He tried to suck in a deep breath, but it hurt his lungs. He blinked away harsh tears and sunlight. Then he saw Daddy.
Dewey wailed with relief and started running. “Daddy!” he cried, though his throat was still sore and the words didn’t seem right.
In fact, nothing seemed right. He had come all the way back to the picnic grounds. There were the tables; there were the cars; there was Mommy running away.
And here was Daddy, aiming his gun. Aiming it right at Dewey and squeezing the trigger.
“The Demonstration” copyright 1989 by Marc Laidlaw. First appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, February 1989.
LOAVES FROM HELL
It was in a sweltering dusk that Charlie stumbled on a tombstone and lay panting in the grass. He longed to stay where he had fallen, to sleep for days in the peace of the old graveyard, but where the dead were buried, the living must be near. He needed a more secluded bed or else he would surely be discovered.
He had awakened in the early hours of the previous morning, head bloody and ringing, to find himself in a black mist, tangled in the arms of a German corpse, left for dead on the Brooklyn shore. He’d thought he heard the soft lapping of oars slowly fading over the harbor, but he hadn’t dared cry out for fear of alerting the British to his position. In the dark stillness, he had searched for living allies and found none, nor any sign of the Patriot Army’s boats. That was when he’d known for certain he was alone, except for any prisoners of war the British might already have taken—as they would soon take him if he weren’t swift to flee.
By dawn, he was on his way eastward. From Jamaica Pass he looked back and saw the mist clearing as though slain by the enemy’s advance. They moved ominously out of it, the kilted Black Watch as well as the Hessian troops with their tall, glinting brass helmets and brighter bayonets. The Patriots had avoided defeat by surrendering Long Island. Now the enemy was dispersing along the northern shore, spreading out to take possession of the coast and thus securing the interior, entrapping Charlie.
He made his way through dense woods, avoiding roads that might carry British troops. He skirted farms and towns as well, fearing that anyone he approached for help might turn him over to the King’s men. But half the houses he passed proved to be freshly abandoned, as though news of the battle had flown ahead of him. The Long Islanders must be rushing across the Sound to Connecticut, abandoning their property. Seeing this, he grew more convinced that he must hide himself, for only Loyalists would stay behind to welcome the troops.
That night he kept on despite cruel thickets and drenching August rains, though exhaustion and the blows he’d taken on his skull kept dragging him down to sleep. When morning came he was still struggling forward, though at a much slower pace. His toes showed through his shoes; his breeches were little more than rags; he’d long ago lost his coat and hat. Now, half-naked, he took more care than ever to avoid being sighted. He gorged on berries, drank from streams, tried to forget about sleep. But by the time he collapsed in the graveyard, another night approaching, he knew that he could go no farther without rest.
Just a bit more, he told himself. Get to the bottom of this hill, crawl under a holly bush if you have to, and maybe you can sleep an hour or two—but no more.
He had hardly begun the last concerted effort to drag himself forward, when he heard a low chuckle from the trees behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw three men, two in red coats and one in German blue, coming quickly toward him.
“Well, now, who’s this?” said the first, his face as red as his coat.
“Looks like a rebel to me, captain,” said the second Englishmen, shorter and stouter than the first.
“Either that or a gravedigger,” the captain said.
“Why not a rebel gravedigger?”
“Aye. There’s plenty of need for rebel graves, that’s certain.”
The German was tall and bearded, with long blond hair streaming down from his three-cornered hat. He stared at Charlie with none of the false good humor of the others. He carried a carbine rifle in one hand and a pickax in the other; in fact, all three men were armed with picks along with their guns. The captain buried the tip of his pick in the earth and came up to Charlie.
“Get up,” he said.
Wearily, Charlie rose. The captain lifted his musket and laid the end of the barrel against Charlie’s brow.
“Where’d you get that wound?” he asked, nudging an infected gash with the gun barrel. Charlie winced and started to brush the gun away, then realized that the captain must have wanted him to do something of the sort. He let his hands fall.
“Ah, wise lad. You must have learned something in the flatlands, eh? There’s nothing like a good beating to drive a lesson into a boy.”
The German seemed irritated by the proceedings. Hefting his pick over his shoulder, he started past Charlie.
“Where’s he going?” the captain said.
“Wolfgang!” said the other. “Listen to the captain, man.”
“God damn it,” said the captain. “I’ve had enough of this one. I knew there was no good reason for him to have left his troops. He’s probably a deserter.”
“Then why would he join us, sir?” asked the short man. Again he called after the German. “You’ll have to learn to take orders from Englishmen, you know.”
“Here, I’ll give him an order he understands.”
The captain aimed his musket at the German’s legs. As the man’s finger started to squeeze the trigger, something stirred up in Charlie. He let out a cry and his hand shot out to knock the barrel aside. When the gun discharged, it was pointing at the sky. The captain let out a snarl and spun on Charlie, clubbing him with the gunstock. Charlie dropped on the damp, sticky grass, holding his head, blinded. He felt a sharp pricking of his throat and opened his eyes to find the captain standing over him, scowling. His sword was drawn, its point somewhere out of sight below Charlie’s vision. When he swallowed, he felt it piercing deeper into his neck.
“Nein.” said a gruff voice. Charlie looked to one side and saw that the German had his carbine trained on the captain.
All blood drained from the officer’s ruddy face. For a moment, no one moved. Then the German drew back the lock with an audible click. A few seconds later, the captain’s sword wavered and finally swept free of Charlie’s neck.
“Get up,” he said.
Charlie rose, supporting himself on a tombstone.
“You’re a prisoner of war now,” the captain went on without another look at the German, as though nothing had happened. “That doesn’t mean you’re going to lie about in a comfortable cell, eating our bread and wasting our water. We have work for you. You’ve come at a fortunate time.”
He turned around for the pick, uprooted it, and thrust it at Charlie, who caught it in numb fingers. His exhaustion was largely forgotten, unfelt. The captain gestured toward the graveyard, indicating that they should proceed. The German lowered his carbine and strode on. Puffing slightly, the stout little Englishman hurried after him.
“Go on,” said the captain. “Get to work.”
The woods were full of headstones, many of them fallen and thus hidden in the tall grass. Charlie stumbled several times, the pick’s weight unbalancing him; finally he landed heavily on his knees and knelt there with his head bowed, unmoving.
“Up,” the captain said. “Up or I’ll blow your head off.”