires. Boxes of battle rations were ripped open. Soldiers began to eat and drink. Somebody played a harmonica, and soldiers sang old songs of Earth. Many soldiers sat silently, staring into the flames, while others gazed at photos of loved ones. A few soldiers were quietly weeping. One sergeant, his leg freshly amputated, leaned against a log, puffing on a pipe and reading a book. A petite private with a long, blond braid hugged a stuffed animal, whispering to the fuzzy bear. A turbaned NCO with a glorious white mustache was brewing coffee in a decorative silver pot. Younger soldiers gathered around him, partaking in the ritual, sipping the aromatic brew from silver cups barely larger than thimbles.
There were so many stories here. Thousands of souls, each with their own fears and loves, their homes waiting back on Earth. Soldiers from hundreds of countries and cultures. Soldiers from the glittering towers of New York City, from the rolling farmlands of Manitoba, from Mexican villages and Brazilian favelas. Soldiers from the icy plains of the subarctic and the golden deserts of Africa. Soldiers from the underground cities of Siberia and soldiers from ancient temples on misty mountains. At boot camp, the sergeants had tried to break them, to crush their individuality, to turn them into machines. But here spread a panoply of humanity.
George stood in the camp. Silent. Still. Everything spun around him.
"Hey, Georgie!" a corporal cried. "Join us for a drink? We got grape juice and can pretend it's wine!"
A private slapped him on the back. "Hey, it's George the Giant, slit slayer extraordinaire! Heard you killed three slits today. Popped your cherry, huh?"
Even Lieutenant Carter walked by and gave George a nod. "Good job, Private Williams. Killed three Kennys, did you? I always knew you had it in you. I'm proud of you. I see a promotion in your future."
They were all there. Patting him on the back. Celebrating his kills. They all spun around him, their faces blending together, becoming demonic, deformed, all laughing, eyes everywhere.
And he saw their faces.
The faces of the three Bahayans he had killed. Skinny young faces. Just boys.
And George couldn't take it.
He barreled between his fellow soldiers and stumbled toward the forest.
He shoved his way through the brush, ripping vines, ferns, and curtains of moss, banging into trees, moving deeper and deeper into the darkness. He left the campfires behind. He left the sounds of laughter. The taunting faces. The laughter and slaps on the back.
All light faded. He moved by touch alone. The rainforest wrapped around him, and his eyes stung, and animals scurried and hooted and hissed around him. Finally he tripped over something, perhaps a root, and fell down hard in the darkness.
George lay on the forest floor, panting, tears in his eyes.
The rainforest closed on him like a coffin. The humid air was like a living being, swallowing him, digesting him. The darkness wrapped around him like a shroud. When George placed his hands on the soft soil, he was touching the faces of the dead men. His fingers sank into cheeks, eye sockets, brains. He pulled his hands back, alarmed, and fell onto his side. But now they were gazing from above. Ghostly wisps of mist. Staring with accusing eyes.
You shot us.
You murdered us.
We are just boys.
You are condemned.
"Go away," George whispered.
Creatures hooted in the darkness. Ghosts moaned.
You're a murderer.
"Go away!" George howled.
He stood up, trembling. He still could see nothing. He pawed blindly in the forest, hit a tree, and banged his nose. He stumbled back, slammed into another tree. He grabbed at branches, tugged, tore them free. The wood snapped. He stood in the forest, clutching the broken branches like spears, and howled.
He began to beat the sticks against the trees. Again and again. Pounding at everything in the darkness.
"Go away!" he roared, thrashing the ghosts. "Leave me! I didn't mean to." He wept. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry…"
He found something hard in the dark, maybe a boulder. He began to beat it with his sticks. Banging again and again like banging on a drum. Back home in Lindenville, whenever the pain grew too great, he would beat his drums. He had broken several drum kits. Jon would play his keyboards, and Paul the guitar, but George had always been a drummer. Always been one to beat his fury into sound.
At school—always so meek, the gentle giant, taunted and beaten by the bullies. At home—so afraid, shrinking as his father railed. But in the basement, with his drums, the beast came out. And now the beast roared in the jungle, and George pounded the boulder until both branches shattered, and he kept pounding with his fists until they bled.
Finally he fell to his knees. He knelt, head lowered, fists bleeding. And he realized he could see. A light shone from behind.
George spun around and squinted. A ball of light glowed in the air.
A Santelmo!
He raised his gun. "Hold back!"
Two huge green eyes gleamed in the dark. George frowned. A tarsier?
"Whoa, whoa! Georgie, cool it! It's me."
George squinted and lowered his rifle. "Etty?"
She came closer. The light
was coming from her flashlight. Her helmet was askew, and her black hair spilled from the sides. Her eyes shone like two lanterns.
"Yes, it's Etty!" she said. "What did ya think, that I'm a tarsier? Yeah, I get that sometimes. I just came to make sure you're okay. And that you don't destroy the entire rainforest."
George managed a weak smile. "I had to blow off some steam."
Etty stepped closer, dropped her flashlight, and pulled him into an embrace. He held her close. Her head only came halfway up his chest, and he wrapped her in his arms, protecting her, giving her his strength, and taking strength from her.
I'm four times her size, he thought, but we're both full souls. And hers shines brighter than her eyes.
"I know it's hard," Etty whispered. "I'm so sorry this happened to you."
"I killed them, Etty," he said. "They were just boys. But I had to. They were firing on you and Jon. I had to protect you."
She caressed his cheek. "They were firing on you too, you know."
George snorted. "They hit me too! I'm big and tough. I can take it. But you and Jon, well… you're so little. I was always so ashamed of being so big, Etty. So I tried to make myself very small. I hunched over a lot. I sat in a lot of corners. I thought there was something wrong with being so big. But here in Bahay? Let me use my size. To keep the little ones safe."
Etty hopped up, grabbed his shoulders, and tugged him downward. "Ugh! Get down here, ya' big idiot!"
He knelt before her, coming to eye level, and Etty kissed his cheek and mussed his hair. "You're a giant sweetie."
George looked into her eyes. "Etty, I would love to take you to the pub. Just you and me. A date. Will you go with me?"
She grinned. "Of course, you big galoot. I'd love to." She lifted her flashlight and pointed the beam at the shattered branches. "By the way, you're an excellent drummer."
"I even broke my drumsticks!" George said. "That's how badass I am. Just like Keith Moon."
She tilted her head. "Keith who?"
George grinned. "I have some things to teach you. Come on, Etty. I'll walk you back to camp."
She looked around her. "I dunno. I kinda like it here in the rainforest. What say we sleep here? Hell, beats sleeping on the dirt road with thousands of soldiers drooling and farting all around us."
George raised an eyebrow. "And if we oversleep and the army rides without us?"
She shrugged. "So we'll stay here forever. We'll live like Adam and Eve in the forest."
"Deal!"
They found a soft patch of moss and fallen leaves, and they lay down. George lay on his back beneath the rustling canopy, and Etty curled up against him. She slept in his arms, her breath soft against his chest. George stayed awake a while longer. He gazed up at the night, and he saw a thousand little lights, spinning, floating like fireflies. He didn't know if they were Santelmos or some luminous bug of the forest, but they were beautiful, and he felt that he floated among the stars. He stared at the lights, trying to forget the faces of the three boys.
Chapter Nine
Shantytown Blues
Maria sat in the alleyway, listening to the orphans tell their tales.
Her camera rolled.
One child sat before her on an overturned plastic bin. He wore rags, and mud coated his bare feet. All around him spread the despair of the slums. Walls of rotting plywood topped with tarpaulin lined the alleyway, forming crude shanties. Trash covered the road, and rats scurried. Tangled webs of electric cables sagged above, nearly hiding the sky, buzzing.
The boy, one among a million who lived on the streets of Mindao, gazed into the camera with huge dark eyes.
"I lived in a village. A green village. There were farms. Rice and trees. And there was always food, and I ate it all, and my mom made the food, but then the bad guys came. The bad guys from Earth. Planes roared in the sky. Roar. Roar! Like that. And the bad guys flew them. And they dropped bombs on our village, and there was fire everywhere, and my mom died, and I saw her, and I said to her: Wake up, wake up! But she didn't wake up. Because the bad guys from Earth burned her until she was dead." His tears flowed. "That's what my cousins say. I want her to come back to me. Maybe someday she'll come back to me."
Maria shed tears too. She recorded every word.
The bargirls had pooled their money. The girls who took shabu, a drug to dull the pain, scaled back their habit for a few days, collecting more money than they ever had. Other girls took coins from secret stashes under floorboards. Some hustled, dancing in one club, pleasing men in the other, working harder than ever. A few, Maria had a feeling, picked pockets.
Twelve bargirls. The Bargirl Bureau. With their combined savings, they bought a single small camera. A precious weapon for their war.
With this little camera, Maria thought, we will bring down President Hale. With these stories, we will free Bahay.
She walked by the river. Many women were there, sifting through the trash, trying to find scraps to bring home. The sun beat down, and the garbage rotted, and children scurried over the hills of decay.
"The Earthlings came to my village," said a woman, her braid hanging across her shoulder, her eyes sunken into nests of wrinkles. "They killed the men. Then the elders. They raped the women before they killed the children. I had five children. Now I'm here in Mindao alone, trying to find food, to feed the orphans who live here. The farms are gone. The forests are gone. There are some scraps. The Earthling army dumps their garbage here. We sift through it, eat what we can, fix what is broken. We survive."
Maria sat on a concrete staircase behind a bar. The concrete was stained, crumbling, and stray cats hissed. An overpass stretched overhead, rumbling with jeepneys, mopeds, and the odd truck. A girl sat on the steps, wearing flip-flops and rags. She held a baby. Toddlers lay behind her, too weak to even brush off the flies.
"My name is Nina," the girl said. "I'm twelve. The Earthlings flew over my village. They rained fire. Many people died, but I escaped, and I took my brothers and sisters with me. My parents were too slow and they burned. I burned too." She turned around, pulled up her shirt, and showed scars on her back. "I walked for weeks before I reached Mindao. One of my brothers died on the road. He was so hungry. He starved. Now Earthlings visit me here in the alley. They sleep with me. And they pay me."
"Why do you do this?" Maria whispered from behind the camera.
The girl looked into the camera. "So that I can buy food for my little brothers and sisters, and maybe someday, I can send one of them to school. And he or she can get an education. Find a good job. Feed the rest of the family. I'll be dead by then. The Earthlings gave me some disease. They put it between my legs, and the old healer lady by the river said I'll die in a few years. But maybe I can make enough money to save my family."
Maria walked along the Blue Boulevard strip, a thousand neon signs shining around her. Purples, blues, yellows, a psychedelic galaxy, glittering and promising endless delights. They were all in English, sometimes misspelled, calling out to Earthlings.
Angles of Holywood Dance Club
Bottoms Up: Come All Earthlings
Paradise Lost: Beer from Erth, Girls from Bahay
Pinoy Pleasure: Find You're Princess
Arabian Nights: The Most Exotic Dancers
Go Go Cowgirl: Midget Boxing Tonight!
Shabu Secrets: We Won't Tell
Manila Nights: Brekfast & Girl In Bed
Maria sat inside one of these glittering dens, hiding in the shadows, recording. A young soldier from Earth sat before her, holding a beer, not drinking. Strippers danced around him, but he didn't even watch. He was too timid to even look into Maria's camera. But he spoke. He told his story.
"The Kennys dug pits, filled them with spikes, and hid them with grass. The booby traps killed three of our men. We could never catch the Kennys, but our lieutenant, he said they came from a village nearby. We went there. There were no men. The men were all in the jungles, fighting, or dead. There was a school, maybe fifty kids insid
e, just a little building of bamboo, and I could see the kids in there. Little bamboo desks and a blackboard. Somebody had drawn two suns and two moons on the board. Just kids, you know? But our lieutenant said they'll become Kennys someday, and that Kennys were probably hiding in the walls, and he told us to shoot. He told us to shoot and kill them all. So we shot." The soldier finally looked into the camera, but he seemed to be staring ten thousand miles away. "We shot them all. We shot the ghosts in the walls. We shot the kids. Every last one. I shot them. I shot them. Oh God, I shot them."
He lowered his head, weeping. Maria filmed his tears.
* * * * *
Finally, at dawn, Maria returned to Charlie's apartment. The rest of the Bargirl Bureau gathered there. They had been twelve members yesterday. Tonight they were eighteen.
"I recruited more girls at the Bottoms Up club," said Pippi. The tiny girl wore an even tinier schoolgirl uniform. Her pigtails were dyed bright orange, and she had drawn freckles on her face. She had come straight from dancing at the club. "They all want to help."
"I was made to understand there would be free wine here," said one of the new bargirls.
Her friend elbowed her hard. "Shut up, Joyce. We're here to help Holy Maria defeat the putes, not indulge your endless thirst."
Joyce crossed her arms, looked at Maria, and scrunched her lips. "Is that really the Holy Maria, the one they said shot a Kalayaan in the titi, and he got so angry that his skull exploded, and his brain fell out?"
"Yes, it's her!" said another girl. "You know she slept with ten men in the club, but somehow, she's still a virgin. She's blessed by Jesus."
Another girl snorted. "No she's not! Don't be silly. It's her baby who's holy. They say that a pute fucked her in the bottom, but she still got pregnant." The girl waved her arms in the air. "It's a miracle!"
The girls all laughed. Maria sighed.
"We're here to win the war," Maria said. "Not to get drunk and tell jokes."
But Charlie was already popping open a few bottles of wine, pilfered from the clubs. The girls began to drink.
Earthlings (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 2) Page 7
