Fog (7 page)

‘Because she’s happy with what she has. She doesn’t need me. I would make her life complicated and not one bit better.’

‘I cannot picture you as a father,’ I hear myself say. ‘I’m sorry. That came out all wrong. What I mean is—’

‘I can’t, either. I am…very much attracted to violence.’

His voice chills me, and I decide to shut up and never again poke around in his private life. Runner is silent for a long moment and I’m about to pull the blanket over my face and try to sleep, when he says, ‘I grew up in Ghazni province, a plateau in Afghanistan.’
 

I hear him take a deep breath, and another one. Then, he continues. ‘We were a small group of people, no more than fifty. We herded cattle and hunted small game, constantly on the move from one dirty water hole to the next. We evaded the BSA for years and it was only the elders who remembered ever seeing a trace of war. It must have been the desert that protected us. Until this one morning when our camp was hit by two mortars. It was cruel. Three of the tents burst apart.’

He clears his throat and I close my eyes and shake my head, because the images I see are not pretty. Flying bodies. Blood.

‘They were upon us only a moment later. My two brothers and my father were killed on the spot. My sister and my mother were taken away. They took the girls and women, while I… The shells had torn open one of our cows. I hid in it.’

Aching, I bury my face in the bend of my elbow.

‘When night fell, I dared to move. The cow was stiff and cold by then and I couldn’t get out. I believed that I would die trapped inside that cow’s stomach, stuck in blood and guts. The stench was enough to drive me mad. But my fear for my mother and my sister made me strong enough and I clawed myself out. Then I took one of the elders’ rifles and as much ammo as I could carry in my pockets. I dreamed of killing every single man who had touched my sister and my mother, who had killed my brothers, my father, my friends, and all the others I called family. I was a deluded boy. I could barely hold the weapon.’

He falls silent and I fight the urge to reach over his hammock and take his hand in mine. ‘What happened then?’

‘Nothing. They’d left. The wind had wiped away their footprints. I never found them. I walked through the desert without water and food, knowing I’d failed my family because I was too scared to get out of that damned cow carcass. When, after two days, I found a water hole, I tried to drown myself. I tried and tried, but the thing was too small. I don’t think I’d ever wept that hard. The rifle was too long for my arms to shoot myself in the head or even in the stomach. I’d lost my knife. The only alternative was to lie down and wait for death. The next day, an old man found me. He made me drink and eat, and then he took me on a long journey. Years later, I realised that I could have used my toes to pull the trigger and shoot myself.’

He pauses again. His body lies perfectly still inside his hammock. ‘His father used to be a British soldier — one of the last before all military organisations fell apart. His name was Elmar; he taught me most of what I know about tactics and sniping. I owe him my life and my name.’

I can’t stand it any longer. Without asking, I slip out of my hammock and into his. ‘Just give me the word and I’ll piss off.’ Then I take his hand and hold it as gently as possible. ‘I’m so sorry. Oh shit, Runner. I feel stupid for saying “I’m sorry” while having no clue how to help. I don’t want you to drag this around, but… but… Can I make it better?’

‘Ssh. It’s okay.’ He speaks into my hair. ‘It was long ago. Go back now and find some rest. We have a long walk ahead of us.’

I peel myself from his hammock and lie down in my own. Something is very different, but I can’t put my finger on it. I think of the night he’d pressed his body to mine, his hand hot on my naked stomach. I was sure he would die. His skin was burning with fever and his whole body shook with it. We had been crossing the lowlands in the deepest winter and were attacked by a large pack of starved wild dogs. Three had broken through his defences, and he was able to kill only two of them with his knife. All I had was a stupid air rifle that could barely pierce their hides. So while I raced to help him, the third attached itself to his throat. My stomach still clenches at the thought of the large wound, the great amount of blood he’d lost, and how I tried to save him and very nearly failed. That winter, we shared our warmth whenever necessary and it never felt as if…as if there was an invisible wall between us. Where does this come from so suddenly? Is it because he’s trying to toughen me up so I have a better chance of surviving whatever may come? I blink up at the Milky Way. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe I shouldn’t have slipped into his hammock. What do people typically do to comfort others? Babble? I have no idea. My hand wanders up to where his breath touched my hair.

As I drift off to sleep, understanding hits me. Runner and Yi-Ting. I’m far from the woman he wants in his hammock offering comfort. I’m such an idiot.

———

I’m covered in the thick white clay we found near the river bed. I rolled in the stuff until my back, my front, and my hair was plastered with white.
 

When I find Runner chewing on his toothbrush and staring up at the white-and-blue bowl of the morning sky, he appears as if nothing happened last night.
 

I can’t help but think of a small boy sticking the barrel of a rifle into his mouth and crying in despair because his fingers can’t reach the trigger. I wonder why he’s told me this. He never talks about himself.

Now, he looks like a corpse and his black eyes are demonic. He wraps a roll of white bandages around his bare stomach to fasten his pistol to his body. The gun’s butt will be covered with a dash of white in a moment. I’m wearing my pistol at my chest, the bandages covering my breasts and — more importantly — part of my back. There’s also a length of line wrapped around my stomach, my climbing clips dangling from it.

The only other piece of clothing each of us wears is a pair of short white underpants. All our other clothes are brown, green, or black, and would be too visible against the observatory’s walls. Clay sticks to fabric well enough, but it dries and cracks too quickly, and would fall off as soon as we started moving.
 

My half-nakedness makes me nervous. Not because of my awkwardly concealed breasts, but because of how my back looks and the risk that part of what’s written there might be visible. But for now, the clay covers this and all other scars well enough, and I have no time to worry about it anyway. Besides, the thing that bugs me the most is that our only weapons are two pistols with eight rounds each. If the entire BSA troop shows up, we’ll be very dead very soon.

Right now, the morning sun is behind a thin sheet of scattering clouds. We are as white as the observatory’s walls and roof. With the light overcast, our shadows will be blurry and soft, hard to see from high above. We have to be quick getting in, though. Despite the slight moisture of our skin, the plaster will crack once it’s dry and come off in small flecks. If the haze clears during the day, we’ll have to wait till nightfall to rappel down the building. But that problem will be solved once it arrives.

Runner walks ahead, making sure our conspicuously white bodies are covered by our leaf-hats and the treetops. When it’s time to step out of the jungle and approach the observatory, he doesn’t hesitate. He takes off his hat, stuffs it underneath a shrub, and walks out into the open.
 

Watching my white three-toed foot take a step forward, I swallow and push my body into full view. Runner comes to a halt just in front of the vines trailing across the steps. ‘Well made,’ he says. ‘They wrapped a green wire around the plant. It’s visible only where it goes in and where it comes out. Small packages of…let me see…C4, I think, on either side. Enough to rip you, me, and the stairs to pieces.’ He points to the landing and both sides of the stairs, then steps over the vine. ‘I assume the device has some way of distinguishing between a heavy human and a small animal. Else it would have detonated weeks ago.’

He bends down and investigates the landing’s top and all of its three sides, before he presses a hand on the cement.
 

‘Clear,’ he says, walks to the entrance and leans his back against the wall. ‘Your turn.’

My eyes scan the smooth walls. There’s very little to stick my fingers or toes in. ‘Help me reach the first handhold.’ I point to a crack far above his head.

Runner moves to the spot I indicate, then folds his hands in front of him and nods. I put my foot into his hands and push myself up, place my other foot on his shoulder, reach up to a too-small crack, and push up farther. My left hand finds the handhold and I jam my fingers into it. Standing on tiptoe on someone’s shoulders sucks, I realise, when his muscles flex and I begin to wobble. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I need a good push to reach the second handhold, up and slightly to the right. Um…my right. Count to three. At three, push my feet up as far as you can.’

‘No need to count and be hasty. I can do it slowly and you can take your time to find whatever you need.’

‘Shit,’ I huff when Runner takes both my feet into his hands and slowly pushes me up as if I weigh nothing. My right hand finds a new crack, then my left hand and right foot do, too. I push away from him and hang on the wall like a spider on polished glass — one wrong move and I’ll slide. I press my stomach against the plaster and crane my neck to find the next handhold.
 

There’s a ledge about a metre above me and only one small protruding brick between it and myself. I remove my left foot from the wall and push my right leg straight, reach to the brick and feel that its upper edge is tilted toward me. That’s one shit handhold if I’ve ever seen one. I look down to find something I can use to support my dangling left foot but see nothing. ‘Runner,’ I grunt. ‘Do you see anything on my left?’

After a short moment he says, ‘No. But slightly to your right is a crack large enough.’

I manoeuvre my left foot to my right, carefully inserting it between my right shin and the wall. I’m kind of awkwardly twisted, but the climbing seems to go forward. I jam the toes into the crack, then let go with my right foot and begin to press myself upwards. That’s when my hand begins to slide off the stupid brick. With merely a second left before I drop off the wall, I tense all muscles and leap the remaining twenty centimetres up to the ledge. My hands are grasping the ledge tightly; my feet are dangling in midair. I allow myself to breathe.

‘If you shift to the right, about two metres, you can put one foot against the wall quite comfortably, then push yourself up,’ he says.

I know. I remember that crack and already start moving. Runner’s whisper is only half audible in my one ear, but clear in my other ear where the earbud is.

I find the foothold and push myself up. I’m glad I’m covered in clay for another reason now — my palms are sweaty and rubbing them across my stomach helps to maintain my grip.

I keep climbing, always focusing solely on what foot- or handhold comes next, ignoring the drop and the too-close trigger of the booby trap the BSA set up.

When I reach the first level, I unwrap the line from my stomach and tie it to the bottom of the flag post. The other end of the line falls down somewhere close to where Runner must be standing. ‘The rope is secure. You can come up,’ I say quietly.

The line tightens at once.

I keep a close eye on the post and the line. Soon, one hand reaches over the ledge, drops the first climbing clip he used to pull himself up the thin steel rope, then the other hand and a clip, and then the whole Runner pushes into view.

‘That was impressive. Where did you learn to climb walls that well?’

‘I grew up in the mountains.’ I shrug, pretending I don’t care that there is one thing I can do better than he. I’m sure I blush scarlet under the white. ‘Your turn, I think.’

Runner pulls the rope in, drops it on the roof’s ledge, and walks the few steps to the satellite dish. The thing is massive — silvery and gleaming, spanning five or six metres across, and standing on a thick foot. Two joints allow it to rotate in any direction. Behind it is a white hemisphere that looks like a humongous wart to me. Runner told me that’s where they used to keep a telescope until a few decades ago when some idiots disassembled it and sold the parts.

He crouches down and finds a hatch, opens it, and squeezes into the room below the dish. I follow. He walks up to a door at the far end and presses his ear against it. I hold my breath. After a long moment, he turns the knob.

‘Interesting,’ Runner says.

‘What?’

‘No stench. They cleaned up and secured it.’ He nods at me. ‘From now on, no talking — no noises, until I tell you it’s okay.’ Then he slips into the dark. I take a deep breath and follow.

I find him standing on the stairs, holding up a hand. He points at me, then at himself, and at our feet. I look down. There are small white crumbs. Shit, the clay has come off faster than I expected. I nod, reach for his stomach and undo the bandage that holds his pistol, careful to not drop the curved needle he put there earlier. We’ll need it in a moment. I tear a piece of fabric off with my teeth and tuck in the remaining end at his back. I make a sign to tell him that I’ll use the fabric later to wipe off all traces of our presence. He nods at me and we descend into the main control room.

Without touching anything, he takes in the slight damage that has been done to the interior, the cleanliness of the room, the bleeping of the control system and the flashing lights, and the series of black screens. He pulls out the needle, takes his earbud out and inserts the sharp end where the small antennae pin is. He wiggles it and I hear a soft crackle in my ear as he makes sure that we can hear them, but they can’t hear us. Then he kneels and hides the black button under a control cabinet.
 

He stands and waves at me to take my earbud out. I do as he asks and place it in his outstretched hand. It, too, gets pricked; he then puts the needle back into his fabric wrapper. The little poker will go back into the MedKit in his ruck once we’re out of here. I hope we’ll never need it to stitch up wounds.