Maybe it was the hangover, or maybe it was just a breathtakingly rare moment of brazen honesty, but when Velvet replied to the Lieutenant, his voice was so toneless that he sounded bored. “Sir, we slept here all night. We went to sleep with them all around. If they wanted to kill us, they would have already—”
“This was Mlada Bosna, you fucking child!” Bartram screamed. “That means Young Bosnia! They were here to gather information from you! Information on us, on the mission. Believe men, gentlemen, if you want to live, you will tell me every idle word you spoke to them, but not now. We are leaving right now on the off-chance we might yet survive your stupidity!”
“Sir, what about Fishy?” Garret asked.
“He’s probably lying dead in the woods,” Bartram yelled.
Panic seized Garret, and he saw Velvet stiffen beside him. “We’ve got to find him!”
“We will do no such thing, seaman!”
“What about Burl?” Pun’kin put in.
“Leave him.” Bartram said flatly.
“We can’t leave ‘im!” Pun’kin protested. “He’s sick, he might die!”
Veins stood out in Bartram’s neck and even in his forehead. “Then you should have thought of that before you decided to desert your posts!”
Velvet relaxed out of attention. “We’re not leaving them sir,” he said. “Either of them.”
“You will do as I command, sailor, or—”
“Or what, you’ll shoot us?” Velvet asked blandly. He turned and headed towards the place that Burl lay. Garret and Pun’kin were right with him.
“Stop, or I will shoot!” Bartram raged.
They all knelt around Burl. Garret’s heart skipped a beat. Burl’s skin was pallid and he was laying in such a boneless slump that it looked as if he had no muscle tension at all. A trickled of blood had run from one of his nostrils and dried down his cheek. More of it had dried in the dirt.
As they knelt there aghast, Burl coughed again. This time it brought blood to his lips, and a fresh trickle ran out his nose and dribbled to the dirt as well.
“What’s happenin’ to ‘im,” Pun’kin said. It was almost a whine.
Velvet looked as floored as Garret felt. Garret flapped his lips for a few seconds, then managed, “Guys, Fishy could be hurt too. One of us needs to find him.”
That snapped Velvet out of his stupor. “You go,” he said. “Find him. We’ll make a stretcher for Burl.”
Garret stood and turned only to see Fishy stumble out of the trees and fall to his knees at the edge of the clearing. He had dried blood down the side of his face.
Garret sprinted to him as best he could. The running made his head pound. “Fishy, you alright?”
“Yeah,” Fishy slurred, irritation and betrayal in his voice.
Garret dropped to a knee beside Fishy and tried to get a look at the injury through Fishy’s hair.
“What happened?”
“Nina… I think,” Fishy replied. “Damn that girl’s fast. Moves like Twitch.”
That’s who she reminded me of. No wonder I didn’t put that together. Then Garret realized something else. Twitch had a lot of training, which means Nina probably does too. That mean’s Bartram’s right. This was a setup.
Fishy was trying to rise on wobbly legs. Garret ducked under Fishy’s arm and grabbed his shoulders. Together, they headed back towards where Velvet and Pun’kin were hastily lashing a field stretcher together out of the two old cloaks and some pine branches.
“Did you hear any of that?” Garret muttered, inclining his head towards Lieutenant Bartram, who was fuming.
“Yeah,” Fishy replied again, gingery touching his head, “But I think I already got the message from Nina. Hey,” Fishy said suddenly, looking up in alarm. “What’s wrong with Burl?”
W
“…And that is the price of your disobedience!” Bartram finished, pointing at Burl.
They were all back in their own camp. Despite Bartram’s ultimatum that they would leave immediately or else, nobody was packing. Garret and his friends huddled in a tense knot around Burl. Bartram stood a few feet away, and there was a good chance that someone, possibly several someones were going to be dead within the next two minutes.
Burl had suddenly worsened on the way, first coughing up alarming amounts of blood, then going into a vomiting fit in which he lost more blood than Garret would have thought he could have contained. At that point, Bartram had tried to use his pistol to force them to leave Burl behind. When Garret stood up in his face, Bartram had grazed Garret’s left arm with a bullet. Everyone had swarmed to Garret’s rescue and it had all gone south for Bartram from there. Garret had resisted the urge to shift and rip Bartram’s throat out, but only barely.
Burl was now propped up against a tree. He had come around enough to ask them to do so. All of them crouched protectively around him, except Fishy who was yelling in Bartram’s face.
“I’ve been drinking since I was eleven years old! My father makes the best whiskey west of the Mississippi, and that,” He pointed at Burl, “is NOT alcohol! You know what’s wrong with Burl, and you’re lying about it! Now tell us what you did!”
“How dare you implicate me, sailor!” Bartram hissed. “This is your doing, you and all of your deserter cohorts, for—”
“You’d just love for us to believe that, wouldn’t you?! Yelling at us and putting on a show when you found us like that! I’ve seen you putting that stuff on Burl’s food twice, you arrogant jackass! I thought it was salt, but you didn’t put it on anybody else’s plate, did you?!”
Bartram froze like a deer at the sound of a distant coyote cry. His hesitation only lasted a second, but they all saw it.
“Lover Boy,” Fishy said, “keep him off of me.”
“No problem,” Garret snarled, moving between Fishy and Bartram. Fishy went straight to Bartram’s pack. Garret had Bartram’s pistol tucked into his waistband, but he didn’t reach for it. If anything needed to be done to restrain Bartram, Garret wanted to do it by hand.
“That’s the property of a senior officer, sailor,” Bartram yelled. “Don’t you dare touch—” As he said it, he took a step towards Garret. Garret took a step towards him. Something on his face stopped Bartram. “I’m ordering you!” Bartram yelled, but he didn’t move any closer to Garret.
Garret was considering tearing him apart anyway. If you’ve hurt Burl on purpose, I swear to God…
Fishy was digging through Bartram’s pack, carelessly slinging items left and right. One of the things was a bayonet. At last he emerged with a small glass vial. He brought it back and the others gathered around. Garret gave Bartram a warning look, then turned to join the others.
Fishy held the vial out on his open palm. “This is what I saw him put on Burl’s food.”
Velvet took the vial and held it up. It was full of small white crystals. It did look a lot like salt.
Velvet pulled the stopper, removed the cotton ball atop the crystals and sniffed the vial. He jerked away from it, blinking.
“Definitely not salt,” he said.
Garret took it from him and smelled it. He saw immediately why Velvet had jerked away. It was pungent and acrid. The only thing he’d ever smelled which would compare was turpentine, but this compound was more astringent. Besides, Garret was pretty sure turpentine didn’t come in white crystals.
“What is it?” Fishy demanded of Bartram.
Bartram who was red-faced and righteous, like most arrogant adults when they were caught doing something heinous, sneered at Fishy. “I don’t have to answer your questions, seaman. Now get your gear packed. We’re moving out.”
“How did he not smell that on his food?” Pun’kin asked. He had also taken a whiff of the vial.
“Bartram just put a little bit,” Fishy replied accusingly, still looking at Bartram. “Burl probably couldn’t even taste it.”
“What is this stuff?” Pun’kin demanded plaintively, op
ening his hands to Bartram.
Bartram crossed his arms. Nobody said anything for a second, until Butterworth stood up, and said in a low, cutting voice, “What have you don’ to ‘im?”
“You’re a prisoner of war,” Bartram scoffed at Butterworth. “You’ll speak when spoken to, or I’ll have your tongue cut out.”
Garret and all his friends shot murderous looks at Bartram.
“He’s one of us now!” Pun’kin blared.
“More so than you,” Fishy said quietly to Bartram. “What have you done, and how do we fix it? Tell us now.”
“I gave him a fighting chance, that’s what I did!” Bartram snapped. “Did you not see how badly his hand was burned? Do you idiots actually think he’d ever have been able to use it again after than kind of tissue damage? The tendons were drawing up, the nerves were destroyed!”
Burl had been using the hand for days without issue.
“What did you do!” Fishy demanded.
“The one thing you ingrates never seem to be able to—I did my job!” Bartram yelled.
“I thought the mission was to go to Saraje—” Pun’kin began.
Bartram gave Pun’kin such a hateful, condescending look that the mere expression cut Pun’kin off. It looked like Bartram wanted to stomp on Pun’kin until he was nothing but pulp, then take a shit on the bloody mess.
“You are the stupidest bunch of children I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting!” he yelled. “War is inevitable, but with the new drugs we’re developing, we could save countless numbers of those who will be injured! There’s no time left for clinical trials!”
Fishy stared in horror at the vial, which he had taken back from Pun’kin. “This is… you experimented on Burl?”
“Can anyone be so blind?!” Bartram raged. “Do you even understand what I’m saying?!” He pointed at the vial in Fishy’s hand. “That is the first in an entirely new family of medications. It has the power to regenerate human tissue: bones, muscles, even nerves!”
Burl’s scars. Garret thought he was going to be sick. I thought they were getting better. If only I’d paid more attention.
Pun’kin was gripping Burl’s shoulder, but he was looking open-mouthed at Bartram. “Are you really even a Navy offi—”
“Of course I’m an officer, you fucking idiot—I’m a lieutenant commander in the research division!”
Velvet’s voice was weak. “You used Burl like a lab rat.”
“Thousands!” Bartram screamed. “Thousands of people will be saved by that drug once we’ve adjusted the formula properly!”
“But what about Burl?!” Pun’kin yelled.
Bartram shut his mouth and shook his head, disgusted by the incomprehension and stupidity that surrounded him.
“How much have you given him?” Fishy demanded.
“Enough to see that this formulation won’t work.” Bartram sneered again. “Do you seriously still not know why you’re here?! Do you think Maxwell picked your gun crew for this assignment out of sheer bad luck? He intended to let you all go home, thinking you’d already done your bit for your country. I started dosing Seaman Garner a few hours after your gun exploded. Then Maxwell decided to let you go home. I barely convinced him to bring you, and if I hadn’t, everything would have been lost! His mission didn’t require you, but mine did, and mine was the only one that mattered!”
“You mean you don’t care about Saraje—” Pun’kin began again.
“Maxwell is an idiot!” Bartram screamed in frustration. “A deluded, unstable fool who thinks he can right the world with his own two hands! His mission was pointless before it began, but my mission could save countless lives!”
“But why Burl!” Velvet yelled, suddenly angry, standing to face Bartram.
“Because he was the last one,” Bartram replied flatly. “A severe burn victim was the last trial I was ordered to run. His sacrifice will save lives, unlike yours,” he spat at them all. “All you’ve done is set the mad Captain loose on yet another continent.”
“Wait a minute,” Velvet said. “What do you mean ‘Burl’s sacrifice’?”
Bartram stopped and stared at them all with the most supercilious loathing Garret had ever seen. Garret didn’t think Bartram was going to answer, but after a moment he did.
“Seaman Garner is dead. Is that clear enough for you to understand? He’s been the walking dead for the last two days.”
Velvet was white as a sheet. His eyes roved as if seeing ghosts, then he suddenly ran for his pack, tore through it, and emerged with a medical kit for all the good it would do.
“But what can we do for ‘im?” Pun’kin demanded, denying the obvious. He was starting to pant.
Bartram looked like his head was going to explode. When he spoke again his words hissed out of his lips as if his head was a pressurized steam vessel with a crack. “Dead. Even that single word is too much for you to grasp.”
Bartram exploded. “He’s dead, you fool! He is going to lay down and his heart is going to stop beating, and there isn’t one goddam thing you or anyone else on earth can do about it. The linings of his internal organs are breaking down under the effects of the compound. He’s bleeding out inside his own chest and abdominal cavity. He’s finished! He’s—”
Bartram lurched forward, accompanied by a solid thudding sound. He fell to the ground. Behind him stood Butterworth, holding a tree branch the size of his own leg, with which he’d just brained Bartram. He tossed it into the dirt and walked to Fishy.
“What are we gonna do, mate?” he asked.
As it turned out, there would be no time to do anything. In the course of the conversation, Burl seemed to have shrunk beyond even his normally diminutive size. He looked frail and broken from the inside out. His skin had taken a greyish color and his veins showed darkly through it. His upper lip, chin, and chest were coated with the blood that was running from his nose and mouth. As they all knelt down around him and took hold of him in some way, redness began to run from the corners of his eyes as well. It looked as if he was crying blood.
“You’re gonna be fine, buddy. You’re doin’ fine,” Pun’kin was saying. He was the worst liar Garret had ever seen.
“Hang in there, buddy,” Velvet was saying. “We’re gonna get you to a doctor right now.”
Burl said something through feeble lips, but the words hissed away too quietly to be heard.
“Everybody quiet!” Fishy barked. “What did you say, Burl?”
Burl was fading fast, but he tried again. “Bartram was… wrong.”
“We know that, buddy.” Fishy said hurriedly. “That’s why we’re gonna get you to a doctor right now. Let’s get him up guys—”
Burl weakly took hold of Fishy sleeve. “We’re not worse… because of Captain Maxwell. We’re better… because of him. You gotta help him…”
Burl’s eyes closed for a moment, squeezing more red tears down his cheeks. He mumbled something else. It disappeared into a phlegmy hacking cough that bubbled thick blood down his chin, throat, and chest.
“What?” Pun’kin demanded in desperation. “Burl we cain’t hear ya!”
“I wish…” Burl whispered. “I wish Curtis was here.”
And then Burl was gone.
Garret crumpled towards his dead friend. Pun’kin was holding Burl tightly, rocking back and forth with him. Every muscle in Pun’kin’s body was straining, and he was making a thin whining sound each time he exhaled, like a tea kettle, overpressurized. Velvet knelt on the ground at Burl’s feet. The medical kit was spilled all around Velvet’s knees.
Butterworth laid a gentle hand on Burl’s face and closed his eyes. “Rest now mate,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “You’ve earned it.”
Chapter 33
They did not sleep in the carob grove that night, nor anywhere near it. They slept deep in the cleft of a rocky hill more than a mile away. None of them could have laid their head where their friend had died.
&n
bsp; Bartram was gone. None of them cared where. He had returned to consciousness several hours after Burl passed. Upon hearing Bartram beginning to wake, Fishy had seized the bayonet from Bartram’s own pack, intent on driving it through Bartram’s heart. He’d pinned Bartram down, pushing the bayonet down hard enough to cut into Bartram’s chest above his heart. But Fishy had been unable to finish it. He’d wanted to. Maybe they all wanted him to. But after what seemed like an eternity, Fishy had stood, and simply said that he was going to keep the bayonet, and if he ever saw Bartram again, he would use it to cut his throat. Bartram had looked around at all of their grieving, hate-filled expressions, then he had fled without a word.
They buried Burl in the side of the hill. They “borrowed” shovels from a nearby farmhouse, but there were only two, so Velvet dug with a hoe, Butterworth with some sort of reaping implement. It was an agonizingly long day. The loss of Burl filled their hearts and minds and weighed down each passing hour. They said little to one another as they dug and sweated, and they said nothing about Bartram.
Now it was night and they all lay close together in the rocky cleft, a mile from the carob grove, never to return to it. Velvet had fallen quickly asleep, exhausted by sorrow. The rest of them were probably awake. Garret was, at least. After staring at the stars for a pointlessly long time, he slipped out from under the tarp and stood. Laying still was killing him. He needed to move.
“Garret,” someone said. It was Fishy. “Where you going?”
“I don’t know, I just need to walk.”
“You want to be alone?”
“Yeah… yeah I think so. Just for a while.”
Fishy nodded and rolled over.
Garret headed out into the dark. Walking didn’t help as much as he had hoped. He drew on his wolf vision, and the rocky slope around him resolved into clearly defined black and white.
With no warning whatsoever, he stepped out of our reality. One second, he was carefully picking his way between two halves of a cracked outcropping, and the next second, he was pushing off of a rough grey-barked tree trunk instead of a rock. The ground beneath his feet reoriented from sloped to flat so quickly that Garret stumbled.
Ironclad Page 61
