The Country of Ice Cream Star

67. MY WAR BEGIN

TIME BE FICKLE OBJECTS, AND PERVERSE TO ANY WISH. A GLAD week vanish as it born. Ya, a misery hour will stick and grow, and cannot rid. So, when I counting after, my time in Quantico been eleven days. But when it live, it seeming years of loneliness.

My Sengles keep in far Marias, safe from any roos. Been my own wish, but still I miss them worse than fear expect. Always I forget that they ain’t by, expect them in my want. Will save treats for my greedy eights; remember rooish words for Keepers; will think, when night be darkening, my children wait for me. Cannot learn they gone. Pain never lose its first surprise.

Yo, be frustrations, how my Mariano soldiers ain’t arrive. Always be in conscience that the NewKing coming with — but days go past, and they still marching slow and slow by hidden roads. Get fantasies where the NewKing ridden fast ahead of every troops; step in my White House room like natural rights, and lock the door behind. Then it seem impossibilities, that he ain’t here. Each petty day seem like a wrong eternity.

And I watch the flash of bombs and think of Pasha by the roos. Must suffer on his treachery; guess how he kill my selfen people, like his mally tales. But cannot magine this correct — like ever when I attempt to know his crimes, my mind be blank and strange. Will start with blame, but always end with my same loneliness.

MY MOST RELIEF BE SMALL participations in the war. For this, I must insist like ten damnations. Quanticos want me in no risk — but I ain’t grown to be some pamper queen, use feet for only holding shoes. So, after houry threats and brawls, they give me runner task of bearing messages to Arlington.

For this work, they teaching me to walk the land-mine maze. Truth, this need no genius brains. Is patterns that repeat. Sawdust circles safe to walk around their farther edge, but must cross all squares of bones direct, however you be finicky. I also learn to walk the tunnels underground, in craft of blindness. Stalk sidelong to a rail, and kick with foot to check its distance. Times, I even run — will sprint my heart to reckless nothing, till I tire or trip my feet. And at last, I climb out to the bluish wildness of the day. Breathe and blink the sun joyeuse, before I must climb down again into the dirty trenches.

Arlington trenches be a maze cut deep in rooten earth. Some be shallow, wreathe with old barb wire and barricading trash. But most got walls high overhead. These using for all peaceful life. Get chairs somewhere and eating tables; beds with cleanly sheets beneath a roof of slanting tarp. But, ever their condition be, all trenches stanking unbelievable of rotting meat. Ain’t no trench where no one kilt, nor every scrap can bury nett. When this corpsen stank be fresh, it be particular as a word. The Quanticos burn smelling wood to rid this evil breath. But it be there and always there. Stick in your hair, your clothes, and soon all smells be bad reminders.

First week, my task be safe as any life. This be a time when roos do only bombing from the air. My only fight be ducking into tunnels, coming out again. Wear soldier uniform, but never clad its pinching helmet. Bring Kalash for only her respect.

But when I been in Quantico six days, roos learn the land-mine patterns. They catch some talking prisoner, and every secret told. Then they teach soldats to do this stalking in some hasty lessons, and one day of sunlit frost, they make attack enorme.

HOUR THEY COME, I been in Buckethead trenches, far from any tunnel. Been seeking a difficult captain here, while every smaller Quantico make scabby eyes at me. These children hate all Marianos for our history wars; say courtesies if they must, but cannot make their faces smile. At last, I found a helpful thirteen boy. Been heeding his directions, standing by an eating tent, when roos announce their visit with grenades.

Accustom now to goodly bombs that shiver all the ground, and I ain’t comprehend at first. See smoke in farther trenches; hear a banging, thick and dull. Ya, my thirteen boy scream nonsense words and crouch to handsen knees. Eating tent go flapping wild with children scrambling out, and all the land around-above break deafening with guns.

Yo, while I stand in puzzle, a grenade come chucketing past. Sock to the tenten roof, and slide. Look like a fatly beetle, ain’t nothing frightening to see. But every child go diving vicious, and — for stupid luck — they knock me down.

Feel the explosion as some stinging dirt, a shock in ears. And then I jumping to my feet — in unison of every child — and scramble with them to a farther trench, no thought betook. Got Kalash in hands, but holding wrong. Is loose and skew. Sneeze the dusty air, and follow brainless.

Then be time of running, falling on stomachs, scrambling up and running. The gunfire shift to left, to right, is big and small like changing moods. From yells, I start to know, we heading forward to the Sooner trench, but ain’t know why. I guess no reasons.

Ya, we come to a shallow place, and see the land above. Strange in innocent daylight, be all hundred bigly roos upon, go running-crawling like we be. Most is small in distance — seem like toys of magination, flailing shadowy in the sun. But be two children close and huge. Was crawling to the trench ahead, but now they heel back to us, shoot direct.

Then, without thinking sense, I shoot — yo, every child be shooting wild. Ain’t aiming, only shoot, like slapping a stinging wasp in panic. Be a longer second before I know, Kalash got safety on. Ain’t rid no bullet. And I fall hasty, claw her switch with weirdo fingers, strange to use. Find her three-bullet setting, and relieve. And see a Quantico child lain on his face, his neck torn through. Blood be moving, kicking from his wound. A girl crouch by him, rise again with blooden hands and awful face. Shout high and vicious, “Eddie’s dead!”

Then my body hunch in dirt, is stubborn to no change. Bullets pass overhead like skinny wind. Marines crouch, leap to shoot again, and crouch.

Ain’t know how I decide. But I leap up and shoot feroce. Fall down again and swear my moron brains, that I ain’t aim. Ain’t look. Leap up again, and no one there. Then all Marines be running again. I run. Come to the Sooner corner, and the gunfire louden vicious. A child in front go staggering down.

All Marines jump to the wall before I guess to fear. Ain’t think until the bullets come at me. Then I see the grandy child who shoot, stood in the trench before, and point my gun in hate. Shoot right. And shoot again at nothing. Been only one roo there. He down, is sitting bloody, drop his gun.

The smart Marines know this somehow, and all go plungen forward. Sprint around-upon this gunshot child. Someone shoot him again, is yelling curses, then he run away. I be left one second that remain, is like a silence.

Shot child be black. Ain’t rooish nothing. I seize cold — then see behind, his clothes be roo. Is theirs. It be a slave who fight for them.

In this second, I see his eyes concentrate feroce. Is like he studying his death, look out for any small escape. Then his face lose its thought. Without no visible change, is brainless things.

And I see my Quanticos far ahead, and I go run.

THIS BATTLE LAST for awful time, but be no other blood I seen. We shoot at farther roos, and cannot hit, and duck again. Then be a time we lose somewhere, in trenches no one recognize. Ever we try, the gunfire always shrinking into distance. Ya, somewhere in this time, a twelvish girl turn to me, saying mean, “Who in goddamn hell are you?” When this fact discover, they all giggling high to tears. Girl bow to me in mockery, but an older boy go shove her. Say with laughing voice, “She got a kill, you idiot. What you got?”

When we find the battle again, is done. All children slacking rifles, talking various in nerves. Yo, General Hatter there. Yell orders at anyone he see. And be peculiar to myself, he look the same as in the Situation Room — foxen child with prettieuse mustache, perfect in his clothes. Stand like easy afternoons, and shout like pleasure, like a song he sing to feel his voice.

He yell me back to Pentagon tunnel. I leave through familiar dark, sweat chilling on my skin entire. Get to the White House, and I wash myself for longer time. Keep thinking awful, can be Pasha that I shot. Ain’t even look before I shoot. This thought come back and back, and every time, it be relief that this ain’t been. Is only when I clothe again, be walking out to feed my roos, I mind the dying child himself. Then I sit down in the frosten grass and weep my eyes.

Yo, as I cry there stupid, feeling nothing but my gripping throat, two Quanticos go past. One say to the other nervy, “Wow. Whass wrong with her?”

The other say low-voice, “Oh, thass the New York girl. I think her brother died.”

68. OF ROOS THEIR COMPANY

BEHIND THIS FIGHT, I BE FORBID TO VENTURE OUTSIDE WASHINGTON. How Patricia say, “You get your head blown off, and we all enter a world of crazy.” So my new task be digging trenches new for Washington’s last defense, in safety of the rear.

Chore be at Arlington Cemetery — a field of hundred thousand burial slabs, in whitish lines like crops. This be the final ground that roos must pass to enter Washington, and all Marines be grim, that trenches needful in this backward place. We dig shallow, above the holes old soldiers bury in. Yo, always be some jokes, how we preparing bunkbed graves. A child say to me once, “As many folks dead here as we got living. Kinda puts perspective.”

Between ourself and Arlington’s battles stand the cemetery hill. On its crest be Arlington House — a grandy pillar mansion watching downward like a moon. Ya, is something in this house that never settle in my eyes. Ain’t white, is only pale uncolor. Look like rooish skin. Groom perfect, but ain’t use. It be museum, keeping dead with all its ancient furnitures. Often behind it rise the smoke and rattling jolts of war, and in my mind, I feel it like a staring enemy. Get mally dreams where Pasha living there among all roos — but be an evil Pasha, coming at me violent with red hands.

These days be work and fear and work again, without no kindly word. Marines ain’t glad to strangers. Even my digging crew dislike my help. Ya, worse be fights with generals about the rooish cure. Verna swear it ain’t exist; ya, Hatter say, “Not asking how I can live a hundred years, when people’s shooting at me.” When I remind their promise to trade prisoners, they grim their mouths. Then the Commandant will mention how my soldiers ain’t fought yet — they still march southward, slow and slow. “So your side of the deal remains to be seen.” And Verna add, she glad to trade my roos — once I convince them Marines got nuclears. “Achieve that, there’s some chance the Russians leave, and we don’t all die here.” Ya, when I tell my selfen doubts on nuclears, they rile like wasps — but never offer proof that they be real.

In truth, my only friendship be in my sad company of roos. Be enemies, but they always glad to me. Theirs be my only smiles. Yo, in nights by them, there been bellesse that sing into my mind; a witchery of grieving stars that Washington was for me.

THESE NIGHTS, I sleeping by the roos, now that their guard be gone to fight. Ain’t do this, and some bitter Marine come pour cold water on them, kick them in the face — any viciousness they dare. So I scratch a hammock from storage, sling this on two flagposts. Sleep there in coat and sleepen bag, restless with the sometimes bombs and always muttering of roos.

Be curiosity, how these roos is like and unlike Pasha. How they compare, no roo can answer any question normal. Ask where his town be, roo say, “The moon,” or give a town name made of swears. Ask what they eat in Russia, they eat dirt, and dirt be healthier than no food — why crops grow in it. Ya, while this roo be talking, his neighbor roo will mutter sorry, “Lies, lies.” But he give no better sense, got only other lies.

Any spying dabbit hopeless in this swamp of fables. Can ask on war, or on their freezing toes — they answer foolishness, and gladden if I smile. Yo, ever I mention nuclears, the roos go laughing simple. Try every gambit, but it fail embarrassing. Once I forcing actual tears, say weepen, “Wish it being jokes. Can die in this myself.” But all I gain, they rival to comfort me that it be jokes; Marines got no more nuclears than they got wings to fly.

First roo from the left be yellow Vitya, mouse of spooking. Every bombing, Vitya sob and twist against his pole — yet he suffer beatings from Marines in courage silence. Next be Kirill Filth, whose only talk be sexy feats he done, and like to do with me. His favorite game be to insist he got a pain between his legs, and ask me that I check it. Another evil mouth be my Bashir, but his unpleasantries be hatreds on the other roos. Is cowards all, gross with unwash. Got no right morals in their brains that wreck with love diseases. He always explain, he ain’t no proper Russian, is Kavkazky peoples — vally children who behaving decent like no roo.

Two roos vanish after my first night. If they talk obedient, or they kilt, I never learn. They leave a space where I sit sometimes, leaning to a flagpost. This be between Bashir Hate Everyone and my white-hair Polkovnik, child who be my closest problem in these nights of clamoring war.

I LEARN HIS THREE-PART name — Mikhail Arkadievich Razin — and I call him this sometimes to try its tangles in my mouth. But in my mind, he always be Polkovnik, rooish word for “colonel.” Ya, even when we speaking English, he call me Korolyeva — roo for “queen.” We say these names in mockery, and they grow their selfen meaning in our hours of strange unfriendship. Polkovnik be Polkovnik, Korolyeva be Korolyeva — and in my mind, these two still struggle, through all times and darkness, on a field of grass, backs to a tower monument of grief, while angry wars of evil and bonesse burn in the sky around.

Polkovnik Razin be an upright child, sit proper as a hawk. Got most no lips to see. His reddish face be sharp in all its parts. In sunlight, hair be grayer than is white, and eyes be normal brown. These eyes be ponds of sentiment — sympathy and love joyeuse. But always his sharp mouth be harsh in plans.

He never waste his breath to lie. Ask a question he ain’t like, and he keep only silence, disappointing in his eyes. Then he ask something of myself, like demonstration how these questions meant to be. First times he do this, Bashir go roo, “Ain’t need to talk to him.” Ya, when I answer the question, Bashir roo disapproving, “Mistake to talk.”

I ain’t tell Razin nothing on the fighting, nor he ask to this. Ours be chatterie of nothings — hounds and blizzards, fatly meals we had in better time. Ya, Polkovnik be a hunter, and we share some vally tactics from our wars on deer. And most, he always ask about my personal day, my moods. Talk sympathy, and blame Marines for their unkindness to myself.

Can guess without Bashir, Polkovnik got no honest love for me. Ever we friendly grown, can always smell his own intentions. For this mistrust, I keep my privy informations silent. Ain’t speak of Sengle town, nor any child important to my love. Ain’t mention that I known no roo before. Talk like I always living in Marias, without love nor hatred; like I first discover problems when I come to Quantico.

But he the only Russian speaking English fit for conversation. So our talks become my lonely habit.

FIRST TIME HE FISH A SECRET from me, be the day I first do digging work in Arlington. I come besweaten muddy, wearing soldier garb, to feed the roos. Must hunker to give them their corn crackers — only food the Quanticos will allow to prisoners. Then roos got contradictory moods. Vitya complaining of his sores; Kirill keep trying to suck my fingers. Bashir must tell me seven times how Kirill ain’t need feeding. Be wasteful, since Bashir will only kill him, once they free. “Ain’t need to feed this person, Masha. Listen to your friend, ain’t needful.” He name Kirill insult definitions I ain’t comprehend, while I be sat with cracker in my hand, in dumb exhaustion.

Come last to Polkovnik Razin, who watch clever in his humor. He say nothing while I feed him, only give me looks of mockery thanks. Is like this feeding be a joke we doing for some fool’s belief.

But when the crackers finish, and I buffing off my palms from crumbs, he say, “My Korolyeva, why such dirty clothes?”

I say shortish, “Come from working.”

“Wrong,” he say ready. “Beautiful girl must be in diamonds, pretty dresses. Should not work.”

“Need no mally diamonds,” I say, rising tired away.

“No, I explain. Come, come talk.”

Then my heart catch wistful. Be sad from hating eyes, is craving to this easiness. So I settle by him, fetch a cigarette in gratty rest.

First he go in explanations, how bell females precieuse. Be unlasting flowers, but ain’t nothing on the Earth so good. God made diamonds, silk, for only marvels like myself. But truth — he add in sorrow — my bellesse be lonely circumstance. Males be always wanting from me. Ya, from girls, be envy.

This envy word be Razin’s favorite joy. All children envy me, and I be blind that I ain’t notice. He like to say the rooish word—zaveest—and sigh, like he regret these evils. I heed polite, but know, these Quanticos zaveesting nothing. Theirs be simple hate.

Now he continue, pondering, “And difficult to be Korolyeva, lonely.”

“Nay,” I say unthinking. “Is lonely when it ain’t no closer people.”

“Closer? Who be closer to you, Korolyeva? Who you miss?”

Feel how he brighten, like a hound that get a scrap and look for more. But I be in tired wits. Say thoughtless, “Got a brother.”

“Older brother?”

I fret my shoulders. “Sure.”

“And he fights now. I understand. Why you always worry.”

Relieve in me somehow, he guess this wrong. “Sure you right, Polkovnik,” I say friendly. “Worry bad.”

“But is not necessary, Korolyeva. Listen, most injuries are nothing. Go home, rest. Is nothing. And many never injure. Look, I am fifty-two years. How many wars I was, I do not know.”

It soften in me, this can be real kindness. I think of Mamadou, and guess he be the sort that never injure. And when I look to my Polkovnik, his eyes be normal sad.

Then he say, “How he is, this brother?”

“How brothers be.” I shrug.

“But it is different, I think, without a father. A mother. You see?”

“Nay, how is different?”

This dabbit into longer talks. He telling how, in Russia, brothers rival for their parents’ love. Yo, I ask how it be to have these parents, when you grown fifteen. This lazy on some pleasant time, while evening darken to the moon, begin to grow its first white stars.

But as we come to yawning hour, Polkovnik say like sudden thought, “Your brother now, he talks to you?”

Then my suspicion wake. “Got no means to talk. He done it, if he can.”

“No, always are means, my Korolyeva,” he say like surprise. “Have radios here?”

“Ain’t your problems, what we got. He got no means, and all it is.”

“You defend him, yes. But he should talk to you. No, I am not sure I like this brother enough for you.”

I heed this quiet, smoking, looking at my townie stars. Then I say, in colder voice, “Best we ain’t speak of him.”

He sigh low. “You don’t trust. Of course, you are smart to doubt. But I only like you. And not only beautiful girls are lonely. Sometimes, old unbeautiful men are lonely also.”

BEHIND THIS, POLKOVNIK RAZIN always ask if I heard from my brother. Make face of disapproving sorrow, when I say I ain’t. Yo, I begin to notice, all his talks be pities somehow. Pity my risk, my loneliness; pity that I be short for life. He even giving pities, how the Russians do this cruel war — say he be soldat and cannot choose, but still is sorry. In this, he mention Europe, older enemy of Russians. “This war, they will say it is a crime, but still they do not help you. Yes, it is a bad world, Korolyeva. It is a bad world to be weak.”

And once he say, like helpful notion, I should work for roos. “It is good for Russians that some Americans speak for them, you know. And you are Korolyeva, important person. They will make very beautiful life for you.” When I give scorn to this proposal, he get pity eyes again. “I am sorry it is insulting. Of course, you will never do this. You are a good person, but it is now unlucky.”

HOW IT COME WORSE, he learning pox on me in his interrogations.

Other roos be mostly left to rot in easy misery, but Polkovnik Razin dragging off to question every day. From these conversations, he return with ugly bruises. Yo, as the war grow in unluck, Marines try worser cruelties. Soon he come with fingers broken; fingertips lost all their nails. Can notice he sit skew, breathe shallow, from hurts beneath his clothes. When I ask on this, he answer jokes. “They exercise their arms on me, good for their health.” Or, “It is age. Do not grow old, Korolyeva, you see it is ugly.”

From this, Quanticos learn exactly nothing. How Patricia tell, the Polkovnik stubborn in unconsequence. Ask him warry questions, and he say, “You like to fish?” Then come some torture cruelty, and he come gasping up and say, “I am never lucky to fish, me.”

They hate him worse for this. Be only dreaming when they murder him to a respecting silence. Still, is times Marines distract. Yappit on fishing for some minutes before they gather hatred. And somewhere in this talk, he catching gossips on myself.

THIS CONVERSATION COME the day my Marianos start their war. They gathern at last in easter woods behind the roo positions. The night before their first attack, I travel through the tunnels to speak to them in couragement.

This be a speech of their goliath deeds that every years remember. Tell how all children, ya myself, be praying for their life feroce. I wear Maria dress and speak impressive in my reina voice — stood on a trucken rear, with fidgeting pines and oaks around, the vally stars in bright attendance. Keep watching, but in all these thousands, cannot find Mamadou nor Crow. Be only shadows-shadows, blurry in the forest night; an everywhere that say “Amen,” and stand with sudden leap of darkness.

This night, my sleep be on a bicycle cart, returning through the tunnels. Keep waking to the tunnel thumping strange from bombs above; the speckle sound of crumbles falling in the wettish blackness. Come out and straggle to the monument with hopes to sleep some more — but sky be dawning bright as I sit heavy to my flagpost. Then Polkovnik Razin call out soft, “Korolyeva. Come, please. Talk to me.”

I sigh exhausting. “Already hear you better than I want.”

“No,” he say in injury voice. “It is personal matter. Please.”

I look to him reluctant. In this morning light, can see results of all his questionings. Face be bruise and blood, is swollen weird on its left side. Even his ears be colorn wrong. Look like he painten in cosmetic by a pranking little. But he look to me with his same eyes of loving friendship.

I get up, frustrating in my ruth. Sit frogleg by. The wind be sharp, and we both wearing furry soldier hats. Remember to me queery, how I putting his hat on like mine.

He narrow on me kind. “I want to say I am sorry, Korolyeva. They told about your brother dying.”

Almost, I stand again. But I be tired for demonstrations. “Can leave this,” I say hoarse. “Ain’t need your sorries anyhow.”

“No, please listen. It is this. My brother died when I was sixteen also.”

I narrow to him cautieuse. His hounden eyes gone tired in sorrow. Even his unlips be sad, look most like human mouth.

“Your brother,” I say soft.

“He was older also. It is a terrible thing, Korolyeva. It is something, you know, that I still hurt.”

Then he begin to tell the story of his brother’s killing. Go into rooish as he talk, like he lose conscience of his speech. Is something about a cat his brother keep, a boat, then all confusions. His eyes be far in memory. Times, he smile his hurting mouth, like greeting to this past.

Last he say, in careful English, “It was my first death.” He turn his loving eyes to me, seek comprehending in my face.

At this moment, Bashir call sudden, “Lies!”

I startle, ya Polkovnik’s face change wonderful in hatred. But he only muttern, “Fool.” Look to me like he expect agreement.

I say stiff, “Be sorry. Cannot want to talk on this.”

“You said.” He frown, think on my face. “You are somehow cold. I understand. My brother could not save. It is different.”

“Different, I ain’t know.”

“Yes. For you, it is more bitter. If your brother was with us, we save him.”

“Shee. Roos never going to help him. Nor I ain’t love you for this fact.”

He nod. “Too late. If it was not these foolish wars, perhaps.”

Now I clench my hands, begin to stand up to my feet.

“It is a hard death,” he say on. “I am sorry you must see this.”

I narrow on his ruin face. “I guess your death be also hard.”

His eyes light with natural pleasure. “Good, Korolyeva. Yes, they will kill me. Why we cannot say this? But, before my death, I hope you will still talk to me sometimes. And perhaps you cry a little when I am dead? Yes, you will cry together — you and Pasha.”

Almost, I ask how he know Pasha’s name. Why Pasha cry for him, how he know anything of Pasha. But my better sense return. I turn and stalk away, all furies prickling in my heart.

69. OF BATTLE VARIOUS

THIS MORNING WHEN MY MARIANOS JOIN BE OUR BEST HOPE. MY soldiers coming in surprise against the rooish rear, while Quanticos attack the front. How all armies mix together, the rooish planes ain’t useful much. Can bomb themself mistaken. And sure they never prepare against the numbers that we bring.

Every child be in this fight. I even go myself to hold a trench in Arlington Cemetery, with petty eights and injure soldiers. Ain’t expect no fighting there, but Quanticos want a last protection, if roos break toward the deeper city.

These trenchen hours be nerves and nothing. In this backward place, we get no news. The only word be gunfire. I lurk in mud with my Kalash, agony my freezing toes. Times, my attention tire, and I watch idle at an antler beetle, crawling woozy in the dirt. Ease my nerves by reading burial stones of these old dead. My hiding stone say only BENNETT, but be stones beyond with various informations — mystery names of places gone, like Arizona and Wisconsin; prettieuse ranks like Purple Heart.

Then I drift back to fear, heed to the guns like I can read their voice. Mamadou, Crow, my friendly guards — each shot I hear can be their murder. Arlington House stare from the hill, and always my nonsense heart insist, this edifice be evil. Is like a mally warning from a future where we all be gone.

Yo, as the hours go long, my mind stray back to the Polkovnik. Worry to myself what he can mean, that Pasha cry for him. Want to believe, was only lies. Traps, like all his brother talk. Try to decide, I never go to feed the roos tonight. They hunger for one day, be nothing I ain’t done myself. But my misery know, I going to go. I going to ask.

And children around me talk, and hush in heeding, and talk again. Once a girl call back in panic, “They’re coming! I can see!” Then we all snap ready. Grit a panic time, where every rustling leaf become stampeding Russians. At last, a child shoot into nothing, and others join along, create a wave of feary noise. But this pass to quiet again, and we guess slow, all been mistake. Then is queery disappointment, how this terror cheat away. Leave us stood the same, with foolish smiles, sweat chilling on our necks.

To dusk, the distant gunfire hush. Is only smoke remaining, hazing thinner in the purplen sky. Then children gripe impatient, how this silence tell us nothing. Ain’t know if we win or die entire. All be gone in argument, if we should send a scout, when a raggity troop appear on hill above.

See their uniforms of Marine, and all the eights go larming glad. Some leap from trenches, start to run exciting toward these friends. But as these soldiers straggle closer, can see they carry injure children. And they become a thicker swarm — dozen and dozen pairs, each with a blooden load between. When they come to hearing, they yell angry for our help. Ease their burdens to the ground, and run back up the hill.

Hurt soldiers carry on a sort of hammock, slung on poles. With this weight, it be a weary journey to the hospital, across the bridge at Washington. Most our carriers be eights, and it become a straining progress of some hundred scattern littles, with load of screams and beggary. I carry with an injure girl, got bandages around her chest that redden slow with this long effort. She muttern once, confiding, “That broken rib keeps shifting, ow. But it idden kilt me if I’m still complaining, right?”

First child we carry got a bandage wrap around his hips. Ever a step misgive, he gasp. Is sweating greedy in the cold. Soon he only begging that we put him down, ain’t hear no reasons. When we come to the hospital and set him on the floor, he keep on asking that we put him down, as we turn sad away.

We go back for another, and meet a wave of limping soldiers, coming back with lesser hurts. These call informations to us, but each tale be different. We winning bone, or losing awful, or no person going to know. Only certainty they agree, Marines been dying generose. “It’s a lot of blood,” one say, with feary laugh. “Don’t got many more days like that, I don’t think.”

We carry two more children as the darkness clearing into stars. First be a girl with blooden chest, skree agonies when we lift her. She grip her arms against her sides, tears running from her scary eyes. Halfway on the bridge, she settle to a sudden calm, and when we reach the hospital’s lights, I realize she dead, with tears still bright upon her cheeks.

Last injure soldier got a shattern foot, and sob this journey through. Say angry, “Yeah, it’s only a foot. Got two. I got another foot, I know that.” Then he go telling ugly stories, children that been kilt. At last, the girl I carry with say, “I don’t want to hear that, please. I leave you right here on this bridge, I will.” Then he go hush, smile to me pologetic through his tears.

This final trip, I staggering tired. First time since my trip from Massa, I feel Kalash her weight, wish I can rid her. And it come ever stranger, how we creep across the river like a different river of moaning pain; how the full-grown moon stare down unheeding on our struggle. Some time I weep without no thought. Grieve these screaming-muttering children; grieve my Marianos that ain’t got no warmer hospital. Magine how Crow or Mamadou carry so, and if they scream. If they be silent, close to death.

When this work finish, I go to my White House room to wash. Then in the bathing water, I break sobbing for Crow and Mamadou — although it feel like mally luck to weep, before I know they hurt. Then I ain’t want my soldier clothes. They burden with this night of screams, like all their dirt be blood. So I put on Maria dress. Clad soldier boots and coat to this and — like I known I will — I head out to the monument. Fetch prisoners their sorry meal.

RUSSIANS WAITING LIKE THEY EVER BEEN, in hurting boredom. As I come to Vitya, I even feel a gratty peace to this. Yo, it seem some ridiculous, I ever fearing talk from no Polkovnik. Whatever he say on Pasha, it ain’t guns. Ain’t harm me anyhow.

Vitya-Kirill quiet, and I do this work with habit ease. Time I coming to Bashir, I yawning to my task. He hush moody like the rest. Take his water and crackers with an inward heedlessness. Only when I stand to leave, he roo up sudden, “Masha, wait.”

When I pause, he struggle to stand, his handcuffs scraping on the flagpost. Blanket fall clumsy at his feet. This be a child with hawken face, is mostly nose and blackish eyebrows. Feel queery, he now tall above me, with his looks farouche.

He roo in almost whisper, “Want to thank you.”

“Need no thanks,” I say confusen.

“Nay. Want you to know, I preciate this. Can be, ain’t other chance to say.”

A moment, I think foolish that he know some secrets of the war. That roos be here tomorrow, kill us all into one heap. I say, with nervy laugh, “Foo, how it be no other chance?”

“Mikhail Arkadievich.” He nod toward my white Polkovnik. “Come back from questioning with word. They trade us back tonight.”

I catch a startle breath. “To Russians?”

“Yes. We going back.” Then Bashir nod again, toward where I see in farther dimness, my Polkovnik lift his head. “Except for him. They kill him, send his body back. They tell him this.”

First moment, I feel only angry. They trading prisoners, should be for the cure. Ya, they should tell myself. Nor they murder my Polkovnik, sans no ask. He mine. But soon my rage become a weakness in my tired nerves. Truth, Quanticos do how they like. Ain’t going to heed me nothing.

I say soft, “But what they trade for?”

“Ain’t know. Ever they think they want.”

“So you free.” I smile unhappy. “Can kill Kirill now.”

“Masha,” he say darker, like he disapprove my joking, “you go back to New York now. Be many Kirills in this army, you comprehend? Be bad here, when we come.”

“Foo. Ain’t necessary you win this war.”

“Nay, you must go. You go.”

I look by to my white Polkovnik. Bashir’s eyes follow my sorry gaze, and he catch breath impatient.

“I only want to thank you,” he say shortish. “I thank you, since these vermin ain’t.” Then he shift down his post again, sit frowning to the grass. I wrap his blanket thoughtless to him, while he keep stiff in anger, like he now resent this help.

I go on, hugging the brock of water close, my spirit strange. Polkovnik watch me coming with his looks of loving mischief. Ya, like he always do, he take his drink and food before he speak. Ain’t want to be himself until this humble task be by.

Then he say quiet, “Bashir, he told you?”

“Sure.”

Polkovnik nod. Frown past me, scout into some narrow thought. I stand away, gone thinking how I argue for his life. Be magining some trade I do — what petty use I still can give — when his voice come curiose. “Korolyeva — I can see your dress?”

I look to him, surprise. In this moonlight, all his cuts look black like clinging dirt. One eye swollen blind. His beard got burns into its whitish scrabble. And he say softer, “Please, you take off the coat a minute. Show me.”

Come pudy somewhat, but my natural vanity rise against. So I unbutton this coat and pull it off onto one arm. Watch careless to him, while the cold seize feary in my skin. Ya, he look with preciation in his one good eye.

He say, “Yes, you are beautiful, Korolyeva. Pasha is very lucky.”

“Shee.” I scrabble to put my coat on. “How you even knowing Pasha? Shee you always talk.”

“I am his officer once.” Polkovnik smile his hounden eyes. “But Pasha Toporov everyone knows. He is a little famous, I think. Now, please, it is right we talk. Please sit.”

I sit without no cavil. Even feel joyeuse to skirmish, like this be a pleasure I been waiting for all hours. Fish a cigarette from my coat while he love eyes at me.

“So, my Korolyeva,” he say. “Pasha Toporov and you. Tell me.”

“Nay, what they told yourself?”

“He is your husband. In your religion, he is Jesus.” He smile thin. “It’s funny to me, you understand.”

“Sure. Been funny to us also.”

“Yes, you aren’t from there. I heard.” He raise eyebrows curiose. “You took Toporov there with you?”

I light my cigarette with showing carelessness. “Took from where? I guess you heard this also.”

“They said Massachusetts. Yes?”

“Sure,” I say. “We catch him there, ya been another Russian we kilt.”

“Yes.” He smile some knowing mischief. “You didn’t like him so much?”

“Ain’t like no Russians in Massa.”

He laugh. “But Pasha Toporov, this you like.”

“Shee, ain’t necessary I kill all children I ain’t like. See Kirill living there.”

“Of course, Korolyeva. But no one kills Pasha Toporov.”

Can feel his poison start to come. I draw some smoke and hold it hungry, looking to the winter grass, its shab and mudden baldness. Get a chilly memory of the injure soldiers on the bridge.

“Vampire,” say the Polkovnik soft. “What we call him.”

I shrug unliking. “Ya, he told this.”

“Of course, he tells his wife. Secrets of the bed.”

“Foo. Can be, they told you Maria do no sex. Ain’t normal wives.”

He laugh bright at this, say something rooish I ain’t comprehend. I frown to him, and he take breath. “I’m sorry, Korolyeva. It’s only difficult to believe. The man I knew, he wasn’t so respecting.”

“Pasha got other girls he doing with. Ain’t mysteries this.”

“But he left you pure. I understand.”

“This be your talk? I want some filth, got Kirill.”

“No, listen.” He shake his head, eyes easing soft. “I die in the morning. It is no reason I keep secrets now. And I think you need advice, since Toporov is going to live. The vampire always lives.”

Want to give him nay, but this word secrets catch my need. “Sure, be advice. Ain’t caviling this.”

Polkovnik nod like courtesy. “So, first, it is a question. Your city, it fights here for nothing. It is a difficult problem for me, I cannot understand. But when I learn Toporov is there, it is now very easy. So I ask you, Korolyeva, it is Toporov gives this plan?”

I sour my face. “Heard no advice.”

“You don’t like to discuss.” He smile. “But please, I tell you, the Russians are very happy with this plan. It is difficult to take a city, you know. Very difficult war like this. So Toporov thinks, he brings what the Russians want. The soldiers only. Your soldiers come to open land, they catch very easy here. And then your city is left. No soldiers there, we walk in like our home. It is wonderful like gift.”

“But my soldiers rid your Russians,” I say thin. “Forgotten this.”

“It is brave to say, Korolyeva. Only, it is sad to be not true. But I will tell Toporov’s story. It is very necessary for you, I think.” He sit back to his pole with face of easy satisfaction. “First, he is from Volgograd. Perhaps he told you?”

“Sure,” I lie. “He told.”

“But Volgograd says nothing to you?”

“Nay. Been to no Russia.”

“We start with history lesson, so.” Polkovnik nod with smilen eyes. “History, my Korolyeva. Our Russia fought two wars with Europe. The second war was foolish and small. It is not important for us. But the first was serious war. We thought then, we take Europe. It is not a big army there. But rich. It is wonderful war, everyone is thinking.

“For few months, we win. The Europeans are afraid. They threaten they will fight with nuclear missiles. But we did not believe, because we win very well, and it is no nuclear missiles. We believe they cannot reach us with this, if they have. It is not so easy to do.

“So they make demonstration. They bomb three cities. Chelyabinsk, Tula, Volgograd. It is not large cities, you see, it is more compassionate. Only two hundred thousand people die.” He give his pleasuring smile, make all his injuries seem like harmless paint. “You understand nuclear bombs? I think, Marines don’t understand this much.”

“Know somewhat.”

“So you will know. These cities are gone. Toporov was fourteen. This day, he is in the forest alone. Walk on a small river, it is hills both sides. All this — fire, wind — pass over him. Parents, every person he knew, they are killed.”

I stare on at the grass, show no impression. Only a coldness shiver in my breath.

“Toporov, he has nothing,” Polkovnik say in easy voice. “So he goes in the army. Good. It is what a boy will do. And he is intelligent boy, works hard. He does better school of military. Everything right, he does this.

“Then he goes to Africa, eight years. You understand — the war here, it is unpleasant. What Africa was, you don’t imagine. Some battles, a thousand soldiers go, it is five come back. And many die very badly. A Russian is taken by Africans, it will be many hours to die. What we find, it does not look like a person. And sometimes, was no food, no good water. So it was common, Africans and Russians eat each other. Our soldiers hunt for food — it is animals, or it is people, the same. It was a joke we had, when a soldier dies and goes to hell, he does not notice. Eight years so — but the vampire lives.

“Then he comes to fight for me in Venezuela. First, it is very good. Not like Africa. We are only taking people to work for us. Help them from their sickness, feed them. But, Korolyeva, I don’t know why it is so, our workers are never grateful. Some weeks, some months, and they always try to kill us.

“My men there, was two hundred twenty soldiers. Who is alive now — four. Three, we leave in a plane. We think Toporov is dead like others. We come back two months after, an army we bring. We find the vampire fat and whole, at our old camp. He has a hundred Venezuelans there, they call him ‘Papa.’ They are feeding him, give him girls. They are dead now also.

“And now I learn he comes to New York, where we lose every man we send. But the vampire lives. Always, the vampire lives. How you think he does this, Korolyeva?”

Here he begin to go in stories of all Pasha’s crimes. These mostly be familiar — what Pasha telling me himself. But the tales be different in this hearing. I got the injure Marines fresh in my memory. Feel how the children kilt by Pasha scream the same, die in their terror. Polkovnik talk on cold, and the world become a vasty darkness, an ever night of weeping children, while the moon watch down its one cold eye.

At last, the Polkovnik say, “But I am boring you. I will not tell the other stories, they are alike. And this is old for you, I see. Of course he told his wife.”

“Sure,” I say. “He killing people. Be soldat, is what he do.”

“Soldat?” Polkovnik laughing almost happy at this word. “Korolyeva, this person is an officer of spetsnaz.”

I shrug. Look back at my Bashir, who lean against his post, stare empty. Can wish he say his angry rejections now.

“I see,” Polkovnik say in humor. “This also tells nothing to you. So I will help you. For Toporov, spetsnaz means, his work is to lie to people like you. You do what he says, it is useful. When you do not, it is something wrong, he can kill you very easily. This is his education to do.

“He is very good at this work, people trust him very much. I will tell you my belief for why. People meet Toporov, they see the sad young boy from Volgograd. He has lost his parents, he is very sad and it is pitiable. But this finishes badly, I am sorry. These people always die, because the man Toporov is something other.

“Now you are sad, your husband is going back to Russians. I am dying, so I tell you for a gift — he never left the Russians. What he did with you, it is work. When he is Jesus, he does this for Russians. Talks love to you, for Russians. And if it is good for Russians, he kills you and all your people in one night. And sleeps well after. Who your Jesus is.”

I heed this with a creeping in my blood. Is certain, Pasha always lie. And when he change his stories, say, “Now this be truth,” I go believe. Ya, first chance that be, he skit to Russians. Rid me with no word. And in this inkling cold, I doubt my war from its beginnings. Been Pasha’s plan, Polkovnik right. Bring all my children to this hell, and never I mistrust, how Pasha be a Russian self.

Then all suspicions drop into a vasty loneliness. Magine how Pasha been fourteen. Step from this river ditch to see the world gone into nothing. An everywhere of fire, an everywhere of blowing dust. His people become a burning smut; his town blow in the sky as pointless dirt. Yo, cannot watch this fire forever. Cannot only feel this fear. Come time, he must decide, where he will go. Walk away somehow, and be a vampire, wrong for life — so I despair, and watch the Polkovnik’s ruin face, his sorrow eyes.

“But he gone back,” I say, peculiar hoarse. “Ain’t need these stories.”

“You need.” Polkovnik nod. “Soon Russians take the city.”

“Or they ain’t.”

“No, it will be. You know. So, here is advice. Don’t trust Toporov that he keeps you safe. My Russians take a city, it isn’t good for girls. You understand. And if Toporov finds you — you learn what he is some harder way.”

“Nay, you saying Pasha kill me? Why?”

Polkovnik sigh. “I’m sorry, what I must say is ugly. Maybe he kills you, when he finishes. Many soldiers do so. Toporov only is the worst. You understand?”

“Rape?” I laugh mishearten. “I hunt alone with him all weeks. Sleep in a room together. He want to rape me, need no monthen wait.”

“You fed him? You protected him? Yes, I think. But now, you have very little to give him. One thing.”

“Nay, you disgusting, all it is. Like talking to a pig disease.”

This he ignore. Say kindly, “Of course, I will protect you myself, if I am there. It is my pleasure to do. And I am colonel, it is my power. You know, I am not a perfect man, but I am not Toporov.”

Then my whole blood chill in relief. I laugh out good. “Tell every pox on Pasha, so I save your life. It needing this!”

“Yes, Korolyeva.” He smile easy. “It interests us both that I am living then. It does.”

“Interest me nothing, child. Ain’t fearing Russians much.”

“You are so foolish? I don’t think.”

“Ain’t need you nor Toporov Pasha. I ain’t be here, tomorrow day. I go back to Marias.”

Be lying for simple rudeness, but as I speak, it tempt in mind. Will go back. Sleep my misery with my Sengles, telephone cocktails. All this awful be forgot.

He nod like he expecting this. “Good. This is much safer. But you notice, I am asking for my life. So I give you other reason. When this war finishes, if we are both living, I give you medicine.”

I still be dreaming on Marias. Take a painful minute before I comprehend his meaning.

Then my heart go agony red. I look by to the moon, lorn in stupidity.

Polkovnik Razin say, “It stops your disease, you understand. I can send you medicine for — what I think — ten people.”

“Nay,” I say lost. “My city be hundred thousands. Come there with ten cures, what this will be?”

“It is what I can give. You see, I don’t lie to you. And again, it is my pleasure to do.”

I try to think objections, but my heart run to my Sengles. El Mayor. Ya, Mamadou seventeen, can sicken any month. Nor I want Polkovnik Razin dead. Is easy trades.

But my mind grip sudden dark. Realize again, the Quanticos kill whoever they dislike. Can beg, but cannot force them. Be no help.

For a longer minute, I think desperations to this problem. How I cut his handcuffs. Rob the key, wherever it kept. But every plan be old. Consider all this already, any time the Quanticos hurt him worse. Cannot and cannot.

“Nay, brother,” I say low. “Will ask. But they ain’t going to heed.”

Been gazing past him to the monument, and when I look again, the Polkovnik’s face be different strange. First I seen, his cuts and bruises look like they belong to him. Can see all weeks he living so, in aching cold and torture. How he despair his life these days. How I been his one chance.

I say low in ruth, “Why you ain’t told them what they need?”

“You are an idiot, all the same.” He narrow on me tired. “Dear idiot, I told them what I know, when I first was taken. But it wasn’t what they need. It was the truth. So this must continue until I help them, or I die. But there is no help for them. There are not even happy lies, lies they can believe. There is no help.”

A wind kick up, and draw a sounding flutter through the flags. We both tense while this noise pass like soft gunfire. Then the wind die sudden. Can feel its silence in the grassen distances around.

I say soft, “Ya, see this.”

“Good. Please, no more idiot questions. Instead, I ask a favor.”

“Favor?”

“It is not bad, Korolyeva. I really think you will not offend.” His eyes light in humor. “I only wish, you touch my face.”

I startle into smiling. Ya, he smile back. The creases deepen in his cheeks, his swollen lips go skew. “Yes, I am a person,” he say mischieviose. “It embarrasses you, of course. A person is always an embarrassment.”

“Foo, ain’t that. Is only queery.”

We regard each other for a moment, smiling strange. Then I take my hand out of my pocket. Pause in sudden worry, he can bite this hand somehow. But he be still. Look to my face with quiet expectation. And I reach out careful, touch my palm against his cheek.

His face be cold in this dark winter, rough with scrabble beard. Ain’t even feel like skin, is all a harshness. But he lean gentle to my palm. Half shut his eyes, take breath in deep. Then slow, his eyes grow tears.

I almost startle my hand away. But I hold. Watch how these eyes weep actual water. How he swallow his throat and grit his mouth against his tears.

Then he turn his face quick, kiss against my palm. Lean back away. Say hoarsen, “Thank you, Korolyeva.”

I put my hand back in my pocket. It feel peculiar there, is like he left some gift into my palm. “Yo, what your crimes been?” I say soft. “Known all Pasha’s awfulness before.”

His tearen eyes catch humor. “No, please. I am still hoping you will cry for me.”

“Foo, ain’t worry that. I cry for any moron thing. It be no flatteries, but I going to cry.”

He laugh. “I also. You can see. But I thank your cheap tears, still. And I tell you more. I trade you favor for your touch. Perhaps they will not kill me. It can be only threats, you know. If we are both living tomorrow, I give your medicine.”

“Bone, be trade,” I say in reckless mood. “If we both living, I come get this medicine.”

“Yes, come. I will show you our beautiful camp. And I give you medicine for all the world. Then you work for us, it is no more problems. We eat good suppers together, good conversation. Perhaps we are going to beach.”

Be readying some nonsense answer, when a notion wake. Is something of my Pasha Vampire, standing from his ditch to see the nuclear dust and fire. How Europeans send this bomb. Thought come like jokes at first, but sharpen to a vally foxerie.

“But it is serious,” he say on. “I give you what I can. It is a little problem to do. But how I am looking, I can ask many things. I am the wounded hero.”

Then my lying mind be ready. I say, “Be gratty for your wish. But truth, it be no chance to live.”

“No.” He make a chiding face. “I am being happy now.”

“Nay, heed. Can be, Marines ain’t kill you now. But it be other problems.”

“What problems? Not to die, I do not mind other problems.”

I look back to the monument and swallow nerviose. “Sure you know, your Russians ain’t the only people with all science.”

His face puzzle slightish. “It is a big world, yes. But how is this important now?”

“You know. It be Europe.”

“Korolyeva,” he say in pity voice, “I think this is Toporov’s lies. This is the Europeans will save you? They come from sky like heroes? No, I know this lie.”

“Foo, what they say—” I catch my voice. Make face of caution nerves.

“Who says?” His voice come soft polite.

I keep frowning, thinking hasty, how this got to sound. But, before I start, he say, “Europe is a nice place. Rich, safe — it is wonderful place. But they have no interest in you. You think, because their skin is black, they care for you? You are again an idiot.”

I shrug. “Can be, they never care for us. But they hate you enough.”

“Korolyeva, I am tired for riddles. There are Europeans?”

“Sure, they in Marias now.” I fish another cigarette, light this with showing nerves.

Polkovnik laugh up sudden, “You are saying, they give you help already? Korolyeva, you are a bad liar.”

“Nay, Polkovnik,” I say sarcasty. “Quanticos been making nuclear weapons all themself.” I suck my cigarette and spit out smoke, heed to his heavy silence. Then I go on, with sounding anger, “Sure, Europeans want this quiet. But I ain’t caring for their secrets now, no sho. Be late for this.”

When I look to him, his face be strange in pondering. He say, “I understand. You let me live, and I tell my people Europeans gave you nuclear bombs. What Marines threaten, it is always true. So now we must run away, or it is nuclear bomb. I understand?”

“Ya, tell. Be gratty that you live. But I ain’t guess your morons heed. Must die before they trust.”

He narrow on me with some pleasure in his beaten face. Eyes lost their loving stickiness, is clear with interesting mind.

At last, his face break into humor. “Korolyeva, I will tell you the most true thing. I am not interested if your story is lies. It is a good story, and I will tell it. And also, I will send you medicine. A girl like you must live.”

“Must interest you,” I say nervy, “if you all be kilt.”

“My interest is not necessary, please. It is our rules to tell such stories. It is intelligence, you know. And this — someone will listen. Yes, it is a very wonderful story.”

I narrow on his ruin face, but cannot feel no certainty. Try thinking how I better my lie. But what I known of Europe, nuclears, mostly be an ignorance.

At last, I only say, “If it come wrong, I cry for you. Swear this.”

“No, you will not have to cry.” He smile into my eyes a moment, then nod toward the White House. “Now you will go and ask my life, I think. Before it is late.”

70. OF OUR LAST DESPERATIONS

I FIND THE GENERALS WHERE I MOST EXPECT, IN COMMANDANT’S West Wing office. Be grandy room of eggen shape with yellow-stripen walls. Got two standing flags — one stripy flag for old America, and reddish sort for their Marines. In middy room, two sofas face each other, long in yellow cloth.

Now, to these sofas, Commandant-Hatter-Verna sprawling loose. They dirty in exhaustion. Wear sweaten undershirts and muddy dapple pants, sock feet. Be Patricia also, sitting sloppy on the floor. She got one arm in stiffen cast, and one pants leg roll up to show a chubby bandage on her shin.

Room stank of feet and booze, and they all fisher drunk, with woozy eyes. Floor be a scatter of boots and guns and bottles. By Patricia be a crutch, akimbo over muddle coats. Strangest be to see their Verna Snakehead lying on a sofa, one leg spraddlen on its back.

When I come in, they startle wary. But when they see me clear, they change again and break in laughter. Hatter clout the Commandant on his shoulder, say, “You cheated somehow. We all know you cheat.” The Commandant swat tardy at his hand, be laughing silly.

Patricia get her breath and call to me, “Ma’am, sorry. We had a little bet when you was coming. And if — what you wearing.” Then she catch ridiculous again, grin while she say, “Don’t know why it’s funny, ma’am. I don’t.”

“She’s no ma’am anymore,” say Hatter. “She’s a — whatever Russian ma’am is.”

“She’s a Russian’s fuckdog, like us all,” say Verna, choking laughter.

“Mouth, yow. Thass disgusting.” Hatter slap at Verna’s foot.

Patricia grimace pologetic. “Don’t need to mind what we all saying, ma’am. We’re experiencing despair, see.”

“Yeah, you got to despair,” say Hatter. “Or you got to leave.”

I scout around their faces, wondering. “Damn, you drunk as something.”

“Razor sharp eye on that girl,” Hatter say. “Need some kind of certificate, that.”

“Foo,” I say, “I only come to ask — you trading back they prisoners?”

They all go groaning various. Be a flutter of hands, grab for their booze. Verna muttern, “Fuck your prisoners. Jesus Fuckdog Christ.”

“You can leave that language, please.” The Commandant nod toward me. “Lady wants to know what’s happening.”

“Okay!” Hatter stand up to his feet and brandish his bottle round. “Commandant is always right, so I want to tell the lady the war news — finishing with her Russian prisoners, who is so dear to all our hearts. So, first triumph, we only lost most of Arlington. Didden lose every inch at once. We’re specially proud of that. Second triumph, we lost most of our artillery — now thass key for morale if you wanted to die. Meanwhile, we reaped so many enemy casualties, it is irregardless they killed more of us. Saying, three times more?”

“Oh, shut up,” Verna say.

“I hear four times. Four times more. You see your typical Marine of the new age there.” He point his bottle to Patricia. “Half-cast, half-man. And your people fought real bravely, ma’am, for about ten minutes. Up until they remembered how to run, they fought like lions. But, the good news is, this is the good news. We get to give the Russians back their prisoners, without getting any of ours.” He make a puken face, sit down. “Thass where I started drinking, there. That conversation with the Russian general. I needed some disinfectant post that.”

“Shoo,” I say. “So what you trade for?”

“We’re taking the little kids out,” say Patricia flat. “Get a ceasefire up till midnight, and we get the kids out safe. Your folks are taking them in up north. Necessary precautions.”

“Expecting you go also, ma’am.” The Commandant turn sad eyes to me. “Iss a good long walk in those tunnels, but anybody show you. Go whenever you like.”

I nod uncertain. “Can be right. But heed, I had a notion. What it is, I guess it ain’t no nuclear weapons? Truth?”

Here all look to the Commandant. He be swallowing booze, break into coughing as we watch. Swallow hard at this and rub impatient at his throat. “No, ma’am,” he say hoarse. “There certainly is not.”

“Wouldn’t help much, if they was,” Patricia say. “Be incinerating ourselves about now.”

“Nay, is right,” I say. “Been fear you need.”

“Yeah, that didn’t all occur,” say Hatter. “The fear part.”

I nod. “Think I can bring this fear.”

I start to tell them hasty what I learn of Europeans. How I fit this to their nuclear lie for the Polkovnik’s ears. Generals heed me frowning, strain to figure through their booze. But soon they nodding, warmer kept.

The Commandant say, “You’re certain he believed you, ma’am?”

“Ain’t swearing that. But he will tell. It give them doubt, the least it do.”

“They’ll wonder why we hadden blown them up already,” say Patricia.

“Well, that was always the thing,” say the Commandant. “There’s possible reasons, if they think.”

“Grabbing at straws,” say Verna thin. “If they believe that, I don’t know.”

“It’s an okay straw,” Hatter say. “If you didden have any other straws. It’s a straw.”

“No, this is hopeful a little bit,” the Commandant say. “Looks right, that we’re getting the kids out. That’s the right appearance. And any little dent in their morale, even if it’s just that.”

“And the lizard colonel lives,” say Verna. “Thank you, New York.”

“Now, I’m giving this a yes. Thass all.” The Commandant look to Patricia. “So, Captain, if you let the boys know what they’re doing.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Patricia reach her crutch, go hoisting clumsy to her feet. Then she look back to me. “And, ma’am, if I could have a private word? It’s not anything, it’s just something.”

I FOLLOW HER DOWN the hall, back to the night its brittle cold. A snow beginning now, in heavy flakes that come down straight like aiming. Patricia stop beneath the jutting roof and ease her crutch. A minute, we only stand in silence. Worry to the night, the snow that fill the air with gentle lines.

Then Patricia sigh. Turn to me with conscience face. “What I wanted to say, ma’am. Verna didden want to tell you this — but the Commandant figures you got a right. So, avoiding all unpleasantness… I thought I better talk to you alone.

“So, the little kids leaving, the Russians and everybody knows about that. But — unless your trick works, ma’am, which I certainly do hope — everybody else is going too.”

“Foo.” I take an icen breath. “All your Marines go flee?”

“Well, it’s a couple battalions staying. By Fort Myer, Arlington Cemetery. They’ll do what they can, but thass one big distraction. The rest of us, we’ll be in the tunnels. Going out to the end of the line, at Glenmont.”

“Glenmont. Be the north?”

“Yeah. Verna figures that exit’s safe. No indication they know that’s there. It’s not what anybody wanted, you know that.”

“Truth, I never thought you leave.”

Patricia nod unhappy. “Well, it’s not the end of the story, ma’am. When everyone’s on their way, our boys here set fire to the arms depots. Got fire breaks around the Mall. Engineers are saying that Washington all be safe. But anything outside… well, it’s a lot of explosive in those streets.”

“Ho, you burning District.” I laugh thin. “Be spite to them?”

“Something like that.” Patricia shrug. “Thing is, it’s our people the Russians want. So we burn any supplies. Hole up in the woods, see who’s willing to starve the longest. Guessing that be us.”

She say this warry, but is something weakening in her eye. I nod slow, look back to the snowing night. Try to believe the roos discourage so, ain’t coming north in vengeance. In this, the cure remember, like a wisty desolation — remind when I expecting cure for every child. When victory been this.

“Ma’am?” Patricia touch my shoulder.

I startle to her. “Ya, is clever. Sure, they roos depart.”

“Well, thank you, ma’am. But what I wanted to say, it’s about your Mamadou.” I flinch, and she add hasty, “Don’t worry now, he’s fine.”

“Bone.” I sigh unsteady. “So what it be?”

“What’s going on, your other people’s leaving. But Hatter wanted some extra soldiers for the operation tonight. Out at Fort Myer. So, what I unnerstood, any job like that, your people send the penals.”

I shiver somewhat, dig my hands in pockets. “Simón deciding this?”

“Yeah.” Patricia make a face. “Thass what I thought. It do have a taste.”

“Taste?”

“Thing is, Simón’s a fine general. He can do it.” She pooch her lips. “But, don’t mind telling you, I think that Mamadou’s a genius.”

“Genius?” I laugh nerviose. “What genius meaning in your people?”

“Oh, you don’t think? Okay, lady, but your little stick-fight in New York was sharp. Some creativity there. On the part of Mister Mamadou, every time, what I saw. Put him in that Simón’s place, you seen something today. Why Simón wants him in the firing line, you want my opinion. Eliminate the competition. I know that game.”

“Right.” I frown back to the field. Snow gathering now, is like the grass fill slow with gentle light. Yo, can only feel how children going to show against its whiteness.

Patricia touch my shoulder soft. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m only talking. Mamadou’ll be just fine. That type’s bulletproof, you know that.”

“Ya.” I force a smile. “Genius and so.”

“I guess you got something on with him? What I was thinking.”

I look to her careful. “Something on. This meaning love?”

“Yeah. Don’t want to assume on gossip. But those penal boys, they talk.”

“Been something like.” I shrug embarrass. “Most been forgotten with this war.”

“Forgotten?” Patricia grin. “Well, you’re casual. Don’t think I’d forget that boy so much.”

Cannot think anything to this. I only get a heaten face. Frown to the snowing night and wish into its blackish-whitish stillness.

Patricia say beside, “I had a little case for him myself. But I couldn’t ever see it being anything real. Idden only that he never looked at me — thass facts, in case you’re worrying. But all that man ever talk about was war. He idden going to sit and hold your hand, I’m saying. Guess he’s like you—‘forgotten with this war.’ I like that.”

I look back to her, breathing better. “Ya, war be first. Is honor so.”

“Honor, thass his word, all right.” She make an innocent face. “So, I guess you wouldn’t be innerested where he is now? I guess not.”

“How you meaning?”

“Well, they’re up at Fort Myer. That ceasefire’s on till midnight.” Patricia pooch her lips. “And now… well, it idden but eight o’clock.”

“Ho,” I say dumb. “Can see him.”

“Well, you didden hear it from me, ma’am. Cause this here, the Commandant is not on board.” She fish into her jacket pocket. “But, just so happens, I drawn you a map.”

71. FORT MYER, BY THE NEWKING

MUST WAIT THEN THROUGH PATRICIA’S WARNINGS, HOW I MUST return. “Midnight, that means midnight. Didden want to be your cause of death.” Must skit back to my White House room and change to soldier garb. Sling my Kalash for decency of war. Then I go running through the streets, in careful dance of land mines. Duck in Farragut shelter and I sprint between all littles’ beds, left nett in straight geometry — like they expect to fear the roos with their sheets’ perfectesse.

Yo, in the longer darkness that go underneath the river, I find the terrors waiting in my heart. Can feel, no one expect these soldiers left in Arlington will live. They sacrifice, so all the others flee without no harm. Mamadou give to roos like bait — all his bellesse, his wolfen courage. And Crow, who scarcely known no joy. They rid like nothing worth.

This mix into the greater horror of our war’s defeat. The Quanticos flee to woods, but sure they capture neverless. Marias taken quick behind. Whoever ain’t be kilt, will slave to wars of cannibals and tortures. Our littles left without no help. My Sengle enfants left, to fight for scraps, to hunt with unschool hands.

Yo, Pasha convince me to this war. Told every careful explanation how we can defeat the roos. But now I seen this war in life. I seen our petty rifles warring with the rooish tanks and planes. It never been no hope. Roo got to know this, plain as eyesight. He live by Russian armies sixteen years.

And in the eyeless dark, Toporov Vampire coming real. He stare from every blackness, be like shadows of the nothing there. I walk through nightmares where Toporov killing Sengles for their meat. He stand on a murdern eight and grin — and this dead eight be Keepers.

Climb outside at last, and I be wrong besweaten, gasping thin. Must pause into the sanity of night, breathe to my townie stars. Then my heart come back again, my bravery return.

Come out by Pentagon exit, where the land lie flat, is bare of trees. The snow quit now, but done its harm. Land gleam white, and every stick show obvious by staring moon.

Ain’t want to walk the land-mine patterns, how they all confuse in snow. So I take the overpass road, that ride aloft a bridge of highway. One side, be the cliffy shape of Pentagon its ruins. This night, smoke rising from its yard, where soldiers tent for rest. Lift delicate white, and change itself in thinking complications — like this be a camp of ghosts that wandern innen-out of clouds. Yo, on farther hill, can see the peak of Arlington House. It only be a house, with normal pillars and triangle roof. But its pale looks still chill in me. Is like an evil fact that I be slow to comprehend.

Behind this sight, I run on quick. Want no more mally thoughts. Ya, be relief when I step to a housen porch at last.

This Myer house be bricky edifice, sizen like a Christing home. Expect it be some bossy child to meet me, but its halls be empty. Can only hear the woof of soldier talk beyond-above. I go toward this voice to ask — but then I see, each door here got a name writ on in charcoal. Is sleeprooms, give particular to each soldier who need rest.

NewKing’s door be easy found. It be the third inside. I pause before this door, gone shy with all distracting feelings. Think of knocking, but I never knock on doors before. Scarce believe that any a child do this in actual life. At last, I bite down on my courage. Open the door in quick unthought.

Mamadou lain asleep. Be on a springy bed, the blankets pull up to his ear. Can hear his breath go deep and slow. Room seem like it sleep along; his hanging goods seem like some grayish objects in his dream. And it inkle strange in me, I never seen him sleep before. Ain’t seem like Mamadou, that he sleep. My mind keep thinking this unsense as I close up the door behind. Crouch down, undo my boots. Unclad my coat and leave it to the floor.

Then I catch in different nerves, that he ain’t going to want me. Child need rest. Is war to do. Stare at my coat, think how I still can leave. But cannot move myself. At last I look by to the NewKing’s face, like he will sympathy.

His eyes be open. Ya, they show a waiting fear — the same quick fear he shown when I come to him at the Reese. Expect, like any time before, he settle into scorn. But his face go only cautieuse. And when he speak, he say, rough from his sleep, “Door got a bolt.”

I go and fix the bolt without no word. Take off all my clothes in shivering haste. And when I come to him, can feel we both be frightening like no cowards. I even muttern foolish, “Damn, be cold,” and press against him like it be his warmth I seek.

THEN, IN THIS HOUR STOLEN from the war, our love be worse beyond. We cling together with no words, until our scary silence be another nakedness. Is loving with no fight, is helpless. Every touch be words insane — and be the only truthful words I known. Be like a perfect name. Bed make its noise, and someone laugh outside — but no outside seem real. He in myself, without no difference, and this be my life.

And it be by. Our fear be by, and we lie simple in our bodies. He hold my face in his long hand. I hold his hand against my face.

Then I say soft, “I fought in trenches there, one day. Been nothing feary.”

Mamadou lying like he been, but I can feel his breathing sharpen. In rooms above, be footsteps now, and sounds of draggen loads.

I say, “Got my rifle also.”

Mamadou kiss my brow then, start to pull me closer to. I stiffen from him. Say up short, “Be saying, I can fight by you.”

His laugh come warm against my ear. “Girl, you Maria.”

“Ain’t been Maria when — nay, be some nonsense words. Maria.”

“Who you fighting by, be penals.”

“Ya, be penals. So?”

“They ain’t accepting this. Maria fight by them?”

I loose my breath. “Yo, right.”

Out in the night, some male be talking now, in voice of cold instruction. Ain’t hear particular words until some hundred children answer unison, “Sir, yes, sir!”

I say weak, “Ain’t any means we fight by Quanticos? They ain’t care.”

“Think that, you ignorant to fight.”

“Nay, I know. Was only… sure, I know.”

Then Mamadou put his hand across my eyes. I grab up at his fingers, but he catch this hand. Can feel him laughing soft against me, and I say, “Yo fool. What you want?”

“You fearing for me, Ice Cream Star?”

“And so?”

“Fear for myself.”

“Ya, I love you. This been said. Ain’t news.”

He put lips to my throat, say quiet, “We fight an hour, most it be. Ain’t even got to hold no ground. Fight till we lose, then leave across that bridge. All it is.”

“Ain’t what Patricia said.”

“I ain’t plan to die tonight. Ever Patricia said.”

Be a minute then, he kiss my mouth. I lose in darker thoughts, ain’t even heed this kiss its pleasure. Be mapping his battle in my mind. Fight at Fort Myer, then they must retreat through Arlington Cemetery. Cross the bridge to Washington itself, then find a tunnel to flee.

I see the cemetery clear in memory. Trenches I dug myself; the gravestones that be extra hidings. But be the naked bridge.

At last, I pull away. “Yo, do me this. I meet you at the bridge. On Washington side, ain’t asking that I fight.”

He shake his head. “Nay, Sengle.”

“Shee, ain’t no harm to you. I know they tunnels like my hand. I bring your penals safe from there.”

“Nay. Got an ask myself.”

I grit impatient. Steel myself against his normal vanities. But he say, “Need you to take First Runner out.”

Then all my nerves break into laugh. I sit up, pulling blankets. Ya, the NewKing catch this foolishness and start to wrestle, push me down. I shove my knee into his stomach, laughing. “Nay, you bring her here? You mad as netten fish, you mad.”

He laugh back to me. “Ain’t bring her, shee. Child sneak behind.”

I hold, still clutching his arm in wrestling pose. “Foo, come sneaking?”

“How she is.” He shake his head. “Got a horse, she ride.”

“Damn, she brought my Money here?”

“Horse in the woods there, sure.”

“Goddamn.” Then we only smiling close. Thought come to me that we got only minutes, then is death to face. But I ain’t want this thought. I rid it silent from my mind.

“Ho,” I say at last. “How you known you going to need her on that Massa search? For they enfants. Always wondern this.”

Now he get defensive looks. “Ain’t known. How I known?”

“Yo, why you bring her then?”

First, I expect he never answer. Will give some talk on mouthy females, got no brains to hush. But he say low-voice and rough, “She been my only person, why. Others all been dead.”

This catch me in surprise. “Of Armies?”

“How it is.”

A moment, I be only puzzling, watching on his face. Think to mention Crow — but Crow ain’t Army right. Be Sengle. Yo, of anything, I never guess this been some freak of sorrow. But sure, if only Keepers been alive of all my people, I ain’t leave her from my sight.

I put my hand up to his cheek. He flinch, but allow this gentleness.

I say, “Thought I been yours.”

Expect he mock, but he look to me seriose and glad. “Ya. And be yourself.”

72. THE FLIGHT FROM ARLINGTON

BE SOME SORRY TIME WHILE WE BOTH DRESS, HE GATHER UP HIS kit. He checking magazines and fix them in convenient pockets. I keep hush — ain’t want him to distract from carefulness. But penals start to noise outside, ain’t worrying this question. Try the door against the bolt, knock rude.

Yo, when I stepping from this room, they startle like no mice. Take a thinking minute before they know me. Stoop their courtesy. Then every child look to the NewKing shy in gratulation. Mouths working strange, how they attempt to eat their grins.

Mamadou ignore these shows. Go yelling most like Hatter done, the day I fight at Buckethead. Soon be penals running out and in and all directions. Even Crow go by. He stumble at my sight, then call a feary salue and scatter out. Mamadou never look to me, but keep one hand upon my elbow. Hold jalouse like love — but then he loose me with no difference. Yell instructions while I miss his hand.

Yo, before I guess, the NewKing stalking to the outside field. Give one backward look, too quick for no expression seen. Then can only hear his voice, go good feroce into the night.

I still be gazing footless when First Runner appear, led by a bigger penal I ain’t know. She lost her neatly looks in these hard weeks, is skinny and unwash. Her face bewept and angry.

Penal stoop his courtesy to me, say muttern Panish. Then he tell First Runner, “Look at that. Maria’s here to take you. Look at that.”

First Runner narrow to me resenting. Say in stuffy voice, “Been with the NewKing?”

“Sure,” I say. “He said I take you, child.”

“He slept?”

This touch me sharp. But I lie, “He resting bone, yo sho.”

Penal loose her hand. First Runner come to me in duty manner. But her eyes keep peevish and when she come up close, she muttern, “Ain’t want you.”

Penal shake his head and give me pology smile. “Senyora, you best go. She don’t know how to walk the streets, so you got to allow for that.”

“Foo, how she got in here?”

He make a face. “Marines.”

“They bring her?”

“Yeah, she’s a smart kid.” He look to her. “You told them a couple of lies, didn’t you?”

“Ain’t lies,” First Runner say. “Thought he will want me.”

“You see him by,” I say. “When he come back.”

Then she only nod, face closen to its private hurt.

HOW SHE AIN’T KNOW the maze, we head to Pentagon tunnel by the trenches. First minutes, these be crowden wild. Be dodging backward-forward through Marines who swear impatient; edging past artillery guns and heapen ammonitions. But soon we go beyond these preparations into lonely place. Walk in trenchen darkness, and be like we treading underwater in some nighten river, see the light suspending soft above. First Runner go ahead — I keep her in sight, against no last escapes. Ya, she walk stooping, in betrayals of her smallish heart.

My dooms of earlier night be by. Now I be lost in fantasies, of how my lie on nuclears work. The Russians leaving now, without no harm. The war be done. Moon show middy night — this ain’t exact, but cannot be much less — and been no incident. Yo, as we walking farther, every sound be gone but our own feet. Silence be uncanny in its sweetness, like a singing note.

I magine how the roos depart. Ya, Polkovnik sending me the cure, like promise word. Cures be only ten, but if we living every years, be chances to discover more. We find some way to Europe. Buy this cure by bellious Africans. Can even be a gift from better roos.

I live beyond, and Mamadou live beyond. We flee Marias City. Ya, how Armies gone, no child think mally to our love. He get a baby with me — belly device be gone somehow, I getting enfants every year like seasons. We live, can see these enfants grow. Will be like Russian parents, caring for their every want.

And I watch First Runner small and vally, how she pace the night. Magine her our enfant grown, and luck her in my mind.

We come beneath Pike overpass, gone in its blacker shadows, when First Runner halt her step. Look perilous to me, then turn her eyes back to the night.

“Roos be there?” she say.

She looking north, and without thought, I shake my head, point to the west. She round to this, say scary, “Near?”

Truth, ain’t know how close they lurk, what ground we lost this day. But I say like confidence, “Ain’t near. Can be a mile.”

“We leave before they come?”

“Shoo,” I say in forcen cheer. “I thought you come to war, my ten.”

Then she lose her face entire. Break in sobbing tears and say, “Other time, he want me. I ain’t known. Ain’t need to rid me like that.”

I put hands on her small shoulders, start in calming talk. Say how I prefer to fight myself, but been no help. Any child respect her bravery. Ya, and Mamadou do. But be instructions also. Sure she know.

Through this, I heed the quiet night. Feel how the time go long, and nothing be.

Last I say, “He love you like himself. You be his people, child.”

She snuff her nose. “I know.”

“I going to bring you safe. Why he given you to me. He never done, if it ain’t right.”

Then she nod reluctant. Rub her nose and look back to the west. Yo, as I look along, a heavy beat sound toward the river. We both flinch back. A blink behind, it shiver underfoot.

It beat again, and beat. The sky flash gentle, weirden blue. This flash repeat in trembling, then it fickle everywhere, while gunfire jitter and spread its noise across the broad horizon.

“What it is?” First Runner say in breaking voice.

“Shee, we late. Keep forward. Go!”

Her enfant manners pass like blinking. She break in run, yo I run gratty on her sprinting heels. We flee simple from the war.

The beating-jittering grow, and now the ripping skree of planes begin. Sky keep shivering wrong, and as we pass the Pentagon, a light dart angry in its ruins. Flash and spit there. Loose a huff of blackish smoke above.

Then everywhere ahead, be flashing, pounding, gusting dirt. My ears be screaming, and the wind keep hitting hot and wrong. First Runner lose her sprint. Jump to a wall and hold there, crouching strange. I hunker to her, touch her shoulder. She hit my hand away, turn yelling, as the overpass explode behind.

We both knock scattering to the ground. Air shove wrong in my lungs, my ears, can feel it press at my shut eyes. Dirt sting my face, and I go sneeze. Then I be blinking, scrambling free. First Runner there, is whole. Stare panic to me, while dirt still spatter down on her shock face.

I yell, Come on! but hear no voice, hear nothing. Ears be dumb. Nor First Runner heard. I grab her hand in brainless fright. Pull her to her feet, and stagger on into the flashing silence. Be thinking only of the tunnel. We getting underground, and all be right. Can still be right.

But when we come to our next turn, the trench be full with rubble earth. Ahead, the tunnel gone. A scrap of Pentagon sit huge upon its missing place. Sky be bleary above with dust. Moon glown peculiar red.

And all I know, next tunnel we can reach be to the west. Roos will hold the trenches there. Ain’t safe to use these now. Must crawl between, on open ground.

My ears be full with weirdo ringing. Hear bombs again, but only as weaker thumps, like littlish foot. To this, the earth be shaking restless, like it dance its nerves. First Runner tugging at my arm, ain’t comprehend why we ain’t run.

I yell, big as I can, “We got to crawl above! You heed?”

She say something back, deaf in my hearing. I shake my head and move her hand. Fasten this to my leg. Hold till she take the pants cloth in her grip. Her eyes stare terrify at nothing, but when I start to crawl onto the rubble, she come right. Clutch to my pants and pick her way.

Then the pounding only lengthen through all helpless minutes. Be crawling knees and elbows, bellying down from close explosions. Can feel First Runner yanking on my leg in terrify jolt. Air thicken with sprawling dust, with smoke. Moon vanish in this pall. Come to the land-mine patterns, and be miseries to find their shape. Must squint through tears, eyes stinging. And come a new explosion, and it flash, ring sickening through my guts. Keep thinking it must quit, ain’t bombs enough. But it keep on, while I pick at the ground, clear snow with numbing fingers. Scout the land for walking roos. Scout for my right direction.

At last, through clogging smoke, can see a blacker cliff that rise ahead. It be the Henry overpass. Cannot see who lurk beneath. But beyond its danger, land be thick with standing evacs. Is trees to hide and bushes, every wonderful object for our help. Then be three minutes’ walking to the tunnel. Be no distance.

Once this relief become, I realize we crept beyond the bombs. Sky only flash behind in distance. This hit me with elation like a pain. Ain’t even think of life, I only madden that we can leave this place. Be somewhere without terror. And I crawl faster, feeling a strength, how everything be done correct. First Runner’s hand still clutch my leg. We living, can be right.

Come to the overpass along its side, in scrabble bush. Yo, as we near its opening, I halt. Check to First Runner. Her face be panics, she stare blank. Try gesture explanations, how she stay while I go forward. But she only clench, eyes tearing. At last, I push her from me. Hold her down until she stay. She weeping, trembling through herself. Yo, then I recognize, we stoppen on a patch of bones. She cringing all her arms, lie on these bones but hate to touch.

Ain’t time to worry this. I crawl ahead. Check backward and she still be there, a hand press to her face. And I go careful on, try to beware my noise without no ears. Come sideward to the overpass tunnel.

And when I come along its concree side, peer in its under darkness, be three rooish soldiers there.

They watch the flashing sky like this be festival display. Smoke cigarettes, and talk beyond my deafness. Laugh their mouths.

First instant, I grip to Kalash. My nerves be mad to shoot, to rid them. But I hold myself. Feel down Kalash with sweating hand. Check her switch. I crave her every-bullet setting — will shoot them any hundred times. But I only got one magazine, can be no waste. I put her to three-bullet, bring her slow and slow to her right pose. Creep, elbowing, until I see direct. Roos show clear against the farther light, and I rest my gun solid on a scrap of broken road. They never notice, never look. All their attention be the farther trenches, ya the bombing sky.

I find my aim. Breathe short with terror, feel the earth that chill my belly. Yo, as I stare, one roo step by, reach to his pants. Undo these with particular motions. Turn himself to piss.

Then my heart leap queery. I sight upon a different soldier, who ware outward, gun in hands. Before I can think anything, I shoot.

First child be hit and hit and hit — Kalash’s sweet three bullets. I gasp exhilarate as the roo beside him wheel. His gun stare all directions. I shoot again. Miss awful, and he turn straight to my rifle flash. Shoot when I also shoot. And he be hit, go cringing. Lift his gun again, and I feel how my voice cry out in anger. But before I shoot again, he fall. Slip from the light.

And be a second when I only want the final roo to vanish. Cannot bear no more, cannot. But he turn from pissing pose and grab his rifle also. Pants gone clumsy round his legs, but he shooting toward. Is panicking-shooting, pitching huffs in earth around my face.

It take four tries to down this roo. Be a hopeless always, while his bullets seek me, blast the dirt. I miss and miss again. He ducking to the wall, lose out of sight. I shoot the air. Be breathing rage that he ain’t die. Must die, he need to know.

When at last I hit him, all my brains be gone in rage. I stagger to my feet. Run stupid to they roos — and one come sitting, clench his gun. I shoot him again, in chest, in face. Go round to shoot another roo again. Ain’t trust they dead. But all my bullets gone. I standing helpless, terrify, in my sweat.

Roos be still. The sky flash silent, framen in the overpass. Smoke drift black across the wester sky.

Be an evil second when I cannot think. All plans be nothing. A roo lain with no face, his yellow hair still whole. Is Pasha. But it ain’t. It ain’t. And cannot hold for this, ain’t time.

Then my mind come back like pain returning to a frozen hand.

I duck to a blooden roo. Seek his clothes until I find a rifle magazine. Try this to Kalash, and it be right. I seek his pockets more. Find another, then I need to turn away to puke. But nothing come, ain’t eaten. I only choke my gut, and spit, and hate this wasten time.

When I got three magazines, I stalk back where the overpass be open into violent sky. Ain’t see First Runner nowhere, but I got no panics left. I only yell my lungs until I see a stirring in snow. Eye find her there as she raise up her head.

I wave her to. Wave again-again, while she still stare and cringe her arms. At last, she start to crawl — when I remember, she ain’t know her path. Be land mines still.

Yo, First Runner jump up sudden. She sprinting toward with all her legs, while I scream desperate that she stop. Wave arms. Then I recognize the kicks of dirts around, the gunfire.

I never see the bullet strike her. She running, then she flail down hard. Ain’t think, I dive to her. I get a clumsy hold, and stagger back. A bullet clip my sleeve, then we be in the tunnel’s hiding. Yo, I weaken in relief, when I see she injure in her thigh. Ain’t murder wounds, is nothing.

I hoist her better in my arms. She clutching my hair, is lost all sense. But I unmind this, nor I feel her weight. I go sprint through the overpass darkness. Jump unthinking over a roo lain dead, and in the farther night can see a tower building, sweet with walls.

Building broken on one flank. My boots crunch bright across its ruin. Get to its door, and scramble in with gladness flushing through my blood like water. First Runner pull my hair to agonies, yank my head in angles. But I can almost laugh, how pain be nothing. How we live to feel good pain.

I settle behind a fatly desk and rest First Runner down. Child sobbing, crush both hands up to her mouth, as I tear off my jacket. Wrap its sleeve around her thigh, pull tight. Hold this with knee. First Runner start to fight me, but her hands be weak. Be small. I pin them with my other knee.

All I see to use be laces in First Runner’s shoes. So be longer minutes while I pull these, and she fight, and I tie different knots around. At last, it holding right. Cut deep into her flesh, but it ain’t bleeding more. Ya, First Runner hush. Is only panting, staring to my face. She watch my face like it the only thing she ain’t fear.

I smile. Say in my unheard voice, You bone, my ten. It be no harm.

She hitch her breath and nod. When I loose her hands, she rub her dripping nose, still staring to me. I say, Now be no distance. We be right.

I lift her across my shoulder, so her head hang down behind my back, legs kicking loose in front. Can feel her gather breath, cry pain. But I unmind this, be no time. I get her weight correct, and stride back to the awful night.

NEXT JOURNEY BE NO MATTER. Road ain’t got no trenches, and is thick with helpful trees. Trot to a tree with breathless force, lean to its trunk and rest. Earth trembling softer now, and every jolt be sweet reminder that we leave the war behind. Is even calm enough to feel some vanity that we survive. And we surviving still — dodge to another tree, and vanish to its trunk. Rest and breathe, ain’t lose my strength. It all be wolfen done. Can live, and we deserve this life. First Runner holding to my waist, got back her sense. Is smart. Can live.

Come to the tunnel’s road with sudden panic, that it close with bombs. But the hole be clear. Is perfect in a patch of naked street. Must only cross this space. Before this final risk, I resting longer to a building side. Watch everything and breathe my strength. Stroke on First Runner’s back. A wind begun, and moving branches sketch in corner-eye. I keep flinching to a motion, and it be a waggling arm of pine. Ya, when I try to bring Kalash to aiming pose, is useless sweat. First Runner’s legs be there and there.

Yo, I lose my last impatience. Step out perilous to the moon.

And a roo step instant from a building side where he been waring. Raise his gun in aim.

I weaken sudden, lose my breath. Almost drop First Runner, and must grab her. Got no sense to think.

But he ain’t shoot. Roo yell out to my deafness. Jerk his rifle.

I take a breath, but feel no air. My legs gone queery, need to sit. Roo jerk his rifle again. Shout his mouth.

And I call rooish, Got sick enfant here. Ain’t shoot.

Can see, this Russian speech take him in puzzling. He ease his gun. I smile to this, as my mind lose its telligence. Can think no complications, so I only roo, Be gratty. I nod to the tunnel’s hole.

Then I step forward, concentrate on only walking my weaken legs. Smile foolish, and I muttern roo, Be gratty, brother. Be gratty.

Roo be a dark-fur child, most like Bashir. Can be sixteen, is small. Last I see him, he let down his gun. He watch with troubling eyes. And, steppen-step, we sink into the blackness. Lose from sight.

SCARCE REMEMBER THIS TUNNEL WALK. Been black, it been exhaustion. Been minutes where I known I cannot walk no more. And I walk on. Then another minute so, another, through an hour. Past Pentagon, the tunnel flooding nasty to my ankles. Know this be mally, but be weak to fear. The water be only another tired weight that drag my feet.

Felt when I begin, I never lasting to the tunnel’s end. So I decide on Farragut exit. We come out on the Mall; hope soldiers be retreating from the bridge. If they already gone, I bring First Runner to the White House. Ain’t no hope, but it be warm. Is food.

And I step forward and step forward. Try every means to do this easier, but it be the same. Shift First Runner — but then I only frighten how she flopping loose. I touch her bandage, but feel nothing with my frozen hand. Be dark, be deaf. And be no help. Step forward and step forward.

Yo, at Foggy Bottom shelter, where I pause to check, she living. But at Farragut, she be dead.

Ain’t comprehend at first. Be resting on the Farragut ledge in its good light, watch gratty to her bandage thigh. It show no extra blood. On a neatly bed beside, a soldier lying dead, but this ain’t fear me somehow. His stiff face seem to care as I lean down to small First Runner’s face.

Ain’t no breath. And when I feel her throat, ain’t beat. Be thick and cold.

Then I look down at myself, and find her blood.

I CARRY HER to the White House. Gone stupid in despair, and only remember how a Lowell child bring back from dying once. He drowning in an icen pond, and they go soak him in warm water. He live again, spit out his drown.

Mall be empty, ain’t no child. Nor be thousand footprints — we come early somehow, though it seem I struggle through all hours. And I bring her to my room, Queen’s Bedroom of this empty mansion. Run a heaten bath. I rest her in this water in her clothes. Talk thoughtless to her stillness. The water pinken slow, and she lie dead.

Then, soggen how she be, I carry her to my bed. Yo, always in my injure mind, I know that Mamadou coming. Remember how he said First Runner been his only person left. How I said, “Thought I been yours,” and he look to me seriose. And I feel her blood gone cold, gone sticky on my legs, my belly. Cannot meet him so. It be too much.

I tear these clothes away. Wash at the sink with wetten towel, scrubbing hasty at my skin. Be three towels red before I done. Yo, in this, my ears begin to hear. Ring shrill inside, but through this ring, I hear the water’s push.

Got no other clothes, so I put on Maria dress. Clad the grandy coat the Commandant given me in better time. Put on heely boots — walk clumsy but they got no blood.

Last before I leave, I go back to First Runner. Lean by her and say soft, “You good. Ain’t nothing harm you more.” Words feel insulting once they said, but cannot think no other words. So I only kiss her brow. Pull blankets on her smallness, cover up her terrify eyes.

Then I sling Kalash again, and go back to the night.

73. OF MY LAST WAR

AS I CROSS THE EMPTY MALL ITS SNOW, I GONE IN STRANGER minds. Be thinking blind of Pasha, how we find him in that burning house. He run, and Driver shoot at him. Roo wheel back with his pistol, and I walk up, terrify and bold. I hold his gun nose to my chest. He look at me, besweaten scary, and all children love each other. He let go his gun.

The vampire live.

And then he killing Deema and Karim, shoot Mamadou. But he saving me away, all children love each other. Or he need myself to get him food, the vampire live. And on our journey walk, he want to murder the Armies, but he lose this chance. These Armies must be shot by Soledad, while she weep desperate lost.

The vampire live. I braving poisons for his life. He cannot die. He hold my hand like animoses, every day I been a god — and rid me, when his chance become. All children die who love each other, but the vampire live.

He tell me we can win at Quantico. Promise me the cure.

I come to the bridge, and still its length be empty. Only movement be at Arlington, flashes where bombs strike the land. Explosions sounding far, it almost be a comfort noise. Yo, a smutten mist drift toward, across the river’s blackish shine, and I be gripping Kalash like I prepare to fight this distance. Be thinking how Pasha been fourteen, and watch his burning city. How I kill him with this gun he given me. He kill myself. All children love each other when they dead.

I grip Kalash and grip Kalash. Cold deaden in my face, my hands. I watch the flashing hill and my nose run with cold, but I ain’t crying. I ain’t remember life, I only know this night that cannot be. This sky that kill its earth. And first, it only be a petty strangeness when the soldiers come.

Bridge be a milen length, and they show first as squirming dots, a dirty bothering in my sight. But they running quick, and soon I see them individual. No flashes chase them. Cannot feel they flee from nothing special. They cross this snowen path through air like running be a pleasure game.

Get briefer panic, they be roos. But their disorder fleeing, ya their every looks, show they ours. Yo, then ain’t nothing I can do. Must wait, cannot change anything. So I stand helpless, furiose, as the first soldiers come.

Quanticos-Marianos all wear dapple clothes for war. This end of the bridge, they mostly walking, lost their fear. But they spread apart in darkness, cannot see their faces right. So I take off my coat. Bare myself in Maria finery. Stand middy to the bridge, and I stare desperate for my Mamadou. For Crow. For any penal who will tell me word.

Soldiers come in threes and twos. Some talking in a fever haste, some staring grim to nothing. One child pass me weeping, while another soldier yelling to him, threaten a fist into his face. And their numbers ever thicken, until the bridgen height be dark across with struggling children. Yo, how I standing in Maria dress, each person stare. But all be Quanticos with hostile eyes. Be strangers.

One officer come with scary looks, say, “Ma’am, you need some help?” I ask him hoarse for Mamadou, penals, but he only say, “You’re not going to know until tomorrow, serious. You got to come with us.” But I rid him with some lie about Patricia fetching me. Turn back to watching all wrong faces, rubbing my icen arms.

This waiting lengthen to impossibilities. Every child who pass me, my eyes catching to him hungry, then fall away in cheaten grief. Once a gait, a flashen face, be Mamadou in my eyes, and I call out, run toward. But he turn and be a stranger flinching from my savage looks. Then I go furiose against all penals, how they never come. Try seeking Taco — be luckier to seek a child I wanting less. But the soldiers only clutter my sight with needless faces, until each child seem like a separate insult. Is like each say in passing, Mamadou dead.

In this, bombs scarcen fewer. Hush away and leave their bruisen haze unmeaning to the sky. Be only pittering guns, sound harmless in their quietness. And here the coming soldiers start to thin. Be twos and ones. Now some carry injure children, slung on backs, or held between two people. Be their familiar cries and mutterings, scarce in growing night. And then the forward bridge be bare of life. One last soldier come alone. He stumble as he pass, look superstitious dread at me. Break to a limping run, and his steps eager to a final hush.

The bridge be empty. Gunfire only be a memory of noise that yearn in mind. Night can hear again, the breeze and river like a rougher silence. On Arlington shore, some trees be burning. Arlington House got a pinkish glare that dull and sharpen in moods of smoke.

I stare, and conscience whisper, I must leave. The Russians come. But I stand trembling in the cold, glare furiose at that far hill. My blood be one red wound.

And time bleed into my despair. The bridge be empty dumb, its snow all eaten gray with footprints. I look back to Washington sometimes, but this bring me angry, thinking how I walk here, still with hope.

When the first explosion come nearby, I startle vicious. Turn quick and see a goliath orange bloom of fire and smoke. Only then I comprehend, it be the District burning. This be fires set by Marines. Ya, this explosion growing into roar, all ammonition bursting wild. Feed red into the ashen smoke, that pump into the air like flowing water, sprinkle its blacken flecks. Another explosion burst, bloom huge. Be like a fire monster lift its head, look hungry to the city. Horizon gleam mysteriose and reddish to the north. Fire rushing like a second river flowing dry and restless toward. The city lose its air in roar, like breathing out its life.

Then it comprehend, I be the only living child in Washington. Others all creep off in darkness. Their city burn behind, and Ice Cream Star remain in careless witness.

When the gunfire come again, I be unheeding in my trance. Accustom to this noise, become like birden voice in woods. Only slow, my conscience wake. Gunfire come from Arlington — and I squint back in worry, scout for Russians on the bridge. But it be clear.

Then my worst madness rise. I gaze along this bandon bridge, and think how Mamadou be a genius. I think, guns be himself, he fighting still. Ain’t dead for nothing. Penals do some vally desperations, then they coming here. I grab him in my arms, and be all victories farouche.

Ain’t know how long this ravish unsense live. I stand and heed the burning city, the guns beyond the water. Magine how the NewKing come across the bridge, all penals by. Be Crow with mally noise, my Taco. If tunnels burn, can swim the river out. Still can be right.

And this hope live, while fires grow brazen around, the air be sweaten warm. Continue while the gunfire thinning slow, come seldom. Die to nothing.

Arlington be silent. Nor the bridge change in its white unlife. The river pass, and I breathe in the hating stank of smoke, and start to weep. Weep at the uncaring hill, the bridge that will not bring them back. Weep at the muzzy stars, mind gone in thousand hysterias of grief.

And my weeping die — like all my bell and wolfen children — and my heart go clear in pain. Heart fill me like a knife. I wipe my tears on my rough coatsleeve, look toward Arlington’s shore. Fire on the hill be gone, and it be only ugly white.

I know, like nightmares I remember, Pasha Vampire there. My white Polkovnik there, with all his powers, with cure that can be mine. Mamadou there, and Crow. Be dead or prisoners on that shore. Yo, the bridge shine in my eyes. Be only death between.

Then I pull on my coat. Stretch arms into its warm and whisper, “Shee your Russians. Shee you all.” And I spit upon the ground. Swear low at any god that be, and go.

I start across the bridge. I head for Arlington.

COME OUT FROM THE FIRE’S ARDENT AIR, and colder night be gratty. Breath come clean and sharp, is like a truth that hurt inside. I keep Kalash at readiness, scouting forward for no Russians. But all be silent. Hear only my crunching steps in snow, my short insisting breath. When I look back to Washington, is only smoke to see. Come up in bunchy trails beside the moon. Cannot see the palaces, but the whitish monument stand clean apart without no hurt. Be like a simple burial stone for this whole murdern city.

Pass over the bridgen arch, and still be no one. Here I pause. Take off my coat again, wrap this upon Kalash to hide her. Figure, I come in girlish finery, sans no showing gun, be chance the roos ain’t shoot me.

Here, the hill be clearer in my eyes. Can see a monument wall, bash down in places from artillery. A patch of cemetery show small campfires by the rumple trenches. And I see some itsy people, moving in this patchen white.

I creep in to the bridge’s stony railing. Its top reach to my chin, must only stoop and I be hid. So I stalk forward, crouching. Scout through the railing sometimes, see how roos be doing various. Their dapple clothes confuse in dapple ground. And, as I come toward the bridge’s end, I start to hear their noise — a passing truck, a shouting voice, a muttering that change in wind.

At the bridge’s end, be trees. Block all these roos from sight. I straighten here, grab up my skirt. Run to a broken memorial wall, duck in its friendly shadow. Then I take deeper breath. Feel how my ravish fear bring all my blood into attention. And I step onward, walking easy past this final hiding. Come to a darkness under trees, can see the whiten graves beyond, the stripy looks of snow and earth. Among, be working roos. A shovel rise and strike, and first I think they make new trenches. But, as I come, can see these shovels claw into the higher banks. Scatter their dirt into a trench beside. Then it come natural in mind, what work this going to be. Like we always joking in our trenching work, they bury children. Make a rooish cemetery in the cemetery’s skin.

I come up stronger. Grip to Kalash, and find a useful hold beneath the coat. Yo, now can see the hill entire. Be every dozen roos in carrying task, a haste of grandy shadows. Night be patchy larm of voice and crunching feet and digging. Bright among, there be a fire, with roos stood talking round. From their slaggen posture, can guess that all their work be booze.

When the first roo notice me and pause, my heart twist queery. He straighten, point with lazy gun. Child beside him shift and look as I come toward, heart watery in my chest. Yo, now I come to my first murdern body. Pause my step before.

Be a blackish child in dapple uniform, facedown in earth. Legs finish in an unshape darkness. Ya, in a trench beside, can see another — sitting curlen with his head thrust back to show no face. Below his brow is jaggen bone and meat, a reddish scrap hung down. Unhurt ear look perfect neat beside. I fetch into stillness. Look up again to find, everywhere along this hill, be Russians watching me.

I loose my hands slow from Kalash. Begin to raise them in the air, skin flaming in the cold. And I step precarious around the child kilt at my feet. Keep eyes to the closer roos, and gather breath to call.

Ain’t time to even fear, when footsteps run to me behind. A yell come stark, then someone catch my arm and pull it vicious. I strike against without no thought. Turn wild, and find Bashir.

I stare up to his hawken looks without no mind to use. He shout some rooish in my face, rage breathless. Shout and shout, before I comprehend.

Why you here? Why you here? You cannot be here! Why you here?

I start laughing somehow, and this bring Bashir ferocious. He grip into my shoulder, shake me rough. Begin a grosserie of cursing, where I comprehending only words for imbecile and dead. And he finish again with Why you here? in choken voice.

I touch to his gripping hand. Roo hoarse, “Need Razin, brother.”

He stare a moment, dumbfound in his face. Glance back to the roos around the fire, who all be watching interest. Then his mouth twist angry. “Nay. You dead here. You already dead.”

Feel some impatience, how he talking pointless, and I roo, “Ain’t care, how I be dead. Need Razin.”

Then someone call his name behind. Still holding to my arm, he turn and yell. Some laughing voices answer. Then a clutch of roos walk out from forest shadows, smiling curiose. Be seven, all with hawken face, dark fur. Is queery how they so alike, ain’t telling who be which. Only their beards be various grown. Ya, one got fatter gun, wear necklace of long bullets round himself. And it inkle in my mind, these be Bashir’s Kavkazky people — his vally children who behaving honest like no roo.

One child with thinner beard say weirdo words, ain’t rooish. Then they laugh hilarious. Bashir grit, shake his head. He talk back unhappy in that weirdo speech, but end with Razin.

Kavkazky roos show mock impression. One clout Bashir against his head, and start a longer speech of dispute. Another Kavkazky talk in louder, naying his big hand.

As this squabble rise, a yellow roo come staggery from the drunken fire. Call down. Bashir let go my arm. Turn shouting, grab his gun to ready. And all Kavkazky roos go spitting vicious in this second. Yell shrill, and fix their guns to shooting pose.

Yellow child halt surprisen. Shout some quick filth, and turn back, calling peevish to his friends.

Bashir turn furiose to me. “You see. Now we be kilt for you.”

“Nay, he rid,” I roo unsteady. “You fear him bone.”

Bashir swear underbreath, while the fat-gun child put hand upon his shoulder. Fat-gun child talk low, like he speak gentle to a spooking mare. Then he clap twice on Bashir his shoulder. Say in rooish, “Is normal.”

“What be, my brother?” I roo dumb.

Bashir look to me tired. “What you ask. We taking you to Razin.”

“Bone.” I smile my mouth. “Be gratty.”

He shake his head, resentment waken in his eyes again. “What you think he do? What you think?”

Fat-gun Kavkazky roo to me, “Bashir is guilty, girl. You help him, and now — you see? Very bad.” But he grinning friendly, like he gratulate my crazy wits.

Bashir say, “Give her to the filth here, be no difference.”

“Nay,” a long-beard Kavkazky cavil. “Razin, is interesting what he do. These, we know what it is. Not interesting.”

Bashir go muttering nasty to this, while long-beard smile to me joyeuse, put arm around Bashir. And I smile back. Heart revel in its panic, all my body warm like rest.

“Ain’t nothing to me, what he do,” I say. “Be gratty right.”

74. OF THREE DESIRES

WAY TO RAZIN BE A MAZE OF NIGHTMARES. MUST STEP OVER gutten people, scattern parts of flesh. Times, a ruin body, seem like nothing that can live, scream awful to us as we pass. Kavkazky roos keep all around me, waring to the sides. And every minute be new Russians, come with booze insistence. Some be only curiose. But others coming in belief, Bashir’s roos taking me to rape. Be offering help.

With some rapists, Bashir will only mention Razin, and they rid. But often, a hopeful rapist cavil, Razin get me after. Say filthen jokes to this, call insults on Bashir’s dark roos. One skewtooth child keep pace with me, go spitting sideward on the blackish dead, and grin to me behind. Soon it be a following band of dozen cockroach Russians. All spew threats and maudy jokes.

Bashir ain’t speaking mostly. He walk grit in stormy moods. Yo, must trace between all trenches and must keep together close — be always new attentions. But in some quiet moment, he say sudden that Kirill dead.

I be pausing to step around a murdern soldier’s head. Be caught in frighten sickness, and I say distracten, “You kill him real?”

“Nay.” Bashir give sideward frown, like he impress some meaning. “Your Razin kill him. But was many kilt.”

“How?” I say. “Razin killing Russians?”

Fat-gun child begin explaining, but this muddle in rooish definitions, be no use. Ya, my mind be stupid, trying to know that Kirill dead — in all these ruin bodies, Kirill be somewhere. I work to save him all these days, and now he end like nothing.

Then Bashir say sudden to the fat-gun roo, “Lies, lies.”

“Razin’s lies,” the fat-gun say. “Is better than no truth. Can kill you.”

Another Kavkazky laugh. “He ruling now, his lies be truth.”

“Nay, hold,” I say. “Who ruling?”

“Razin ruling,” say Bashir disgusten. “The general been kilt.”

I frown puzzling to him. All Kavkazkies break in laughter.

“Girl,” roo the long-beard child, “is bad job, general of Russians. Short to live.”

“Our children kilt the general?” I say.

“Yes,” Bashir say cold. “Think this.”

“Nay.” The long-beard grin to me. “This been Russian vote. Soldat dislike general. He do mistake with gun, and general die. So Razin punish Kirill. Punish whoever he dislike. They shot. Child who do mistake — I think he is healthy.”

“But we forget this now.” The fat-gun nay his hand. “Is old to talk.”

Then another stanken Russian come with interest to me, pushing, and when this struggle done, Kavkazkies go on in nervy silence. Ya, I be trying for relief, that Razin powerful grown. Ain’t going to be no general above, insisting that I murder. But most my fear be on our forward path.

Been climbing ever upward, stitching a path through stones and trenches. And, every turning, Arlington House come larger in my eyes. Is mostly like a normal mansion. Windows plain, and all be clean like showing innocence. But these humble looks misgive me worse. Be how, in a dream, an object looking ordinary — a shoe, a rock — possess all maudy powers. If it touching you, your soul be rid. Or how a child with normal parts, who eat and smile like any person, will kill, spit on the dead, do laughing rape.

Try thinking how I come to my own death, it be no fear beyond. But cowardesse insist, cannot go here. I even remember Felipe’s nonsense talk of Satan’s armies. Can feel how Satan living there, in company of his demons. But at last, we come past all the burial stones and fires, and only be this mansion left to see.

Leftward in its yard, there be a row of sprawlen bodies. All be roos, with furry hair. Each blooden at his head, the blood trail prettieuse in snow. Can see how they been kneeling in a line, particular correct. Then their neatness spoil by sloppy death.

Ya, here the rapists ease from us, lose backward in reluctance. Then the Kavkazkies lag behind. Soon only Bashir still stalk by me, despairing in his fury.

House got low steps in front, that lead up to a pillar porch. On these steps, be sat some twenty roos. They easy kept, be drinking-laughing. Got no drunken slobbery — is only loose in pleasure, like they laze behind a grandy meal.

Polkovnik Razin be sat middy to the steps. Face still blooden right, and both hands bandage into whitish mitts. He wear his dapple clothes, how every Russian clad this day, and look no different to the others. But can feel how every child attend him. Yo, as each roo notice me, he check to Razin nerviose. Can see, this be the Polkovnik’s house, his line of neatly murders. Be his unworld of rape and screaming dead.

Beside him on the steps be Pasha. Pasha rest one hand on Razin’s shoulder, easy in his body. Wear dapple clothes familiar to me from all days in Massa. But he strange to recognize, in all this thousand world of roos. Ya, he look to me with some expression that ain’t his. Can be fear, but ain’t his fear. And Pasha take his hand from Razin’s shoulder, stand up sharp. Polkovnik Razin glance to him, then turn his gentle eyes on me.

Bashir step back without no word. Turn down to the better shadows, to the better dead. Ya, I go on, rage gripping hot. My fear be rid. It be Toporov in my heart of blood. I come uncaring through the snow, its grub of cigarettes, red footprints. My eyes keep sharp to Razin. Ain’t want Pasha in my sight.

I stop at talking distance. Say in English, “Come for my trade, Polkovnik.”

An unknown roo ask something low. Razin answer rooish, clear in humor, “Be Toporov’s wife.”

Then roos around be laughing, look to Pasha curiose. I keep eyes on Razin. Know, if I look to Pasha, all my wolfen certainty be lost.

Razin raise a naying hand. Say English through their laughing noise, “You want your medicine, I understand. But I am sorry, Korolyeva. Of course, I send this to New York.”

As he talk, the other roos hush down. Heed to this English speech with squinting face.

I take a feary breath. “Gone to my people?”

Polkovnik pooch his nothing lips. “I am sorry, Korolyeva. The man who takes it… How you are not there, I don’t trust. He keeps it, I think. It is bad.”

My heart go vicious, helpless, but I hold my face correct. “Mean, you still owe me somewhat.”

“Of course,” he say with pleasuring eyes. He look up to a brown-head child, say some low explanation. The faces round begin to puzzle. Ya, I see Pasha stir in corner-eye, and flinch my hate.

Razin look back to me polite. “Ask what you want, Korolyeva. You see I am rich today.”

“Right,” I say. “Can guess, you got some prisoners?”

Razin’s face go thoughtful, like he measuring inside himself. “It is a good thought, Korolyeva. The least, I owe you four people. It is the right thing, to show we are not ungrateful.”

I grit, be thinking hasty, how I argue for more children. Magine how the penals going to beg, while I choose four. How Mamadou refuse to come, pride stronger than no fear. So it come like nonsense when Razin say, “But I think, your soldiers are male?”

“Ya, they boys.” My breath come short. “My Marianos be.”

He shaking his head before I finish. “Again, I cannot help you. Male prisoners, it is why we fight this unpleasant war. No, it will be an impossible thing, so I am sorry.”

I say, before my grief come full, “So girls left free? Or they all kilt?”

“This, it is something you know. We talked of this.”

Be a moment while I comprehend. Then all the world go blind. Be saying into rage and nothing, “Your children raping all they female prisoners. What you saying.”

“Of course,” say Razin in my blindness. “Today it is like that.”

“Yo filth,” I say in choken voice. “Nay, why you even living? Seen some ugliness, but Russians be like walking puke. How you never kill yourself, be some disgusting mysteries. Maggots, what you is. You—”

“No, Korolyeva,” Polkovnik say up loud. “Not like this.”

I catch my voice, grit to him with my cold hands shaking on Kalash. My spirit be a weaken thread. Like I already start to die.

He shake his head. “You must know, the hero gets three desires. You now lost two. I am a very bad person, you noticed this. I also noticed this, so I do not anger. I still give your last desire.”

All roos be fascinating now. They open-mouth in wishing they comprehend. Ya, I glance thoughtless to my Pasha. He watch me with disgusten face. His eyes be thin in anger. Ain’t nothing like himself, and for a moment, I think it be some other roo. Then I flinch my eyes away, tears starting in my throat.

“Bone,” I say rough. “Free they girls.”

Razin sigh. “Again, it is a bad choice. What happens now, I cannot change. If they live, they soon are free without your help. But now — to stop this, it will be a very bad fight. And my friends here also want to live.” He shake his head like disappointing. “You waste your three desires. It is a sad story, I think. It ends badly.”

I shrug against my wasting feeling. “Be no matter. Got no other wish.”

“You want nothing?” He raise eyebrows, smiling. “No, I can’t believe.”

“Ain’t going to beg my life. You kill me or you ain’t, be without this.”

“That is very good, Korolyeva. I think, you are like a wonderful actress.”

He turn by with pleasure eyes, begin explaining low in rooish. Russians heed with curiose looks to me, while I stand pointless. Begin to feel the cold again, and clutch my fingers in my coat.

Polkovnik finish, make sorry gesture. One roo say, Nay, is sad. Others laugh and nod, in preciation of this bony sadness. Polkovnik smile, turn back to me.

“My Korolyeva,” he say kindly, “we are all sorry for your desires. But I think, there is something more you want. This I will give to you, of course. You want to see your husband.”

I keep eyes on Razin cold. Heart be a throng of evils, but I only say, “I seen him. Got no other wish.”

“But you want to be with husband alone. I am a person, I understand. This I can give you.”

Polkovnik look to Pasha. Ya, my hands go harder to my gun. Begin to guess my last desire be Pasha Traitor’s death. But when I look up to his owlen face, I lose in weakness. And now the Polkovnik talk his rooish low. Russians wake in movement, all come gathering quick to me. Their faces bright from entertainment, got no angry mood. Nor I fight as they take my Kalash. The coat go with, and my belly come sudden freezing as they step away.

Then Pasha come toward. I clench with panic loathing. Look back toward the line of dead, the only children here I want to know.

Pasha take me by the arm without no word. Hand grip deep, is hard. I never look at him. But when he pull me, I go with.

He lead me past these roos — past the Polkovnik who look up with happy brownish eyes — up the steps, into the porchen shadows. He open the mansion’s door, and we go in a darken hallway, smelling cold with dust.

Then he fling the door shut hard. Close us in shadow darkness, where the outside noise be helpless dull. My throat gone tight with dread. I twist against his hold unthinking. But he drag me rough along, into an eating room, cold with unlife. Pass on, through one more door, and in this farther room, he leave me free. Shut the door behind, go hasty to a petty sofa. Drag this back against the closen door.

Then he sit upon this sofa, put his face into his hands and break in sobbing tears.

75. MY FINAL PARLEY

I STAND A LONGER MINUTE, HEEDING STRANGE IN INSIDE DARKNESS. Room be a clutter of every shadow. Is paintings to the walls, but cannot see their pictures right. Various chairs stand round, like people in five different moods. And in two grandy windows show the farther fire of District, a maudy glow that thicken the horizon.

Pasha weep alone, bent on his sofa. Wipe his face with jacket arm, but never look to me. Ya, in my flesh, still be the fright unbalance of his dragging me. I comprehend that I should say some word, child crying so. But I gone stiff with some unknowing feeling.

And slow, his weeping ease, his breath go lighter. Soon he only staring to the floor in hunchen shadow.

Then he say, resenting soft, “You cold?”

“Sure I be cold.” I fret my shoulders. “But why you crying? What this be?”

“You come here. Should be in Marias. Said to Razin that you going.”

“Gone if — nay, how you telling shoulds?”

His face tense like he going to shout. But he only straighten, pull his rooish jacket off. Reach it to me.

I step toward and take the jacket. Clad it on, with queery sorrow how it stank of Pasha. Smell like our hunting days together, before I guess that roos can wash. And it be warm from him, its sleeven cuff wet from his tears.

Then I come cautieuse, sit to the sofa. Look to Pasha where he hunchen big, face low in shadow. I say, “Polkovnik told all stank on you. Know this.”

“I know. He joke on this tonight.”

I take a needy breath. “So it been lies.”

Be a moment’s silence, while he fish a cigarette from his shirt pocket. Match brighten up, and by its flame, can see his painful face. Got dirt along one cheek, with tearen paths run through it white. He skit the match out hard. “Told you all this before. Ain’t lies.”

I flinch annoying. “Nay, ain’t told me. Told me fictions, how you flee the Russians. All your sorry feelings, how you kill yourself. Your daughter.” My voice catch sour. “Ain’t matter nothing, but you lying right.”

“Yes, ain’t matter. This been also truth, but it ain’t matter. Told you I be mally, but you ain’t believe.” He look resenting to me. “But you believing Razin, why?”

“Shee, I believe the war tonight! Be some thousand children dead around us for your treachery. Should let them kill you in Marias.”

“Yes, you should. I told you this.”

“Nay, damn! Why you told me to war? You known we cannot win. But you be faithful to these maggots, why?”

Then he look to me full. His face be dim in shadows, but can see his eyes particular, suffering their anger. “Nay. Ain’t faithful to them, fool. I done this for yourself.”

“Myself?” I scoff my breath. “Ain’t for myself. I wanting this?”

“I try to get you cure. What you need.”

“And where it is? All children slaven. Dead. It be no cure.”

“Ain’t better way.” He grit his mouth like pain. “All choices mally.”

“How this be better choice than anything? Other choice, they kill us slower?”

“If you trading prisoners, how we said—”

“It been no thousand prisoners here! We losing, ain’t remember? Even if Marines agree to trade, been nothing. Dozen cures.”

“You can cure,” say Pasha savage thin. “Yourself. All I try.”

“Myself? This war been for my precieuse self? No sho, it been!”

A moment he stare furiose to me, ain’t seem to even breathe. Then he say harsh, “When it been Driver, you fight for one cure.”

“Without no hope to win, I ain’t. Kill any thousand children? Nay.”

But as I say this, doubt misgive. I even get a nonsense thought that Driver still can save, if I agree. Yo, Pasha shaking his head with bitter mouth.

He say, “And if you ain’t war here, roos take Marias neverless. They wait some months, be most. Ain’t waiting long. It been no help.”

I catch on this precaire. “But… you can tell me. Why you never said, we got no chance?”

“Ice, think.” His bluish eyes gone stark. “I say, and you ain’t war. You running here alone. To roos.”

“And so? I be one child. You seen outside? It be a world of dead!”

“And now you here! All been for nothing!”

“Shee, ain’t even truth! Ain’t for myself! You left to roos, first chance. You theirs. Or why you left to them? Nor I want fables on no daughter.”

Pasha flinch from this, look narrowing at a chair across. Suck his cigarette, breathe out a ghosty reach of smoke. Ya, in this smoky breath, all meaning blanken from his eyes.

“Pasha, shee!” I say. “And now you giving me your moron face? Ain’t guess I even leaving here, can learn some sense before I die.”

He tense indignant. “You ain’t dying. And you the moron.”

This catch me funny in my nerves. I laugh while Pasha muttern, “Why you come here? Moron, laughing. How I going to help you now?”

“Nay, what you caring any, vampire?” I say through my laughter. “Should be raping me right now.”

Then sudden, he be on his feet. Rouse over me furiose and yell, “You wanting I should rape you? What you want?”

“Foo, what you saying?”

“Ain’t need to call me vampire. Nor you need to talk of rape.”

“Was jokes.”

“Nay, ain’t jokes! And you ain’t leaving here, is right.” He look sharp to the window. Suck his cigarette bright and spit out smoke. “Ain’t jokes.”

“Foo, Pasha,” I say softer. “Why you angry so? Ain’t meant no wrong.”

“Rape you? I ain’t never touch you.”

“Damn, ain’t meaning nothing like that.”

He sit down, all insults in his face. Say peevish, “Truth, you cannot leave. Razin want you now.”

This shock peculiar in my nerves. I sit back to the sofa, crossing arms against myself. In the heavy dark, roo look uncanny, like in our first days — face flat, with chill uncolor eyes.

“Razin?” I say hoarse. “Why he wanting me particular? Got other girls to use.”

“Ain’t that,” say Pasha in disgusten voice. “Can leave that.”

“Then what it be?”

He wave away this question, hunch again with bitter frown. When he suck his cigarette, I notice by its swelling light, his knuckles scuffen bloody. I look by, swallowing, at a painting of a sleeper head. Wait some time of fear while its white face be blurren dark, got no expression I can see. Be thinking how I beg if I can leave here, neverless. Need only to walk across the bridge, wait for they fires to cool.

Then Pasha say, “You talk to Razin every days, been stupid work. He be a sort, ain’t bone he even know you. That he think of you.”

“So he think of me. And so?”

“He think,” say Pasha slow, like he explain to imbeciles, “and think some use for you. All this night, he seek you. Send soldats to north, if they can catch.”

“But why? All I be asking.”

Pasha shrug resenting. “He want you to work for roos.”

“Shee, work for roos.” I laugh up tight. “I help them take Marias? Razin know I never doing so.”

“Ain’t for this. Ain’t for Marias.”

“Then what it being for? Ain’t sense.”

Now Pasha make a difficult face, look to the moonlight windows. I follow his eyes and find the smoke horizon there, gone dull and thick. But soon it realize, the roo ain’t looking to the District. He heed the voices in the yard, is waring for no change. To this, my selfen nerves go thin. Think on the filth soldats outside, who chase me every step for rape.

Then Pasha frown toward his hands, say slow, “Ice, been your lie. How Europeans give you nuclears.”

“Foo, Razin ain’t believing this.”

“He ain’t believe. But someone can believe.”

“Shee, who?”

“Heed. If Europeans give you nuclears, been crime. Be grandy crime. Razin want you to accuse this crime. To Europeans, Russians, every people.” He look to me for comprehending, hopeless in his eyes. “Will be in Europe. Where you go.”

“Foo, Europe.” I take unbelieving breath. “Razin take me to some Europe, to only tell this lie?”

Pasha’s face go worse. “And you must tell about the war. Tell, how Russians want.”

“War? Yo, how they want it told?”

His misery work in complications, thinking in his face. “What Russians say about this war… be like the radio speech. You can remember?”

“They helping us with pharmacies.” My voice catch sour. “For nothing. Cause they caring so.”

“Ya. What you must say. The Russians help, do nothing mally.”

“And they slave our children,” I say hard. “This be for help?”

“Nay, ain’t slave. It be no slaves. Your people fight for roos because they want. For justice.”

“Justice.” I laugh bitter. “And any fool believing this?”

“People there, how they will know? They never seen no Quantico. They never seeing war. Most they believe on war, is lies.” Then he look wishful to my eyes. And it realize, he wanting me to answer yes. Want this vicious, but he never dare to ask direct.

I nod dumb. “Guess Razin sent us here so you convince me?”

“Nay.”

“How, nay?” I scoff my breath. “Is what you doing. All you doing.”

“Nay. He known, you ain’t agree.”

“So what this be? All be no point.”

Pasha shake his head. Go fish another cigarette. Light with hasty hand, breathe out a dirty veil of smoke.

Then he look to me precaire. Be concentrating wary, like he narrow on a deer with gun. And he say soft, “I going to tell you truth. You can believe?”

“Ain’t know. I going to heed.”

“Razin think you love myself. Love me… like a male.”

Here we both flinch in conscience. I want to look away, but I be shy to move somehow. Think pointless of Toporov Vampire, and my heart beat queery, like it want to be some other place.

At last I say, “And so?”

“What he think, he give us room apart. On boat.”

“Ho, he want to breed us?” I laugh choken. “What this do?”

“Be so I giving love. I show like I protecting you and… this. Be nine days across the ocean. You be alone, except myself. When it finish, he think you obey.”

I take a careful breath. “But you ain’t do this… love?”

“Nay,” say Pasha hard. “I love you honest. Ain’t for this.”

I knit my hands together. Feel like tears, my breath come scarce and rough. Magine this room on endless ocean. How Pasha trying love, I be alone from every person known. And Razin wait somehow, the soldats always loud outside.

I say thin, “I believe.”

Pasha let out a ragged breath. Look down to his cigarette, his big respect be helpless. “I ain’t do Razin’s games. But I be asking, so you live. If you ain’t agree… on boat, this death be mally, Ice. You there with all soldats. How they do. And then be drowning.”

“Can shoot me now.”

Pasha flinch to me. Stare a pause of fright, reach toward my hand. But then he mind himself, pull back.

“Nay, I ain’t saying right.” His voice come high like choking tears. “What be important, if you work for roos, your children safe.”

My heart bite cold. “Children? Sengles in Marias?”

“Ya, roos go there now. But if you work for roos, they keep your Sengles safe. They all be safe.”

Now need wake in me. Rise mally, like a puking sickness. Start thinking, it be only lies. Be for some Europeans-Russians, strangers to my mind. Ya, they believing garbage like, be their stupidities to thank.

Through this, my need distract to Mamadou. Wonder if I can beg his life somehow, in extra trade. Crave to ask if Pasha know, if Mamadou be dead or prisoners. But already can feel the grief that waiting on this answer.

I say in first attempt, “Be any way they keep Crow safe? Take him from prisoners?”

Pasha’s face catch into fear. “Nay, Ice. They—”

“Sure, see this.” I take a choken breath. “But Crow be living? You ain’t know?”

“Ya, I seen. He there in prisoners.” Pasha make a forcen smile. “Got injury, but this be small.”

A noise of rooish laughter rise outside. Gunfire louden there, and Pasha startle. Look to the window angry. Then he look back to me and smile again, his face a dirty fear.

I say, “And prisoners here, they go to Europe also?”

This catch him in some conscience. “Go… they go to Africa. Wars there.”

I nod stupid. Look back to the window. City purpling still, and lower stars be hazy dull. Can see the Washington Monument, look smallish wavery in the smoke, but still be white the same.

“What it be, you guess?” I say. “Number of children that you took? Some hundreds?”

When I look back to Pasha, he stare to the window self. Fist his blooden hands. “What Razin think, it be five thousand.”

I make a throaten noise, is almost sobbing. “Nay, cannot — how they get this? Ain’t been no five thousand caught.”

Pasha raise his cigarette and find it dead. Grimace painful and throw it down. Go fishing in his pocket.

Then I comprehend. Ease back to the chillen sofa, shivering in my coat. “Tunnels, I guess. They catch them there?”

Pasha nod. “Where most our people being now. At tunnels, or… catch Marianos.”

“So how they do this?” I say thin. “Quanticos never surrender so. Must kill them all. Ain’t take them living.”

Pasha scratch up a match and grimace in its light. Suck his cigarette and say in empty voice, “Use bombs, is gas. Make children sleep.” He toss the match like ridding this notion by.

“Sure,” I say cold. “Tunnels bone for this. Was gift.”

“Ya. Was what roos hope.”

“What you hope. You hope.”

He look to me with his blank face, but now can know it be no lies. Is shame. Face whitish like a bone.

I say, “Can notice, you ain’t warn the Quanticos this. You ain’t.”

He ain’t speak, he only shake his head. Hand clutch his cigarette.

“Truth, yours been genius work. Yo, I work bone for you. I working any weeks to kill my children.”

“Nay,” he say thick. “Ain’t like this.”

“Yes, like this! But it be done. Ain’t speaking for your cockroach Russians, while every children took to die. Africa — you told me what this be. I goddamn know! Heed, you get reward for this? They pay you something?”

“Nay,” he say in nosy voice. “Ain’t pay.”

“Is rank you get? What they do?”

He look to me awful then. “Ice, ain’t you need to die for this.”

“How I can live? I speak for roos while… nay.”

“Ice.” He hitch his breath. “Who we catch now, ain’t like Sengles. These been soldiers.”

“Nay, they been Mamadou!” My voice choke bitter, and I start to cry. “They been my goddamn people. Ya, First Runner dead. She ten, ain’t be no goddamn soldier!”

“They kilt without this, Ice. It—”

“Nay, they ain’t! They ain’t! Must be some chance that someone live!”

His eyes grow their own tears, his face gone soft in littlish misery. “You can live. I trying to save yourself. You fight me why?”

“Ain’t want to goddamn live!” I sob out hard. “I finish living!”

Then he reach sudden toward me, pull me hard into his arms. Yo, I lose in weakness. Hold against him, weeping breathless. He muttering teary, “Never want you in this. Ain’t even want you by me. Any child I know, they ending mally. Nay, why you come here? You been safe.”

“Ain’t want no safety. Want to die.”

“Ain’t let you die. Ain’t let you.”

Then we only hold together, weeping into dark. He stroke my head against his chest, and we cry passion hard, like running into breathlessness. Be like we seeking something with these tears, some hope to feel. Seek in our orphan loves their dead. Seek in a dark bewept. Yo, I feel this been the truth of all our time together. We always been a grief that huddle close against a vicious light. And he bend to me and kiss my hair, in last tendresse of need.

But tears be like all tears, a water that weaken into emptiness. Then only be this room, gone hazy with cigarettes. Be the outside noising of soldats, the always cold. Be ourself, wet-face and clutch together, shy in sudden conscience.

And slow, he loose from me. I sit back, feeling strange and small. Cross arms against my chest, and shiver in his jacket’s warm.

Pasha sit back muttering low, “Ain’t let you.” He seek his pocket for cigarettes, hand moving clumsy weak. Ain’t find them, and he leave this hopeless. Only stare to the floor with ruin face, tired and spent and white.

And here I know, like worser truth, my Pasha never being false. He caring for no roos. He caring for no town of people. In time, he faithful to his daughter. When she die, his faith die also. Then he find myself. And when he said he want this war to save my life, been simple truth. Yo, if it been needful, he kilt every Mariano with his own hands, so I keep safe. So been our war.

But this war ain’t only Pasha’s. It been also mine. I known that we can lose. Pasha told me this himself. But I thought to save my brother’s life, and cannot hear no doubts. I risk my whole believing city for this single love. And even when Driver gone — is Pasha right, all choices evil. Can leave all children dying of posies; or I kill them in some war.

And my heart suffer, and crave to leave this mally world, and it beat on. Quantico burn red in the window. Rooish laughter rise, be still alive beyond all death.

At last, I take a breath, say dumb, “Can use a cigarette myself.”

He find his cigarettes in different pocket. Give one to me, light a match and watch my face particular in its quick light. Yo, when the flame be rid, and I be sucking on this gratty smoke, he say, “Mamadou ain’t dead.”

Take me a second to know these words be real. I narrow on him, still blind somewhat from the matchen flame. “Nay, you know this certain?”

“Ya. Gone to Marias with your cure.”

My blood flash hot and strange. “Goddamn. He there? Why you ain’t said?”

“Be saying.” Pasha shrug.

“Foo, Razin choosing Mamadou?” I laugh dumb. “Been queery choice.”

“Ain’t choose,” say Pasha shortish. “He ain’t even know who Mamadou be.”

“How, been luck?”

“Nay. He ask me to choose. Because I know yourself, he ask.” Roo look to his blooden knuckles. “Thought Mamadou keep you safe.”

I stare joyeuse and weak a minute. The smoky pall of District in the window draw my eye, but cannot feel its misery now. Luck woken in my heart. Can think, is even chance the NewKing give the cure to Sengles. Sure, he got no child his own.

Then a notion stir in mind. Start like a bitter joke — a loathing on this time of evils. But it twist somehow. Grow real and real in quickening thought. Is like a birthing foal that find its feet and rise up as a horse. And when it find its shape, is bell as wonderful.

I say, “When it be done — I told this lie — what being then?”

Pasha flinch, look sharp to me. “Ice, you heeding? You will do this?”

“Hold.” I ware my cigarette. “Be asking, I can go back? To Marias?”

His face tense again. “Roos go there now. Ain’t—”

“Shee, answer questions. They will bring me?”

“Can be.” Pasha seek my face. “If they think you theirs.”

“Europeans, they got cure?”

He get bewaring looks. Say stiff, “Will cure yourself. Do this.”

“Nay, what I thinking. Europeans will give it somehow?”

Pasha get his worst naying face. He shake his head and shake his head. Ya, when he take good breath, his voice be rage. “Roos warring in Marias! You heed nothing? Ice!”

“Nay, roos been weaker, if we got the cure ourself. Ya, Europeans got no boats?”

He swear rooish, stand up to his feet.

I say up harder, “People die for this tonight. To get that goddamn cure. Yo, all my children die without. It be a country dying here.”

“Ain’t save countries, Ice!” He turn back furiose. “Is moron work. Can save a person. Save two people.”

“Nay, you going to help me, roo! It must be something, from all this.”

“Cannot.”

“Goddamn, you help me! Or you watch me die!”

Then he scream harsh and loud, “Ain’t say this! It be cruel! Ain’t say this!”

Even the roos outside go hush. Is like the world stop on its feet. Yo, I cringe back in body fear, expect his fists. Heart pounding bright.

But when he only hold in stare, I reach unthinking for his hand. Then his face go weak. He take my hand and muttern, “Ice, ain’t say this more. Ain’t say.”

I take a sorry breath. “But cannot be for nothing, Pasha. All they deaths. And you be bone, I know you be. You know.”

He shake his head, begin to answer — when footsteps thud inside the house. Go shivering in the floor, and rooish voice come muttering toward. Pasha freeze with agony face. Noise gather close, and he say low like helplessness, “Ain’t talk to them. I do… you only keep with me. Ain’t talk.” Then the door kick hard against the sofa, jar my frighten back. And, for the first time, I hear their vampeer—rooish word for “vampire”—callen like simple name.

Pasha shout back rooish, “What you need?”

“Be time!” A child roo loud with boozen voice. “Razin already gone!”

The door push hard again. Some child go laugh and muttern swears. Pasha’s hand grip hard on mine, until I feel my hand its every bones. He whispern dumb, “It all be right. You keep to me. Ain’t talk.”

Yo, as I stand, the sofa shift against my legs. The door come wide.

AND THEN IT BE ALL ROOS. They jabbering, pushing elbows, as we stumble to the vicious night. I still hold Pasha’s painful hand, and every world be roos. Guns fearing in my sight, be blacker nothing by the moon. Roos’ dirty voice come hot around my ears, their dirty laugh. The dead we stepping over be theirs; the smoke we breathe, the stank of guts.

And we come to a helicopter plane. Its roar unbearing loud. Its headblades spinning, blurring, so the wind hurt in my eyes. We step inside, roos jostling everywhere, I cannot flee their touch. And be this helicopter’s inside room, without no seats. Got smell like rifle oil, that changing sudden when the door come shut. Become a soldat pue of sweat, of booze. A smell of sex that sicken in my mind, was rape. Roos flop various to the floor, and all be close. Must sit into their unwant touch. A child start shouting “Korolyeva!” at me through the blaring noise. Laugh ugly, though I never look.

Then the helicopter skew like losing balance. Fling and fling itself, and fall from earth. Lose into trembling air. I panic breathless, clutch at nothing, my own legs — while roos laze careless. Only lean their balance, like sitting a tricky horse. I think in distant mind, Ain’t nothing. Flying. What it do. Look up, where be two scuffen windows, round like scary eyes. And as the helicopter tip in air, I see a swipe of broadening road.

Road got some weirdo trucks with rifle noses, pointing various. Thousand children walk behind. They clog and fill the road. All stir together like an awful worm.

The helicopter bounce and all be gone. See only dirty sky. Yo, I keep seeking with my eyes. Crave to see if these be roos, or be my people stolen. I stare the windows, while a stranger hand reach toward my face, and Pasha swat it back. Swat it back. The helicopter tip again, and show a blackness that stretch forever, shivering by thin moon. Is water. And I know impossible, these children lost forever. Every Quantico, and every Mariano. Penals. Crow. They never seen again.

Yo, before I feel this right, my Pasha catch me to himself. Hit wild at some soldat’s hand. A child yell up like glad discoveries: Shto, vampeer vlublyon! Then roos all laugh to choking, while I comprehend without no mind: The vampire gone in love. And Pasha clutch me hard. I scarce can breathe for his hard arm. I push my hand against his chest, but it do nothing. Only feel his shirt besweaten, and when I look to him, his face be dead with hate. I close my eyes.

Then be a never time, before the helicopter falling, easing like this life can end. Can think, we crashing simple. All be rid. But still the rooish yells continue. The room chuff down, chuff light, and find its feet. Its closeness open. Helicopter roar come deafening big. Is cleanly wind again, and when I open eyes, my Pasha staring at me close. Hair stick to his face with sweat.

Roos scramble out, rid wonderful away. Yo, Pasha take my hand again, stand to his feet. I come shaky after him, and only when we steppen out, I feel the ground be wrong. Be weirding, lifting underfoot.

Take a minute of brainless fear before I know, it be a boat. We standing on its roof, that pose unsteady on enormous water. Air breathe wet, feel big and wrong. Floor change again, and I clutch Pasha’s hand. Feel our sweat. Soldats stalk behind-around, and the helicopter breathe down. Its noisy wind come deaf; a different wind cut sleetish at my face. And in this wind that feel like icy nakedness, soldats still noising past, my Pasha say hoarse in my ear, “If you do Razin’s ask, I help. What you ask. I help.”

I flinch, touch to his arm. Already his sleeve be damp from rainy wind. “The cure? But you ain’t lying?”

“You got to heed me. You will heed?”

“I heed you always,” I say choken. “How we do this war. We killing everyone.”

“Ice, be asking.”

“Nay, you help?”

“Cure, can get from Europeans. Yes. But you must live.”

“Nay, you ain’t lying?”

He take an angry breath. I look to him, be steadying myself to ask again. But when I only see his face, its owlen grief, I know. His face be like a moon that cannot bear to see. Is like my heart.

SO THIS BE HOW I bring the cure at last to all the Nighted States, save every poory children, young to die. Is how a city kilt for selfish love, and rise from this same smallness. Be how the new America begin, in wars against all hope — a country with no power in a world that hate its life. Be what I seeing, when our Russian boat pull to the nighten waters, as the shore hush from me, drift away all worlds I known. See the shore and see the smoke of Quantico afar, and I comprehend, this all a country, and is mine. Pasha be by me, in his sorrow, talking how he bad for life, and I hold his hand in habit, watch my townie stars, the brushy land beneath their eyes. And I know, inside this final loss, I going to save this place. I be small in all this blackness world, this ship of drunken vampires, but through my hearten wounds, I living yet, and all my love the same. Nor death been ever arguments to me, I know my truth. I know, ain’t evils in no life nor cruelties in no red hell can change the vally heart of Ice Cream Star.