The Apocalypse Reader Part 19

We'd been hearing the forecasts since before I'd been born. As a kid I'd hoped that when the world blew up it would be when I was doing homework, or about to give a speech in cla.s.s. Now I wished for it more and more of the time.

"Goodnight," Calc said coming in, dragging a loose mattress in from the other room. He dropped it with a bounce on top of some clutter and went back into the other room for a moment.

As he left Jule got up without looking down, as if the two were hooked up remotely. She looked determined moving forward, paused to maneuver around me, and stepped barefoot on the gla.s.s. I cannot replicate the sound she made, but I can imitate it. It was something like "Aaaeeeerrgmmm- mmm," and she landed softly on the mattress Calc had moved there.

"s.h.i.t," Z and I said in unison, though his was more one of concern while mine was just shock.

But she didn't even pause, just made the sound as she kept walking, and then she was silent, trying to make us think nothing could get to her. And maybe nothing could.

I TRY To busy myself with cooking, but I can't get the fire started. The next day I take up interior decoration, but when I ask no one can tell anything's been changed. There must be a use for me here. Can't I do anything?

"Need help?" I'm asking Z while he works trying to build some machine I don't know the use for. I can tell this is going to turn out to be the kind of help that makes everything take much longer and the finished product not as good.

Instead I bring myself outside. I do the dishes in the sea and afterward go for a walk. At first just scaling the long government fence that surrounds our home. White picket in better times. Then once it ends I keep following where I think it would have gone. A straight line through other buildings-other objects that used to work, everything broken and impotent now. Nothing doing any good.

I come back in through the first room and Maria is in there. All she does is silently prepare, stacking crates of army paste and sewing protective costumes from material she goes out and gets during the days. I'm nonsensically comforted by the sound of the thread running through the crinkly fabric, to sleep almost.

I haven't seen Jule in a while. Actually a week, I think. The building isn't very big-I don't know where she could be.

Her voice was in my head, so it's what I expected to hear when Z came in and said, "Get the blood up from the reservoir."

I laughed at the contrast. "You alright there?" he asked.

"Yeah, but it doesn't sound like she is ..."

He had every right to be concerned. I'd been dreaming up, computergenerating ways I could finish myself before the end struck. But at that moment my preoccupation turned stale. I'd figured it out. It didn't make sense why I should have to feel good. It didn't matter to the world, didn't change reality.

And now I did hear Jule, crying out from the other room, panicked voices consoling her. She was telling us something about pain. She said she didn't trust them. That there was nothing they could do for her. Then for the first time since I'd been here, we were making a trip to the hospital.

WAITING ROOM UPON waiting room ... None of us knew where to go. I felt like I was killing her with my stupidity. We carried her, each of us taking a side. I had my arm around her back with Calc so I could feel how skinny she really was.

When we found it we put her on the table. She crumpled the paper beneath her like fresh gra.s.s. I imagined us all somewhere far away. When the doctor came in, she reached down and revealed her leg.

The dolt-)r didn't have any reaction, but the rest of us hadn't seen anything like this yet.

"Oh, Jule," I murmured.

But then I wished I hadn't said anything cause she looked ashamed, like what had happened to her was her fault. I remembered the gla.s.s.

Doctor inspected her silently for a moment, keeping in her opinion which we all desperately wanted to know. She held her leg like a golf club. Then she said, "I'm afraid we're very late with this one."

"I don't understand," Maria said, looking at Jule.

"Just say what you mean," she said.

"We're going to have to remove your leg."

Jule made a new expression that seemed to change the whole shape of her face, like just by the doctor's words she had become a different kind of person.

Maria's face changed too, but slower. "No way," she said once she got it. "No way, we get you out of here."

"You're in the best hands with us," the doctor scolded. She got louder as we left the room. "This is serious!" her voice echoed down the hall.

We were bringing Jule back across thin carpet, maneuvering through dying crowds, shoving our way into the elevator ... and before we even made it down, I had a thought that felt forbidden. Why should she care about her leg when we're all going to die soon anyway?

WE'RE ALL up there, in the lab. Jule stretched out on a thin shelf, Calc and Maria cleaning her, among horseshoes and broken mirrors, a comforting bucket of stolen medicines. Everything looked so dirty, Maria's green dreads reminded me of mold just then, even though she looked pretty. Jule lay like an ancient statue, or a model for one, moving as little as possible. The others brought up the leg and a syringe. Then they said to her, "You do it." She injected herself with something green, then ate some pills that looked metal. Then they all sat around and told her how great they thought she was.

"Jule, you a beautiful woman. You deserve great life and you will once get."

"The G.o.ddess of the apocalypse ..."

"We love you, Julia," Calc said easily.

They looked at me.

"Yeah, what they said," I told her from the doorway. The smile I gave her felt physically painful, and her expression didn't change.

I left as soon as they started burning leaves and dancing around her.

Heading down the crooked hall I could see it was almost dark out. In a room I claimed as mine I sobbed alone, watching the sunny day end and not being able to do a thing about it.

FOR A LONG time she stayed anch.o.r.ed to the lab, gazing at the gla.s.scovered sea and crying out when she wanted something. And sometimes she just cried, animal wails we could not comprehend. But mostly she was silent and concentrative, as if working on something inside herself that no one else could reach. She got instructions on how to breathe. We brought her food and things to do. Two more trips to the medical warehouse went by. And after we let her leave her place on the shelf she still stayed, huddled like a worm under the mildew ceiling, till the others brought her out and only then did she realize that she could walk.

No one was in agreement on whether the leaves had anything to do with it, but before the season's change her malady had begun to evaporate. The mark divided into spots that resembled old bruises. We a.s.sailed her with science and religion, so like reverse gunfire her wounds cleared up; the colors on her leg went white. For the first time in my life I didn't hate technology. We could all see what the doctor said, that she was going to be alright. She would die intact.

PAST A YELLOW sunrise up from the coast, almost too far away to see a black castle-factory, from miniature abandoned cities, our own ghost town became visible again. The day was silent so far, like allowing for whatever needed to happen.

I was taking care of Jule today, not that she needed taking care of, but she didn't need not to be so I brought her in some pills and oranges, sat with her through far-away test blasts, each of us barely making out the benign puffs that beat like an awkward drum as I cleaned her and wrapped her back up.

"Thanks," she said in a way that made it seem true even though it wasn't an opinion. Then she asked, "What time is it?"

I smiled and said I didn't know.

Only when I left to gather more supplies did it occur to me how far away the future was. No matter the time, it just didn't exist. For me and Jule, we prepared for it, working constantly to prevent another infection with whatever moments we had left. And I knew that I'd been wrong. That it did matter what happened to her, just today, or any day. Everything mattered as long as it was still happening. I gathered the iodine and gauze among the mess, and an empty Easter basket and an old valentine just for the h.e.l.l of it. I didn't want to let go of anything.

THAT NIGHT I'M on a mattress in the torture room, but I can't sleep so I get up, shuffling through complete darkness into the next few rooms. I stop and stand in each of them, smiling at the cool breeze that finds its way in through poorly covered windows. I feel like I'm somewhere far away, and yet this is my home. This is where I should be. I come to the last room on the floor and stop before I go inside.

Jule is inside masturbating. I hear her facing the other way, jerking and whimpering, crying almost, like she has more on her mind than her body again. She sounds so lonely I wonder if I should go in there, if she would want me to. I think about when I would have wanted someone to, just about anyone at the time so maybe she could accept me, but then there were also times when I just needed to be alone, to where I wouldn't even have acknowledged anyone's presence if they tried. I listen some more and decide that she doesn't want me to, but that I want to so much that I'm going to go in there anyway, despite what she wants. That I don't care what she wants, and how I could convince her that I'm what she wants and how happy we'd be together, until I realize she's not alone after all. There is Calc now too, making noise, probably impregnating someone I should be loving like a sister if at all. And it's better this way, I know. There's nothing I want enough to take it from someone else. Not because it's wrong, because I really don't care enough, about anything. And I think it's fitting then, that I'll die.

THAT MORNING I didn't even have a chance to wake up. I was already sleep-running through the rooms, looking for the others. I must have fallen asleep about five minutes ago.

When I get downstairs Z is there, looking straight up. When he sees me he runs over. He grabs me by the shoulders and shouts.

"They're exploding bombs in the sky!"

I run outside to look up and see but I've already heard the blasts right above us, so that I'm having trouble hearing anything else. It doesn't sound like the recordings, or my nightmares. People everywhere must be surprised. But we saw it coming from miles away.

I'M WORRIED ABOUT Jule, can't find her now. I'm standing on the gray sh.o.r.eline, bent under an orange sky. Calc is crouched at the very edge, facing the horizon. I want to call out to him but it's too loud. I want to ask him what he's going to do. Instead I watch him stand Olympic with his arms outstretched, hesitating one moment. In that moment he looks back at me, smiling as he dives forward into still water and starts to swim.

CROSSING INTO CAMBODIA.

Michael Moorc.o.c.k.

I.

I APPROACHED AND Savitsky, Commander of the Sixth Division, got up. As usual I was impressed by his gigantic, perfect body. Yet he seemed unconscious either of his power or of his elegance. Although not obliged to do so, I almost saluted him. He stretched an arm towards me. I put the papers into his gloved hand. 'These were the last messages we received,' I said. The loose sleeve of his Cossack cherkesska slipped back to reveal a battle-strengthened forearm, brown and glowing. I compared his skin to my own. For all that I had ridden with the Sixth for five months, I was still pale; still possessed, I thought, of an intellectual's hands. Evening light fell through the jungle foliage and a few parrots shrieked their last goodnight. Mosquitoes were gathering in the shadows, whirling in tight-woven patterns, like a frightened mob. The jungle smelled of rot. Yakovlev, somewhere, began to play a sad accordion tune.

The Vietnamese spy we had caught spoke calmly from the other side of Savitsky's camp table. 'I think I should like to be away from here before nightfall. Will you keep your word, sir, if I tell you what I know?'

Savitsky looked back and I saw the prisoner for the first time (though his presence was of course well known to the camp). His wrists and ankles were pinned to the ground with bayonets but he was otherwise unhurt.

Savitsky drew in his breath and continued to study the doc.u.ments I had brought him. Our radio was now useless. 'He seems to be confirming what these say.' He tapped the second sheet. 'An attack tonight.'

The temple on the other side of the clearing came to life within. Pale light rippled on greenish, half-ruined stonework. Some of our men must have lit a fire there. I heard noises of delight and some complaints from the women who had been with the spy. One began to shout in that peculiar, irritating high-pitched half-wail they all use when they are trying to appeal to us. For a moment Savitsky and I had a bond in our disgust. I felt flattered. Savitsky made an impatient gesture as if of embarra.s.sment. He turned his handsome face and looked gravely down at the peasant. 'Does it matter to you? You've lost a great deal of blood.'

'I do not think I am dying.'

Savitsky nodded. He was economical in everything, even his cruelties. He had been prepared to tear the man apart with horses, but he knew that he would tire two already over-worked beasts. He picked up his cap from the camp table and put it thoughtfully on his head. From the deserted huts came the smell of our horses as the wind reversed its direction. I drew my borrowed burka about me. I was the only one in our unit to bother to wear it, for I felt the cold as soon as the sun was down.

'Will you show me on the map where they intend to ambush us?'

'Yes,' said the peasant. 'Then you can send a man to spy on their camp. He will confirm what I say.'

I stood to one side while these two professionals conducted their business. Savitsky strode over to the spy and very quickly, like a man plucking a hen, drew the bayonets out and threw them on the ground. With some gentleness, he helped the peasant to his feet and sat him down in the leather campaign chair he had carried with him on our long ride from Danang, where we had disembarked off the troop-ship which had brought us from Vladivostock.

'I'll get some rags to stop him bleeding,' I said.

'Good idea,' confirmed Savitsky. 'We don't want the stuff all over the maps. You'd better be in on this, anyway.'

As the liaison officer, it was my duty to know what was happening. That is why I am able to tell this story. My whole inclination was to return to my billet where two miserable ancients cowered and sang at me whenever I entered or left but where at least I had a small barrier between me and the casual day-to-day terrors of the campaign. But, illiterate and obtuse though these hors.e.m.e.n were, they had accurate instincts and could tell immediately if I betrayed any sign of fear. Perhaps, I thought, it is because they are all so used to disguising their own fears. Yet bravery was a habit with them and I yearned to catch it. I had ridden with them in more than a dozen encounters, helping to drive the Cambodians back into their own country. Each time I had seen men and horses blown to pieces, torn apart, burned alive. I had come to exist on the smell of blood and gun-powder as if it were a subst.i.tute for air and food-I identified it with the smell of Life itself-yet I had still failed to achieve that strangely pa.s.sive sense of inner calm my comrades all, to a greater or lesser degree, displayed. Only in action did they seem possessed in any way by the outer world, although they still worked with efficient ferocity, killing as quickly as possible with lance, sabre or carbine and, with ghastly humanity, never leaving a wounded man of their own or the enemy's without his throat cut or a bullet in his brain. I was thankful that these, my traditional foes, were now allies for I could not have resisted them had they turned against me.

I bound the peasant's slender wrists and ankles. He was like a child. He said: 'I knew there were no arteries cut.' I nodded at him. 'You're the political officer, aren't you?' He spoke almost sympathetically.

'Liaison,' I said.

He was satisfied by my reply, as if I had confirmed his opinion. He added: 'I suppose it's the leather coat. Almost a uniform.'

I smiled. 'A sign of cla.s.s difference, you think?'

His eyes were suddenly drowned with pain and he staggered, but recovered to finish what he had evidently planned to say: 'You Russians are natural bourgeoisie. It's not your fault. It's your turn.'

Savitsky was too tired to respond with anything more than a small smile. I felt that he agreed with the peasant and that these two excluded me, felt superior to me. I knew anger, then. Tightening the last rag on his left wrist, I made the spy wince. Satisfied that my honour was avenged I cast an eye over the map. 'Here we are,' I said. We were on the very edge of Cambodia. A small river, easily forded, formed the border. We had heard it just before we had entered this village. Scouts confirmed that it lay no more than half a verst to the west. The stream on the far side of the village, behind the temple, was a tributary.

'You give your word you won't kill me,' said the Vietnamese.

'Yes,' said Savitsky. He was beyond joking. We all were. It had been ages since any of us had been anything but direct with one another, save for the conventional jests which were merely part of the general noise of the squadron, like the jangling of harness. And he was beyond lying, except where it was absolutely necessary. His threats were as unqualified as his promises.

'They are here.' The spy indicated a town. He began to shiver. He was wearing only torn shorts. 'And some of them are here, because they think you might use the bridge rather than the ford.'

'And the attacking force for tonight?'

'Based here.' A point on our side of the river.

Savitsky shouted. 'Pavlichenko.'

From the Division Commander's own tent, young Pavlichenko, capless, with ruffled fair hair and a look of restrained disappointment, emerged. 'Comrade?'

'Get a horse and ride with this man for half-an-hour the way we came today. Ride as fast as you can, then leave him and return to camp.I Pavlichenko ran towards the huts where the horses were stabled. Savitsky had believed the spy and was not bothering to check his information. 'We can't attack them,' he murmured. 'We'll have to wait until they come to us. It's better.' The flap of Savitsky's tent was now open. I glanced through and to my surprise saw a Eurasian girl of about fourteen. She had her feet in a bucket of water. She smiled at me. I looked away.

Savitsky said: 'He's washing her for me. Pavlichenko's an expert.'

'My wife and daughters?' said the spy.

'They'll have to remain now. What can I do?' Savitsky shrugged in the direction of the temple. 'You should have spoken earlier.'

The Vietnamese accepted this and, when Pavlichenko returned with the horse, leading it and running as if he wished to get the job over with in the fastest possible time, he allowed the young Cossack to lift him onto the saddle.

'Take your rifle,' Savitsky told Pavlichenko. 'We're expecting an attack.'

Pavlichenko dashed for his own tent, the small one close to Savitsky's. The horse, as thoroughly trained as the men who rode him, stood awkwardly but quietly beneath his nervous load. The spy clutched the saddle pommel, the mane, his bare feet angled towards the mount's neck. He stared ahead of him into the night. His wife and daughter had stopped their appalling wailing but I thought I could hear the occasional feminine grunt from the temple. The flames had become more animated. His other daughter, her feet still in the bucket, held her arms tightly under her chest and her curious eyes looked without rancour at her father, then at the Division Commander, then, finally, at me. Savitsky spoke. 'You're the intellectual. She doesn't know Russian. Tell her that her father will be safe. She can join him tomorrow., 'My Vietnamese might not be up to that.'

'Use English or French, then.' He began to tidy his maps, calling over Kreshenko, who was in charge of the guard.

I entered the tent and was shocked by her little smile. She had a peculiar smell to her-like old tea and cooked rice. I knew my Vietnamese was too limited so I asked her if she spoke French. She was of the wrong generation. 'Amerikanski,' she told me. I relayed Savitsky's message. She said: 'So I am the price of the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d's freedom.'

'Not at all.' I rea.s.sured her. 'He told us what we wanted. It was just bad luck for you that he used you three for cover.'

She laughed. 'Nuts! It was me got him to do it. With my sister. Tao's boyfriend works for the Cambodians.' She added: 'They seemed to be winning at the time.'

Savitsky entered the tent and zipped it up from the bottom. He used a single, graceful movement. For all that he was bone-weary, he moved with the unconscious fluidity of an acrobat. He lit one of his foulsmelling papyrosi and sat heavily on the camp bed beside the girl.

'She speaks English,' I said. 'She's a half-caste. Look.'

He loosened his collar. 'Could you ask her if she's clean, comrade?'

'I doubt it,' I said. I repeated what she had told me.

He nodded. 'Well, ask her if she'll be a good girl and use her mouth. I just want to get on with it. I expect she does, too.'

I relayed the D.C.'s message.