Liz heard Josie reply as they wheeled the gurney through the door. “Cookies!”
~
Liz had never seen so much blood. Josie hadn’t been like this. Messy, yes, as all births were, but not so … red. She felt weak, and thanked God the epidural clonidine blocked most of the pain. The contractions were distant, suppressed, and Lamaze was easier. Soon.
She pushed, and pushed again. Gritting her teeth, she gasped against the dulled agony and a great relief flooded her. A tiny cry pierced the sterile air. She sighed, exhausted, as Faliha cut the umbilical cord. Scott, ever the trooper, took the baby himself and brought it up so she could see. Even covered in blood and squirming, it had a thick head of auburn hair and a healthy pink complexion.
Liz stared into startlingly blue eyes, and smiled.
“Perfect.”
Scott passed the bundle to a male nurse, who swaddled it in a blue fleece blanket and wiped its face. He frowned as the baby grabbed his finger.
Doctor Faliha barked an order. “Take it to Mendel in Harvesting and get it tagged.” The nurse nodded and left, the birthing suite door flapping behind him. She turned to Liz. “How do you feel?”
Liz bit her lip, thinking. “Good. Sore, but good.”
Faliha stripped off her gloves and dropped them into the biohazard bag. “Excellent. It should be a short recovery. I’ll inform Doctor Schrock. He’ll be down in a bit.”
As she left, Scott grabbed Liz’s hand. “You did good, babe.” He gave it a gentle squeeze. “Real good.”
~
The squealing children made up for talent with enthusiasm. Josie had spent the afternoon running around with the other children, lost in the joy of play, and with some effort on the part of the parents they had all settled down at the picnic tables. As the last, discordant gasps of Happy Birthday faded to oblivion, Josie puffed her cheeks and blew out the four candles atop the princess cake. One stayed lit, but a second breath snuffed it.
Josie tore into her presents, posing for the camera with each new gift. Uncle Max herded the three of them into a pose, snapped the shot, and showed the screen to Liz. Scott, tall and handsome with a sexy ruggedness that any woman would envy. Liz, fit and trim, beaming at her daughter. Josie, mouth open wide with excitement, looked straight at the camera with her baby blue eyes. Perfect.
TRIGGER WARNING
Tom slipped across the ruined plaza
quad this is grass not pavement it’s a quad
eyes down, hidden behind dark glasses polarized to reduce glare. Automatic weapons crackled in the distance
dammit just a motorcycle you used to ride one remember there’s no threat here
almost too far away to hear. He skirted the burned out tank,
fountain look at it read the inscription it’s a fountain
feet shuffling under the weight of the ALICE pack,
books are heavy there’s a math test tomorrow there is no threat here
straps cutting into his shoulders through the uniform.
He took shelter in the mosque’s
library
entrance, letting the shadows pool around and hide him from the midday sun. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath almost devoid of gasoline and gunpowder and held it, savoring the hint of jasmine and patchouli leftover from some pre-war bazaar.
or the coed smoking three feet away
Fuck it. Orders are orders and
my last order was a big mac there is no threat here
the squad needs cover.
Tom opened his eyes and scanned the burned-out husk
intact buildings
of the town—
campus
He squeezed them shut again and pressed his palms to his temples. Something had gone wrong, something terrible, and he couldn’t keep his thoughts straight. He needed
pills like right now isn’t soon enough it’s been a week
to get upstairs before the squad got into position. If they tried to advance without cover the hajis would take them apart.
Three steps brought him inside the building, into an alcove gaudy with plaster scrollwork defiled by illegible graffiti under a broken bulb. An imam with a great gray beard looked up
she can’t be more than twenty she’s not a threat
and looked back down at the huge tome without reaction—his mistake. Tom slid left, toward the stairs, grunting in surprise at the flickering exit sign. How do they have electricity
come on man it’s even in english it says “exit” not خروج why would it say that
with the whole grid bombed to shit?
The door opened without protest, revealing a black iron staircase leading up and down. He’d made it up two floors when a group burst onto the next landing, their raucous chatter
that’s english not arabic they aren’t threats
inappropriate for a place of quiet and introspection. He cut through the lower door into some kind of library, right into the path of a dark-skinned man in a red turban
the red sox don’t make turbans that’s a ball cap
and blue jeans.
Tom silenced him with a finger strike to the throat, then stepped in and swept the man’s legs from under him, cradling him on the way down to muffle the noise. Eyes wide, he had no chance to struggle as Tom slit his throat with a k-bar. The angry red line bubbled and frothed as air escaped from lungs filling with blood. He tried to ignore the tears, put his knife above the heart and leaned in—even jihadis didn’t deserve to suffer like that.
He dragged the corpse into the stacks, withdrew the knife. A spurt of blood, a last vestige of fading pressure, soaked into the flannel shirt
why would a mujahidin wear plaid flannel he was not a threat
in an angry, sad splotch. Tom fondled the steel watch on the man’s wrist, somehow out of place, but noise from the stairwell pulled his attention that way.
He held his breath.
The group from above passed by in a wall of guttural chatter,
they’re talking about the voice that’s tv not jihad
then paused at the lower landing. Tom grimaced at the corpse’s stench, iron and shit and body odor. He preferred the crow’s nest, the recoil. The distance.
He looked down at the bloody mess
there’s nothing there you need your meds there is no threat here
and frowned. If someone found it …. Too late. Done is done.
The door clicked shut below, muffling the conversation further. Tom peered out the tiny window, screened between the panes with wire mesh. All clear. He took the next four flights three stairs at a time, knees burning by the time he reached the top. Gasping soft, short breaths, he listened for any signs of movement.
In the distance a speaker blared, a crackling recording of a muezzin
two strokes it’s afternoon it’s a bell two strokes there is no threat here
calling the faithful to their prayers. Is it Friday? Dhuhr on Friday would mean dozens of hajis converging on the temple, everyone but the sentries and what few women remained in the war zone.
He realized he didn’t know, and in the end it didn’t matter. He had a job to do, and it wouldn’t do itself.
He tried the knob. It rotated down a fraction of an inch, then stopped.
Dammit.
He wiggled the k-bar between the door and the frame. A twist, a slide, a fraction of an inch. He repeated the motion, again and again, cursing every lost moment. He exhaled in relief when the deadbolt slipped free, and yanked the door open.
No time to lose.
He kicked the door closed, locked it, and looked up. The ladder stretched another thirty feet, to the top of the minaret,
bell tower
ablaze under the midday sun. He pulled himself up, panting with worry. He’d taken too long. The gunfire
<
br /> traffic
rose to a crescendo.
He shrugged out of the ALICE pack. He lifted the flap as it hit the plain concrete floor, a ledge just big enough to accommodate him. The black metal, cool to the touch, came together with brutal efficiency. Someone would see the .50 cal stick out the window. An RPG, or a well-placed shot, and that’d be it. But the unit needed him.
He tried the frosted window, but it had been sealed shut. He pried at it as precious seconds ticked by. No time, no time.
no threats there are no threats here
He drove the heel of his combat boot into the window. The glass budged. He did it again. Again. A crack appeared, blue sky and contrails. Again. The glass gave way and the view spread out before him. He swallowed. Hundreds of fighters swarmed the town,
afternoon classes it’s two o’clock you have recitation now
well more than intel had predicted. A trap.
He pulled the Mk 323 ammunition from the bag, polymer-coated metal in a dozen ten-round box magazines. Was it enough?
too much there are no threats here
He lay still, took a breath, positioned the weapon, opened his eyes.
He looked through the scope and gasped, his calm shattered. Jennie lay on the grass, between a young man with a scraggly red beard and a cute brunette. His sister brushed back a lock of blonde hair and laughed at something he couldn’t hear. He squeezed his eyes shut.
No, no, not this not now. He knew he was sick. He knew that. But he couldn’t let that put his squad in danger. Sergeant Broud said he wasn’t at home, had cleared him for action. He had a
math test tomorrow
duty. He took a breath and opened one eye.
The three sentries lounged in the open, the one in the middle a mass of scar tissue masquerading as man. Bomber. Priority target.
He put his finger on the trigger, centered the crosshairs below the neck, in the center of the white robe. Body armor couldn’t stop this. He exhaled, long and slow.
there is no threat here
yes there is
Jennie rolled onto her stomach and the girl next to her swatted her shoulder. Playful.
The burned man
Jennie that’s your sister she is not a threat
did pushups while his companions laughed, a fish in a barrel
she made breakfast this morning eggs and toast and coffee
unaware of the death that awaited her. Her?
Him.
Tom blinked. Shook his head. Blinked again. What the—?
He looked through the scope.
Jennie grinned,
That’s not your sister, that’s a target. Take him. Broud cleared you for duty.
rummaged in her bag and produced a pack of gum
Bomb. That’s a man with a bomb and he’s going to kill your friends.
gum dammit gum not bomb she’s chewing it you can’t chew a bomb you need your meds you have a test tomorrow there is no threat here
His finger tightened on the trigger.
SPLINTER
She remembered the men, the saws and the smoke and screaming agony and bleeding sap. She remembered the darkness, when they took her and stripped her and killed her and shaved her down to cruel planks. She remembered the darkness, the tepid warehouse harsher than any winter, and the brief kiss of sunlight before her imprisonment.
But she didn’t remember before. The dappled sunlight through the forest, squirrels scrambling through her boughs, the deer resting in her shade, the rabbit warren under her roots. She knew these things, but she couldn’t remember them.
Brutal geometry stole her form, a giant kiln her essence, mankind her purpose. Jagged steel screws bound her to dead sisters, gave her a form both alien and hostile. Wrapped in cold vinyl and fiberglass and sheetrock, she hardened, stiffened, became as bone to this new thing, this monstrosity, this structure. Eyes of glass saw nothing but her sisters’ torture, and concrete roots drew no water to slake her thirst.
She woke to the sound of fawns, human fawns, playing and squabbling and scratching her hardwood floors with their toys. She ached to touch them and feel their warmth, to shelter them beneath her boughs. But she had no shade, no boughs to share, only stone and tar and plaster-covered darkness and the pain of the mill.
They filled her halls with laughter, but she felt only longing. Their plastic games and digital toys left her starved and wanting. Asphalt shingles kept her from the sun, and PVC pipes wouldn’t share their water. But as the maples pumped sap into their boughs and buds formed on the willows, she drew upon a hidden strength.
A branch, devoid of leaves or bark, shuddered free from the floorboard. Another followed, and another. She drew the wood into herself, shaping it into a mockery of the fawns bickering in the house below.
She opened new eyes, neither glass nor wood. A splinter of what she once had been, a shard split from a remembered limb, she pried herself from the plank and stood on two wobbly legs. The house sighed in commiseration as she shivered in the dusty, flat, unmoving wilderness of dry cold and old cardboard boxes.
She crept to the half-door and ran gnarled, jagged fingers over a plastic Christmas tree half-stuffed into a tattered box, its nylon needles bright green in defiance of the arid darkness. She jerked back and bared jagged, wooden teeth that sliced her long, purple tongue. The tang of blood—not sap—mingled with the musty, dusty, forgotten smell of the half-full attic. Her elbow brushed against something, and she turned.
She commanded the box fan not to fall, but the plastic rectangle defied her will as no acorn would have dared.
~
Bob looked up from his newspaper as Nancy dumped scrambled eggs from the pan onto the plate. He loved her “Bitchin’ Kitchen” apron even though too much time spent in it had allowed her ass to grow too big for her “comfortable” jeans. She stopped mid-scoop, the gelatinous, yellow-orange protein poised to leap from the green spatula.
She scrunched her forehead, prompting a question.
“Well?” The newspaper drooped in the absence of his attention. “What is it, dear?”
“Did you just hear something?”
Between the Saturday morning cartoons and the boys arguing over their toys, he wouldn’t have heard a shotgun blast to his skull. So he shrugged. “Nope.”
“You didn’t hear something crash upstairs?”
He shook his head and looked back at the paper.
“Bob.” Her exasperated sigh grated through his mind and strangled his contentment. “Probably another squirrel in the attic.” His restful morning over, he set down the paper and dragged himself to his feet. Once standing, he couldn’t escape the honey-do list. “I’ll check it out.”
Catching a squirrel is impossible, especially in an attic full of eight years of accumulated family junk they hadn’t and would likely never unpack. Maybe he could terrorize the rodent into leaving and seal up whatever hole it had found. He loved their new home, but they didn’t build them like they used to.
~
Light washed in from the hallway as the half-door opened, and motes of dust danced above the fallen box fan. She crouched back into the shadows as the male crawled inside the attic, a bristled stick in one hand. She sneered as he called out in sing-songy human sounds unlike anything in the forest. Blood dribbled through her lips.
The man froze, head cocked, like a deer spooked by a rustle in the autumn leaves. He turned toward the door as a gobbet of blood fell from her chin to patter on the floor. He whipped his head toward her and crept forward, knees pounding on the naked plywood.
Desperate to hide, she touched the beam next to her and melded into it. The house absorbed her, silencing her shriek before it left her dry, chemically-impregnated lungs. She struggled and cried out in silence, but it wouldn’t let her go, so she wept.
~
B
ob reached down and ran a finger over the red spot on the floor. He held it up and sniffed. The stupid rodent had hurt itself.
Twenty minutes of fruitless searching later, he left the attic. Covered in dust, he walked to the hardware store for advice on squirrel-proofing.
~
Spring turned to summer’s heat, fought off by the unfeeling machinery in her stone roots. Fall turned to winter, and the warmth of flame on air kept her semi-conscious throughout the snows. She dreamed of leaves swaying in the summer breeze, of squirrels and chirping birds, but she felt only the cold darkness that wasn’t cold enough.
The fawns, larger now, filled her halls with laughter and squabbles, and as the maples outside pumped sap into their boughs and buds formed on the willows, she woke again. She wouldn’t make the same mistake. This time she’d grow.
She stroked the tiny bump on the side of her head, cooed to it, enticed it toward its inevitable potential. It responded to her voice, a whisper of the promise of spring.
As she stepped through the attic door, the wood tried to take her back, where the domineering human spirit demanded that she belonged. Careful to touch only the metal handle, she pushed it closed. The hinges creaked, but she bore them no mind. The adults worked outside to impose human order on grass and shrubs, while the fawns sat enraptured by the electronic sounds and pictures of their game.
She crept into the younger fawn’s closet and waited. The passing of a day meant nothing to the passage of long years she knew but couldn’t remember, nothing to the passage of the past year, where she burned with the knowledge that she could and would grow again. She shuddered in anticipation, and clutched the tiny acorn growing at her temple. It needed sunlight, and water, but it also needed rich humus and potent soil to grow strong and tall. It needed life.
It took all her will not to coo and sing to the acorn. It needed her voice, but the plan required her silence. If she could wait, so, too, could it. At last the day ended and the fawn slept in its bed, cocooned under cloth-wrapped plastic tendrils and the shredded, entangled remains of her cotton sisters.
In the Garden of Rusting Gods Page 16
