A Fine Cast of Characters - J. Dane Tyler [65]
We can’t stop ‘em in urban areas. Too many hiding places and not enough resources. Resources – you know, grunts. Ammo and stuff too, but mostly not enough grunts. They thought about going to a draft, but it got crazy before they could. A lot of communication went down and goddamn Marys keep ‘em comin’. We can’t even kill Marys. They haven’t done anything wrong, don’t even know they’re sick. And brass wants to study ‘em.
I can barely light my cigarette, and writing is hard with my hands shaking like this. Fuck, it’s quiet here. We’re in some rat-hole city. I don’t even know where. Our territory expanded the other day. That means another unit went down and we have to cover their asses. They’re fucking droolers now.
I hate when it’s this quiet. Did I write that already? Droolers make noise but you gotta be close enough to hear ‘em. They could be anywhere, smelling us out, gettin’ hungry.
Yeah, good and hungry.
I’m on sweep point tomorrow.
War is hell.
Over Troubled Waters
Through his tears, Martin saw the bleary light of a streetlamp off to his left. He stood up on liquid bones but managed to stay upright. White spots fired into the black of his eyelids and his ears rang before he sagged against the buttress beside him. He pushed sweat-soaked hair off his brow and pressed his cheek against the metal superstructure. The unyielding cold revived him a bit.
The water boiled and roared past the bridge pilings far below. It would carry his limp, lifeless body away and it would be days, maybe weeks, before anyone found him. Saline stung his eyes, and he shook his head to clear them. No more crying. Time to do what he came to do.
Martin drew a bracing breath and lifted a leg onto the wide, flat railing. He climbed up against the buttress and kept his right hand on it as he stared down into the blackness. He heard the water but it was too far to see in the dark. He closed his eyes to marshal his resolve.
He dangled one foot in front of him in space.
He held his breath.
He lifted his face heavenward.
“You think that’s a good idea?”
The voice startled Martin so hard he almost fell. He wheeled his arms and cried out as adrenaline stung his palms and cheeks. He scrambled, sat hard on the railing, and pushed his back up against the buttress.
“That’s what I thought.” The voice drifted from beyond the streetlamp’s puddle of light. A plume of blue-gray cigarette smoke and the grind of shoe soles on the pavement followed. “If you was serious, you’d’ve done it.”
“Who…who are you?” Martin shielded his eyes with his hand as a figure emerged from the darkness.
The narrow, tall man stopped, hands in his front pants pockets. He rocked back on his heels, adjusted his wide-brimmed hat, and blew another plume of smoke. Martin habitually fanned the cloud and grimaced.
“Oh, don’t like smoke? What do you care? Weren’t you ‘bout to sling your hash over that railing?”
“I said who are you? Mind your own business.”
The man hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and rose on the balls of his feet. “How do you know I ain’t doin’ just that?” His baggy shirtsleeves, rolled to the elbows, rippled in the breeze.
“Wh-what?” Martin blinked, tried to see the face. He caught a hint of stubble beneath the shadow cast by the hat brim. Deep shadows suggested deep lines in the long face. He shook his head, and clambered down from the railing. “Look, I’m just gonna go—”
“’Course you are. That’s what cowards do. They run.”
Martin froze. “Wha—coward? What are you—”
“Oh yeah, coward. Cowardly people do like you. They cop out. Make excuses. Can’t pull their heads out of their asses to see