Before leaving the headquarters building, Revell went to the men’s room. As he washed his hands he saw his face in the mirror. The splashes of blood, now dried and flaking, couldn’t hide the stress lines around his eyes, or the bags beneath them.
Another officer came in and stood at the next basin, scrubbing ingrained ink stains from his fingers. It took a moment to click, then he recognized Captain Porter.
“I’ve got it.”
Porter was almost dancing with excitement. “I’ve got my discharge, medical grounds. I’d never thought of that. A sergeant suggested it.”
“Rather quick, wasn’t it?” Revell knew it could take months before you came before a Board. He’d watched every stage of Dooley’s several attempts, becoming quite an authority on the subject in the process.
“Is it? The sergeant arranged it all. He has a friend…”
“Must have cost a lot.”
Porter reddened and tried to laugh the suggestion off.
“So what now? Back to the States, and teaching?” He’d dried his hands, and would have left, but Porter was in the narrow doorway.
“Oh no. That’s not my only stroke of luck. That county paper, I told you about. Well they’ve offered me a position. Not exactly as a reporter. More sort of an office post, in editorial, but of course I’ll still be able to submit stories. Who knows, perhaps one of them will get picked up by a national. That does happen, you know.”
“When do you go home?” Suddenly Revell was not in a hurry. “As soon as I can get a flight. Within a week I should imagine.”
“Give me your address. There’s something I can send you.” Producing a very professional looking notebook, Porter jotted it down and handed it over. “Is it a story? I mean, rather out of the ordinary. Hope you don’t mind my asking, but so many I speak to, when I mention I write, they think I can get their memoirs published…”
“It’s a story.”
“Oh good. I do hope it gets me a by-line.”
“I should think there’s a very good chance it’ll surprise you.”
Stepping out into the blacked out street, Revell felt a great weight had been lifted from him. He felt the piece of paper in his hand. Carefully he folded it and pushed it to the bottom of an inside pocket. The town was a miserable one, just inside the western fringe of the Zone, but for Revell it was a great place. As he walked in search of a ride back to his unit he felt really light and carefree. Yes, this was a great town. It was good to be alive.
It was pitch black. Only the luminous dial of his watch was visible in the trench. Clarence watched the fires at the farm. Many times he saw figures clearly silhouetted against the flames, but he never touched his rifle. Among the burning ruin of the farmhouse he could see the outline of a flak-gun, canted over at a crazy angle.
A huge barn was emitting vast showers of sparks that started hundreds of secondary fires in the fields. Some of them would merge, and for a brief while a line of fire would snake along in the distant darkness.
He couldn’t be certain under these conditions, but he got the impression that objects were being thrown into some of the fires. That didn’t make sense, unless it was the bodies of their dead they were disposing of in so convenient and labour saving a manner.
All sense of time had been lost, and it didn’t matter. Clarence felt for the satchel he had brought with him. Carefully he emptied its contents, sorted them by feel, and arranged them along the floor of the excavation.
Strange that for so long he had been obsessive about cleanliness, and here he was, content to remain in this unlined scrape. It was like lying at the bottom of a grave, without benefit of the decency of a lined casket.
By now he would be posted as missing. They might come out and search, but he’d been careful to separate from his escort a considerable distance away from the site he had finally chosen.
All the months and years of killing were almost over. He felt as if he were burned out. Burned out… how appropriate.
The Browning Hi-Power was heavy in his hand, its chequered wooden grips warm against his palm. He had to turn on his side.
With his free hand he groped for the metal canister wedged between the breech of the rifle and the wall of the trench. He slipped his middle finger through the dangling ring at its top.
Strangely, Clarence realized that he felt no fear, no emotion of any sort. He had handed out death so many times. Always with a cool, calm precision. This was only one more, to be handled with the same methodical patience.
Slowly he withdrew the pin from the thermite demolition grenade. Satisfied it was out, he placed the end of the barrel of the pistol in his mouth and squeezed the trigger steadily.
Unrecognized by those who held his arms and legs, the broken corpse of Colonel Tarkovski was swung back and forth, and then into the burning barn. Blazing bales tumbled down and hid his remains from sight.
On a hillside above the farm there was a brief flare of bright light. It passed unnoticed.
THE ZONE Series by James Rouch:
HARD TARGET
BLIND FIRE
HUNTER-KILLER
SKY STRIKE
OVERKILL
KILLING GROUND
PLAGUE BOMB
CIVILIAN SLAUGHTER
BODY COUNT
DEATH MARCH
Copyright
Copyright © 1989 by James Rouch
An Imprint Original Publication, 2005
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers.
First E-Book Edition 2005
Second IMRPINT April 2007
The characters in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
THE ZONE
THE ZONE E-Books are published by
IMPRINT Publications, 3 Magpie Court
High Wycombe, WA 6057. AUSTRALIA.
Produced under licence from the Author, all rights reserved. Created in Australia by Ian Taylor © 2005