The Last Town on Earth (29 page)

“Mind if I sit down?”

“’S fine,” he mumbled. There was plenty more oatmeal in his bowl but he made no motion to continue eating, as if afraid I would ram the spoon down his throat. He kept his eyes off of mine, just to the side.

“I’m Frank Summers.”

“Lyle Hunter.” He had an odd voice, some kind of second-generation accent I couldn’t place. Hunter must have been a new name his family had taken when they got off the boat.

“How long you been at the camp?”

“’Bout two months.”

I’d never been in the mess hall when it was deserted. Maybe the C.O.s were supposed to eat when others weren’t around, but then again I’d seen them at regular mealtimes, too. All I knew was I was running a risk even being there, so I decided to cut to the chase.

“Why are you a C.O.?”

For the first time, he looked directly at me. Warily. “What’s it to you?”

That sounded more testy than tough, especially given the way he averted his eyes again after saying it. His head was at a low angle, like he was too used to cowering.

“Maybe I’m just curious. Look, if I was interested in insulting you, I could always join in with the gang pushing you around every night.”

I figured he would’ve been flattered I gave a damn, but to my surprise he uttered a short sigh, as if he’d been bombarded by well-meaning questioners such as myself.

“I object to this war. That’s all I need to say.”

“What, you think I’m a rat?”

No response.

“Why’d you even enlist? Why didn’t you run off and hide someplace?”

“Just because I object to the war doesn’t mean I have to be yellow,” he said.

“You know they’re going to keep riding you until they’re sent off, right? And then new ones’ll take their place?”

“Why do you care?”

I thought about that. “Maybe I don’t like seeing guys get pushed around all the time.”

“You think you’re going to see any less of it in France?”

“That’s different.”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t you just give it up and drill with the rest of us? With any luck, the war’ll be over before we ever make it to France. It’s not like you’ll have to do anything.”

“I’m not compromising myself like that.”

“For God’s sake, a few bayonet drills aren’t going to turn you into a killer. I’ve been drilling for three months and I’m not an animal.”

He eyed me strangely. “You aren’t?”

I waited a second to make sure I’d heard him right. Then I leaned back. “The hell is that supposed to mean? Jesus, I come here to talk to you, and you insult me. You’re a real piece of work, you know that? No wonder you’ve got a target on your back.”

I expected him to take it back, but he didn’t say anything.

I got out of my chair suddenly, and he moved back a bit. As I walked out, I half expected him to call something out to me—I think I even wanted him to—but there was nothing except the sound of my steps echoing on the stairs, soon followed by the familiar chorus of the barracks before lights-out: the betting of cardplayers, yawns, laughter, coughing.

When you’re told how your great-grandfather died fighting for the Confederacy, you start thinking you’re the flag bearer for lost causes. Emmett Summers died at Antietam, I’ve always been told, leaving behind my granddad, who was ten at the time and, years later, wandered out west in search of God knows what. But what exactly was the lost cause here? I suppose the C.O. was fighting a lost cause, insisting on pacifism in the face of militarism. Maybe me thinking that I could make it through the war and emerge more or less unscathed—maybe that was the lost cause. Maybe Michelle was my lost cause. Trench warfare sure sounded like a lost cause, but you weren’t supposed to talk like that, or even think it. Maybe there’s just something deep inside me—some indefinable yearning, some deeply buried part of my great-granddaddy’s soul—that wanted to find one more lost cause to fight for. That has to be the only explanation for what happened the next night.

I was returning from the YMCA, though I hadn’t played any cards. Hadn’t been in the mood. Instead I’d sat there pretending to read magazines, when really I had slipped letters from Michelle into them, so I could reread them without looking like a lovesick fool. Her last few letters had seemed less intimate, but I wasn’t sure if that was in the writing or in my head.

I missed being with her, seeing the way she looked at me. One thing was bothering me particularly: if something happened and I did die in the war, or died of the flu before I even shipped out, Michelle would probably mourn me but would forever think that my wish to marry her had been a lie, something foolish and romantic I had said only because it seemed the thing to do. I wouldn’t be around to prove that my intentions had been genuine, that I was genuine.

So I was in a rotten mood as I headed back to the barracks. It was nearing lights-out and it had started raining. I could easily hear the sounds coming from the back of the barracks as I walked past.

A cry of pain from somewhere out of sight sounds so unnatural, like a voice from another world. But I knew where it was really coming from.

I reached the door to the barracks and, since no one was behind me, I headed into the mess hall. I wiped my boots carefully on the mats at the threshold, careful not to track any mud on the recently scrubbed floors. The C.O. had been scrubbing them when I left. Now he was being tortured in the storeroom.

I walked through the empty mess hall toward the door leading to the storeroom. The sounds grew louder. It didn’t sound like such a crowd this time, maybe only a few of them. Because it was a swivel door I was able to prop it open the barest amount with my shoe and peer inside. I saw something dark flash in the air, followed by a whipping sound and a whelp of pain. Then I saw the C.O., shirtless again, fall down. He was picked back up by one of the Poles, who turned him around again so that his back was presented to a guy whose back was also to me. The C.O.’s back was a vicious shade of red, some of the streaks three-dimensional. The other guy took a step and whipped him again.

“Damn, you got my fingers,” said the guy who’d been holding the C.O. He said it with a laugh and shook out his hands. The C.O. was on the floor again.

They were standing in a narrow hallway beyond which was the storeroom, stocked with food and linens and the barracks’ laundry facilities. Two dull lightbulbs glowed above them but the rest of the corridor was in shadow.

Then I saw that the rumor about the new firearms was true: there was a third bully in the room, and he was holding a bayonet. It was shiny and metallic and its long incisor smiled in the dim light.

“Pick up the Heinie bastard,” said the one with the bayonet. He was a big Italian kid with dark hair and dark eyes; he was one of the few guys who never seemed tired after a full day of marching.

“Time for bayonet practice,” said the one who’d been doing the flogging, whose name was Sepenski. His hair was sweaty and his sleeves were rolled up. He was a big kid, too, but not as big as the wop with the bayonet.

The C.O.’s chest and stomach were red from punches or broom handles.

“Just let me go,” he choked.

It was the first time I had heard him beg during any of the ordeals I’d witnessed. Maybe it was the blade, or the fact that they were more secluded this time. Everything felt more sinister.

I put my hand on the door but something kept me from pushing it open.

The Pole who’d been holding the C.O. picked up his wounded prey again. He was no bigger than the C.O. himself, but he seemed to believe he was as big as his buddy Sepenski. He talked tough and always mentioned Chicago, where he’d grown up, so most guys just called him Chicago.

Sepenski backed away, giving the wop room. Chicago held the C.O. in a headlock, the C.O.’s arms jutting out at two o’clock and ten o’clock, his white and red chest exposed. Surely they weren’t going to do this. The wop held the bayonet in the position we’d been trained to, his arms and back locked into the posture that I sometimes found myself adopting out of habit.

“Don’t get me,” Chicago warned his buddy in a somewhat quieter voice.

“Don’t worry,” the wop said. Like the two Poles, he had the barest of accents; he’d been born here and wanted everyone to know he was as American as guys like me. More, even.

Then the C.O.’s arms started flailing in a last desperate attempt to break free. But Chicago kept him in place and the wop lunged forward and grunted and his back blocked my view of what happened, but I heard the C.O. let out a high-pitched, muffled yelp through gritted teeth.

The wop’s arms jutted to the right, dislodging the blade, and he stepped away. I could see the C.O. again and his chest and stomach were still red but no more so than before. Then I saw the gash in his right pant leg, filling with blood. They’d given it to him in the thigh.

For a few seconds I heard only the sounds of breathing: the bullies’ deep breaths, in shock and awe at their own actions. The C.O.’s jagged breaths, choked off by pain and fear.

Finally I pushed the door open the rest of the way and walked in.

“Evening, boys,” I said to them. “Everything all right?”

“Everything’s jake,” Sepenski said. They had all turned my way, but nobody wore a guilty expression.

“What say you call it a night? It’s getting close to lights-out.” I was a private just like them, but I was hoping my age would buy me some authority, that military discipline would kick in and they’d obey without stopping to wonder why.

But the wop said, “We have plenty of time. We have to break in the bayonet—he still needs something for the other leg.”

“Where’d you get that?” I asked.

“What’s it to you?”

I shrugged. “Just jealous. I’ve been waiting on mine for months.”

He smiled, relieved to see I was no threat. My hands were in my pockets. I looked over at the C.O. Chicago had picked him back up. The wop handed the bayonet to Sepenski, who would apparently have the privilege of inflicting the second wound.

“Give me a shot at him,” I said.

“I get the next one,” Sepenski protested.

“I don’t mean with that.” I gestured to the bayonet and wrapped my left fingers around my right fist. “Just give me a shot at him.”

The wop, who had stepped back, nodded. “Sure. Take your best shot.”

I looked at the C.O., held up by Chicago. His head was hanging low, as if he’d passed out, but we all knew he hadn’t—we could tell from his breathing, from his whimpers. The blood was running down his pant leg and pooling at the tip of his boot.

Maybe I figured if I could knock him out with one good punch, it’d end his misery for the night. If I hadn’t walked in, they probably would have gone for the vital organs after the two legs, then the testicles. Maybe I figured one hard punch could be forgiven if it would help the poor bastard keep his manhood. Such as it was.

“Hey,” I said to the top of his head. “Look me in the eye, you sorry sonuvabitch.”

A couple seconds passed, then he obeyed, lifting his head to face me. If he was at all surprised to see me, he didn’t show it. I was just another one of the thousands of militants in the other camp. I was the enemy.

He did look like a sorry sonuvabitch. But his face was unmarked—they knew well enough to hit him in places that wouldn’t show the next day when he was suited up and pushing his mop. They wouldn’t like it if I gave him a shiner or broke his nose. We’d all have some explaining to do.

He was such a weak bastard, I thought as I inhaled, taking in the strength I would need for what I had decided to do.

“Pop the yellowbelly,” Chicago said.

I made a fist and swung straight for Sepenski’s ugly and smiling mug. Caught him square on the nose, so hard that his head snapped back and hit the wall behind him. He had only begun to fall down when I turned and drove the tip of my right boot between the wop’s legs. His body crumpled, the bayonet falling out of his hands and clattering on the floor a second before his knees hit the ground. He rolled over to his side, howling an inhuman moan. I turned back to Chicago and the C.O. but they weren’t there. They had disappeared. Then something caught me around the neck and I spun.

Chicago had dropped the C.O. and come for me, putting me in a headlock. I saw the C.O. lying there, saw the wop beside him, on his side and kicking his feet in this unnatural rhythm, saw the unconscious Sepenski off to the side, his back leaning against the wall and his face and jaw dripping with a steady stream of blood from his broken nose. Then the room started dancing before me as I swung around, trying to break free of Chicago. He wasn’t as big as he thought he was and I sure as hell wasn’t as meek as his last prey had been, and I was able to drag him behind me as I tried to shake him off. He had a good grip, though, and I couldn’t break loose. I could feel my face burning.

I slipped some of my fingers beneath one of his arms and tried to pry it loose, but I couldn’t manage it. So I stepped back with one leg and leaned forward, lifting at least one of his feet off the ground. We were off-kilter dancers, and I felt the balance of our union slipping from his feet to mine. I jerked forward even more, lifting both his feet off the ground, but he wouldn’t let go. I twisted to the side and slammed his body into the wall. He still had me. My temples were pounding and my neck was on fire. I slammed him into the wall again, and again. Everything before me had gone black—I was as blind as my sister. Then I slammed him into the wall a final time and he squealed and his body went limp.

Very limp. The vise around my neck opened wide and his arms fell around me like those of a marionette, lifeless as wood and string. I heard him land behind me in a heap. I was about to turn and look at him when the vision now returning to my eyes struck me with all its gruesome horror.

The C.O., his face red and his eyes wide, was drooling with rage as he knelt there stabbing Sepenski with the bayonet again and again and again. The Pole’s shirt was soaked through with blood and there was blood on the wall behind him and blood spilling onto the ground where he was sitting. Next to him the wop was lying not as he’d been before but on his back, staring up at those two naked lightbulbs through wide and motionless eyes. The C.O. had already dealt with him, had already torn his shirt into wet red shreds, had left him lying in a pool of his own wasted life, widening before my eyes.