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“Thank Christ,” Pap sighed. “I’m in enuff shit with the Baws as it is. Awright, let’s… let’s git him home to sleep it off.” He turned and walked back to his tent, stepping gingerly as he scratched the back of his neck. Before disappearing behind the flap, he called, “An’ no more horeshit! Tired, gawt-damn it!”

Carlo and Reza watched the giant’s back as it retreated, then looked at each other, and finally looked down at Brian’s crumpled form. Carlo sighed unhappily and said, “Come. Help me get him home.”

“You went too far, Carlo.”

“Hell if I did! The little shit had to learn! What if he’d popped something? Can you imagine the tragedy of me living out the rest of my days with such damage unrepaired? I have so many good years left ahead!”

He stooped, pulled an arm around his neck, and stood the unconscious Brian up. “Besides…” he grunted, “you can believe he’ll never attempt such foolishness again in his life; mark my words. I’ll bet you an even five!”

“Shut the fuck up, Carlo, and let’s get him home.”

They walked the boy the short distance back to his little container home, little more than an apartment flanked by its vacated brothers, and laid him carefully on the bed. Unburdened, Reza stretched upright, pressing fists into his kidneys. Being the shorter of the two men, he’d had a hard time of it.

“You don’t think anything might go wrong, do you? With his face being like that?” Reza asked warily. Brian’s cheek was already swelling out of all proportion.

“I sure hope not,” Carlo muttered. His balls had ceased to ache some time ago, and now that the excitement of fighting was passed, he regretted having hurt the boy so passionately. “Go on back to the fire.”

Reza let himself out quietly.

Carlo bustled about a moment longer, first removing Brian’s shoes and then pulling a blanket up over him. He found a rag in a kitchen cabinet as well as some alcohol by a first aid kit and spent a few minutes trying to clean up the damage. When he found that wasn’t going anywhere, he soaked a fresh rag in cool water and laid it over the side of his face. He turned to leave, made it as far as the door, and then turned back.

“You did have it coming, you know…” Carlo said in a shamed voice.

He stepped outside and pulled the door shut.

Wang lowered himself down onto his belly, shifting about to make his arrangement more comfortable. The rock was smoother than usual in this area, which was a relief to his ribs, stomach, and hips. Reaching back with his right hand, he found the rifle. He looped his arm through the sling and then crawled forward slowly toward the edge of the spar’s tip. He took his time getting there. Things became narrower as he progressed and he had no wish to drop anything critical, not to mention a pressing desire to avoid falling to his death.

Wang gained the edge a few moments later; saw the valley come into view far below. He’d never been up here himself but the others had explained what he’d see, and he learned now they’d essentially gotten it right… essentially. They’d left out how dark it would be. The moonless night did nothing for his ability to pick out detail. He could barely detect movement outside the glow of the fires, and anything beyond the edge of the communal grounds was an inky black void. He imagined he’d be effective for the first few moments of the fight, which was critical, but after that, he’d be relegated to a near-blind observer.

Gingerly, he worked the backpack from his shoulders, still keeping his right arm threaded through the rifle sling. He pulled the pack around, wedged it under his chest like a pillow, and then drew the rifle forward.

Jutting out directly beneath him—far, far below—was the thickness of trees that fully obscured the cabin and the garage from his vantage. Straining his eyes, he found that Amanda’s cabin, Barbara’s, and Gibs’s trailer were hidden as well. He could see the original line of Connex homes, though, as well as the top edge of George’s old teardrop camper, the RV, and the full length of the Super Duper Funtime Shitbus beyond. He saw the cluster of tents and was pleased to note the fires all within his line of sight.

He pressed his cheek to the stock, wishing again that Montez had gifted him something with night vision, and looked through the Schmidt and Bender scope. He made those adjustments that his eye found necessary, hand moving automatically to adjust focus and parallax. When he found the illuminated reticle was locked in place, he wedged his left hand under the stock and tracked for the first target.

There was a small cluster of men down there by the fire. He swept across them, taking their measure and considering the directions they might run.

Brian emerged from behind his home not long after, and when the others began to beat him, Wang experienced a panicked interval where he thought his finger might betray his will, firing the first shot before any of them were ready, but then he caught movement with his open eye and adjusted the rifle to see Monica and Rose hustling across the commons toward Amanda’s cabin. They disappeared into the trees beneath him. He swung the barrel over to catch the others; just saw the tail-end of Patricia herding her children like baby geese. He even saw Alan pass them by in the other direction, running for the entrance to the valley.

His ears detected the distant shout of fighting and Wang pulled the rifle back to the campfire. He saw Brian’s body sprawled along the ground and his stomach lurched. He caressed the trigger with his index finger and began to breathe in slow, measured time.

The giant Pap soon emerged into view, no doubt drawn by all the shouting. Wang struggled to center him, but the man maintained his position for only a brief moment; he was moving again before long, and the opportunity was gone. He blew out the breath he’d been holding, cursing himself for doing so unconsciously.

When they carried Brian away, Wang relaxed a bit, knowing the final moment would be delayed a while yet. And then, well before he was ready, they were all back out by the fire again as if nothing had happened at all. Wang slowed his breathing once again.

One of the men strode out to the edge of the firelight, stopping before he was lost to the darkness, thank God, and gestured across the common ground to Patty’s trailer.

That’s it, thought Wang. The issue was now forced; the time now imminent.

He measured his breathing carefully, taking up the trigger’s slack, and searched for the transient existence between heartbeats.

When he found it, he squeezed, and the rifle he’d half-jokingly named Montezuma’s Revenge jumped to life.

49

MANEUVER WARFARE

A somber quietude descended on the others at Carlo’s return, enhanced by Pap’s tongue lashing. Carlo himself seemed in a black study as he came to rest by the fire, and the others mourned the easy camaraderie of the previous interval, now dead and gone, an apparent world away. Reza felt it most. They all enjoyed a lively ass-whooping, but the end of the young man’s instruction had transgressed beyond happy sport. It was a tragic thing, him nutting Carlo the way he had. They all hoped the lesson was absorbed, having no desire to witness its sequel.

Attempts at light conversation were offered; failing shamefully. Some of those who’d been out on patrol when the fighting began did not return to their rounds, opting instead to huddle by the fire. The night seemed somehow more chill, more uninviting, after the event, and the other men did not address the lapse of these reluctant guards. They huddled together; felt better together.

“I remember the year the Seahawks made the super bowl,” Reza tried in a voice that cracked. He cleared his throat and pressed on: “This was 2006. We were so excited; it was the first time the Seahawks had ever gone.”