Ironclad

by Daniel Foster

  “That ain’t an oyster,” Pun’kin protested, taking Garret’s side. “I eat chitlins and I wouldn’t eat nothin’ that looks like that.”

  It was Butterworth’s turn to laugh. He was lying on the sand now, propped up on an elbow. In Garret’s estimation, he was trying to look like he knew it all. “I’ll eat it,” he said.

  “You can go get your own,” Velvet grunted in return, bracing the oyster against his stomach so he could use both hands to try to drive the blade into it. “There’s a reef right out there,” he pointed out towards the water.

  “Throw it on the fire,” Fishy suggested. “It might open up by itself.”

  Velvet shrugged and tossed the ugly looking grey thing onto the coals. That was undoubtedly better than stabbing himself in the stomach, which was probably where his previous plan was headed.

  “It’s easier to open them at the hinge.”

  They all looked up. It was Captain Maxwell who’d said it. He was coming back into the fire. Garret hadn’t noticed him leave. He had his shirt in one hand, closed up as if it was a satchel. It didn’t look like he had anything in it, but it looked stiff, as though he’d starched it while it was full of wrinkles.

  Two of the Germans, Garret thought their names were Klaus and Otto, had the huge fish laid out on a small tarp from the boat. They had cut its head off and gutted it, but they’d left the fillets attached to the spine and they’d run a stick up along it.

  “Is that going to work?” Maxwell asked.

  Otto shrugged and said in broken English, “I farm.” He hooked his thumb at his companion. “His family baker.”

  Maxwell opened the shirt without comment and began shaking it over the fish, dusting it with whatever was on the inside of it.

  Salt, Garret realized. He’s somehow gotten his shirt covered with sea salt.

  Otto and one of the other German guys (Otto called him Klaus) hung the fish over the fire on a spit to roast. Within moments, the tangy smell of salted fish oil began to fill the air. Behind them, the surf ebbed and flowed in its simple, endless song.

  “Why won’t anybody tell me Curtis’s nickname?” Burl asked out of the blue.

  They sobered and eventually Velvet said with a touch of Bostonian accent, “It’s not respectful, now that he’s gone.”

  But Fishy sighed and said, “I called him Web. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Webster,” Garret amended.

  Juice from the fish dripped into the fire, making it sizzle and pop.

  “Why?” Burl asked.

  Fishy turned away. Garret sighed in aggravation. “Because he couldn’t read, Burl.”

  The quiet German with the dark eyes poked at the fish, testing its soundness, then adjusted it on the spit.

  Fishy smiled, then laughed aloud. “Do you guys remember the time he made Twitch read his letter from home to him?”

  Velvet joined in the laughter and Garret grinned. Velvet said, “He made Twitch wear a set of gun mufflers over his ears so he couldn’t hear what he was reading.”

  They all laughed, but it was meant in kindness. They all missed Curtis, and as they enjoyed the warmth of the memory, maybe his nickname became something to remember, rather than something to be ashamed of.

  “Why did he have Twitch read it?” Burl asked.

  Garret hadn’t thought of that before, but it was a reasonable question. All of them could read, and Twitch and Curtis weren’t particularly close.

  Velvet’s smile became a little sad. “Because Twitch never made fun of him.”

  Fishy shook his head. “Me and you sure did. Charlie didn’t either, though.”

  He’d called him Charlie instead of Sweet Cheeks. Twitch’s nickname survived his death. Charlie’s didn’t. Neither did Theo’s.

  I wonder why, Garret thought.

  “We don’t talk about Charlie much,” Velvet said.

  They all sat there for a second, quietly.

  “That’s because Twitch was the only one who really knew him,” Fishy said.

  “We all knew ‘im,” Pun’kin insisted. “He was one of us!”

  Fishy lifted his shoulders. “He was hard to get to know. I mean, he was with us all the time, but did you ever feel like you really got to know him?”

  Garret felt bad. I kinda did, but that’s because I read his letter and I shouldn’t have. God why did I do that?

  “It’s not our fault,” Fishy said. “I mean maybe we could have tried harder, but he made his choices.”

  “I would have liked to have known him,” Burl said.

  Garret felt guilty. If I don’t admit this now, I might not get another good chance. “He had a girl,” Garret confessed. “I think her name was May.”

  “He told you that, but none of us?” Fishy asked, offended.

  Garret cringed.

  Velvet squinted at him. Pun’kin was lost. Fishy blinked. “You read his letter?”

  Garret nodded.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Fishy said.

  “I know.”

  “What did it say?” Burl asked quietly.

  “Not much,” Garret replied with a sigh. “He told his Ma how much he loved her, and told his brother not to be mean to his sister. Then he asked his mother to tell May he wanted to marry her.”

  “He wanted to marry her?” Fishy asked, surprised.

  Garret nodded again. “But then he changed his mind and asked his Ma not to tell her that.”

  “I wonder what she’s like,” Velvet said.

  The conversation lapsed. The fire popped and crackled. Fish oil hissed on the coals.

  “Do ya think it’s true?” Pun’kin asked. “What the Chief said.”

  Fishy gave a wan smile. “The Chief says a lot of things, and I think most of it’s bullshit.”

  “I mean what he said about dying,” Pun’kin said, subdued. “The white rose and all that.”

  Garret looked at Velvet, who looked at Fishy. Burl absently touched the burned side of his face.

  Fishy laid back, arms behind his head, removing himself from the conversation.

  Eventually, Velvet replied. “I don’t know Pun’kin, maybe it is.”

  Eating roasted fish with fingers and Navy knives was a messy business, but they managed. The potatoes weren’t easy either. Somebody had thrown a sack of them into the boat instead of the extra hardtack they were supposed to bring, but not even Maxwell had said a reprimanding word. Mainly because there was also butter.

  Klaus came up with a way of spearing the potatoes on a stick without splitting them, and then roasting them over the fire until the skins crisped and the butter melted through the insides, turning them golden and sickeningly rich. Everybody burned at least a couple fingers while gorging themselves, but again, there were no complaints. The fish was light and delicate, more like a bass than any ocean fish Garret had eaten, though admittedly, he hadn’t eaten many. It was also steaming, salty, and so tender than it fell apart as they ate.

  “So that was Yankee fish and chips,” Butterworth muttered as they all laid back on the sand, cradling their bulging stomachs. “I’ve ‘ad worse.”

  “I forgot about the oyster,” Velvet said sluggishly. No one cared enough to reply.

  Maxwell had disappeared again, this time taking Lieutenant Bartram with him. The fire popped and warmed Garret’s bare feet. The constant beach wind ruffled his hair on the sand, and he laid there and looked up at one of the clearest skies he’d ever seen. The eternal velvet was pregnant with stars. More stars than he’d ever seen. They seemed to give the entire sky a twinkling glow. Burl had a thin arm up above him, using his fingers to frame the stars.

  Pun’kin belched sonorously. The fire popped. A gull cried somewhere nearby. The surf rolled, a numbing eternal crashing. The Germans spoke in muted tones on their side of the fire.

  “Are we ever going to see the chief again?” The question was so soft it had to be from Burl.

  Garret blink
ed in surprise as he lay on the sand. He hadn’t thought of that. They would probably never see him again.

  “Damn,” Fishy swore somewhere nearby. It was slurred by all the food filling his abdomen, and by drowsiness.

  “We didn’t even get to tell him goodbye,” Burl said.

  “You guys didn’t even tell your chief goodbye?” Butterworth asked blearily. He snorted at them.

  “Barney,” Fishy crabbed, awakening. “What would you care, you were trying to rip everybody’s balls off.”

  Velvet sounded a bit stunned. “I guess that’s it then. Kearsarge is gone and we’re here. We may never see any of them.”

  “Don’t be a stick in the mud,” Pun’kin said. “We’ll see ‘im again.”

  “I’m going to miss Bert,” Velvet said.

  After a moment, grunts of assent went round. Everyone would miss Bert.

  “I’ll miss seeing him get stuck in stuff,” Pun’kin said happily.

  Fishy yawned. “You and Barney should bunk together.”

  “Mate, if you call me Barney one more time—” Butterworth began.

  “You’ll do what, Barney? Run away and cry?” Fishy spread his arms on the beach. “You really had a thing for ripping everyone’s balls off, so if you don’t like Barney, we could call you Ball Boy.”

  “How about Testicle Tom?” Velvet offered.

  “Naddy Ned!” Pun’kin yelled.

  “Bloody Yanks,” Butterworth muttered.

  “They wouldn’t tease you if they didn’t like you,” Burl said quietly. That reduced Butterworth to a still churlish, but somewhat more companionable silence.

  Everyone else was bored of the topic.

  “Tell us about sex,” Pun’kin said to Garret. “I mean, you’re married, right?”

  “And you have a baby,” Velvet put in languidly. “So we know you know all about it.”

  Butterworth gave an exaggerated eye roll. “You want him to tell you how to bollick—”

  Fishy was pursing his lips so as not to grin, but he said, “Yeah, Lover Boy. Time to live up to your name.”

  Garret considered it. He had never told anyone about sex with Molly. He guarded their intimacy jealously, to the point that she seemed to find it amusing. As if telling his friends about it would somehow profane it. But now, he was surprised to find that most of his reticence had gone from him, bled away somewhere into the ocean over the last few months.

  He sat up and thought about it for a second. “My wife’s name is Molly,” he said.

  “Yeah, we know that part,” Pun’kin encouraged. “What else?”

  “I like the way she takes her clothes off,” Garret said.

  Fishy rolled over on his elbows, head to the side, eyes narrowed, but with interest.

  “Most of the time, we take each other’s clothes off, and I like doing that,” Garret said. “But sometimes she pushes me towards the bed, and then stands in the window.”

  Pun’kin guffawed, “For everybody to see?”

  Garret grinned and shook his head. “She only does it at night, when the moon’s up, and the closest neighbor is a mile down the road anyhow. So she’s like a… what do you call it?”

  “A silhouette?” Velvet offered, paying rapt attention. Everyone had sat up now, though Pun’kin struggled to do it around his engorged belly.

  “That’s it, a silhouette.” Garret was starting to get an erection as he visualized her. He discreetly glanced at his pants. Eh, the way I’m sitting should hide it.

  “I guess she plans it ahead of time when she’s going to do it, because she’s already taken off whatever underwear she had on. She starts unbuttoning her blouse, she always wears one that unbuttons down the front when she’s gonna do it. I think she arches her back or something, because she unbuttons it real slow, one button at a time, and her breasts kinda seem to get bigger, like they’re filling her blouse up until they roll out like they’re too much for the dress to handle. God, it’s awesome. Then she starts on her skirt.”

  “How do you just sit there?” Burl asked.

  “It’s kind of a game,” Garret said. “To see how long I can stay on the bed. Most of the time I don’t make it past her skirt coming down. But if I can make it all the way, then she does something extra special to me before we really get started.”

  “What’s that,” Velvet asked leaning in.

  Garret stopped and considered. No, that is just for me and Molly.

  Garret grinned wickedly, “That’s just between me and her. That’s enough for tonight. You guys should get some sleep. Heh heh. If you can.”

  Pun’kin sputtered. Velvet’s mouth fell open. Butterworth shook his head.

  Feeling smug and satisfied, Garret rolled over away from them at an odd angle and damn near broke his erection.

  Garret awoke with a start. He pushed himself up on his elbows on the pebbles. Something was wrong. Everyone else still lay asleep, just as he had left them when he closed his eyes. He and his friends were spread out beneath a tarp. The Germans were similarly arrayed on the opposite side of the fire, or at least, three of them were. One of them was standing sentry duty a few feet away. Lieutenant Bartram was asleep under his uniform jacket, but oddly curled, like a child. Maxwell was nowhere to be seen.

  Nothing was out of place, but something was wrong. What happened to the sound of the ocean? It’s… gone. There hadn’t been much surf when they’d arrived, just a playful rolling of the last few feet of water onto the sand. But now there was none. Not a sound. The sea had gone dead.

  Actually, for all Garret knew, the ocean might not have been there at all. A few feet outside of the circle, the night faded to black. It lent a feel of confinement, as though the darkness would be thick enough to touch, and might stain his skin if he reached into it.

  Garret hastily checked Pun’kin and Burl because they were sleeping to either side of him. He laid a hand on each of their necks. They were warm, but their breathing was slow. Garret’s heart sped up as he crawled from beneath the tarp and scrambled to Butterworth, who was next in line.

  He checked Butterworth and Fishy with frantic hands. As he did so, their breathing continued to slow. Each breath susurrated long and shallow. Garret shook Burl, shook him hard, even though he suspected it would do no good. It didn’t. Right before Garret began to whimper, he noticed what he should have noticed the moment he awoke. The fire.

  Garret stared at the blaze, and felt a prickle down the back of his neck. The fire was slowing. Not burning low, but physically slowing. The coal bed was glowing various shades of yellow and orange, but the shimmers between the colors lengthened until each cycle of wax and wane took five seconds, then ten. The flames still writhed their way up out of the logs, but their dance decelerated until the tongues of flame looked more like glowing orange blades, gently blooming, forking, then gradually dying back.

  Garret slipped his index and middle finger to the side of Burl’s trachea. He felt nothing for a moment, then came Burl’s pulse. Instead of a rhythmic thud, Burl’s pulse came as a gentle swelling of the vein beneath Garret’s fingertips. Instead of tapping his fingers with a staccato beat, it passed under them like a slow ripple on a pond. Burl’s heart beat once more in a protracted push through the vein, then the flames stopped.

  They stood there, glowing, twisted over and around each other, curved and forked, fanned and feathered. It was the most delicate sculpture ever made, and it gave light. It was beautiful, and terrifying.

  Garret was being watched. The feeling was coming from behind him, but he knew what it was, because he could also see it in front of him, across the fire and far away. Two burning orb eyes had opened in the darkness. Then there were two more to his left. Then four more to his right. He also felt the weight of their gaze from behind.

  Garret took his hands off of Burl. Garret’s breathing was shallow and fast. The hellhounds had nearly killed him last time. One of them had bitten his arm. It still wasn’t fully healed. Fr
ight was beginning to weaken him. Garret glanced at his friends, warm and alive, but still as death. He couldn’t protect them. He couldn’t even protect himself.

  Can I lead them away?

  Without a sound, they came at him, all at once. The hellhounds moved with preternatural swiftness and grace. Garret spun and stood, slow and awkward by comparison. His premonition had been correct; the hounds behind him were the closest. One of them had already leaped, its mouth open, its long teeth backlit by the hellish glow coming out of its throat. Garret barely had time to gain his feet before it hit him and closed its jaws on his forearm, again.

  The impact of the hound’s body didn’t hurt, but the teeth driven into his flesh made him scream. They seared like hot iron.

  Under the hellhound’s weight, he fell back, landing in the middle of the fire, but it didn’t stop him, or burn him, or anything else he would have expected. The fire gave way beneath him, falling through as if into a pit. Cinders, ashes, and burning logs, reignited by their contact with the hellhounds, fell with him.

  Garret flipped and tumbled, prying at the hellhound’s muzzle with his free hand. It was biting down so hard Garret thought it was going to crush the bones in his arm. Its teeth were grinding against the cold wire that ran from his finger to his heart, making the invisible cold ring tighten around his finger, and tugging on the hook in his heart, making it stumble and flutter.

  As Garret fell, he saw the other hell hounds, perhaps a dozen of them, leaping into the pit to follow him down. Cinders rained with them. Garret struck the hellhound with all his fear and all the wolf strength he could call up, punching it on the end of the nose. As the same time, he saw a branch, or maybe a root sticking out of the dark soil of the pit. He made a desperate grab and snagged it. It arrested his fall with a jerk, making his recently broken shoulder flare with pain.

  Garret screamed, kicking at the hell hound with all his might, raining blows onto its body. Despite its appearance: all the trailing shadows and glowing eyes and heart, it felt like a strong, but otherwise normal dog when he kicked it.

  After a moment of pounding, the hellhound released him and fell away, though it seemed reluctant to do so. The other hounds fell past him, but they all fell like cats, gracefully arcing and flipping their bodies to realign them. They weren’t realigning themselves to the bottom of the pit, if it had a bottom. They were realigning themselves with the sides.