“But those lights out front, Sean,” Corrado spoke with authority. “You’ve got to take care of those. Understood?”
“Understood,” Sean agreed with a smile, and snapped a smart salute.
Corrado flinched, then hurried from the store as the witching hour struck.
From midnight until two A.M. customers came in the usual spates of hurried, exhausted-looking individuals in need of last-minute cigarettes, milk, coffee, chips, and beer. When at last Sean judged that he would have the store to himself, probably until the six A.M. coffee rush began, he hauled out the ladder from the storeroom and set to work on the lights. Maneuvering it carefully from one narrow aisle to the next, he loosened one fluorescent tube in each fixture, until the store was powered down to a drowsy twilight. After replacing the lights outside above the entry, he went out into the parking lot to judge the effect from the street, and was satisfied with the results. The store still gave the impression that it was open for business, but had acquired a tired, careless appearance. Just as importantly, it would not be as easy for a passerby, or the police, to see what was going on within — certain to be attractive to anyone who might be casing the place, he thought.
After loosening all of the light tubes in the fixture above the service counter and plunging his work area into a gloomy murk, he returned the ladder to the storeroom, only to return with a work lamp that he clamped onto a smokeless-tobacco display next to where he sat. He now had only to reach out and switch off the lamp to return his work area to near darkness. Without rising from his stool, he bent beneath the counter and retrieved the gym bag that he had brought out from the back room after Megan’s and Mr. Corrado’s departures.
There were two items within, the first being a very large and powerful hand-held spotlight of the type used by emergency personnel. He placed this, with a thump, upon the countertop and off to the side of his work space, but pointed directly at the entrance to the store. With a quick glance to ensure no customers were in the lot outside, he switched it on. The brilliant flash that reflected off the glass doors made him turn away with a curse, and he hastily switched it back off again. Anyone standing in front of him, he thought, would be similarly blinded.
The second item he removed from the bag he carefully placed on the shelf beneath the countertop, its cropped double barrels pointing directly forward. The stock of the gun had been cut down as well, and the pistol-like grip that remained was within easy reach of his hand.
The customer was just entering the store as Sean’s eyes came up to the level of the countertop. He was a tall, emaciated-looking man in his middle thirties, Sean guessed, with a dirty baseball cap pulled low over his long, greasy locks. His face sprouted a drooping moustache and several days’ growth of beard, and he started visibly when Sean popped up from behind the counter. “Wasn’t sure anyone was home,” he stuttered before changing direction and heading into the aisles. Sean noted that he kept one hand in the pocket of his frayed, oversized jacket.
“Nope, we’re here,” Sean replied. “That is, I’m here.”
The man peered furtively over a display stand of factory-produced pastries as if to verify this information. Sean’s hand rested lightly on the gun beneath the counter.
The customer returned to his study of packaged cakes and donuts.
“Need help with somethin’?” Sean offered pleasantly while scanning the parking lot for the man’s car. He spotted it just at the edge of the lot, almost out of sight of the store’s windows. The lights were off, but Sean thought he could make out two heads within, silhouetted by a distant street lamp. Was one of the occupants jumping up and down in his seat?
The man began to move and Sean’s attention shifted away from the car and back to him. He had made a selection and was carrying the box in both hands. Sean relaxed somewhat and brought both his hands to the counter in order to scan the tasty sponge cakes packed with a creamy artificial filler. The man seemed unable to look at Sean, and his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed alarmingly. He reeked of body odor, tobacco smoke, and a strange chemical smell.
“That it?” Sean asked as the fellow dug through his wallet.
“Yep,” he answered, glancing back toward the door. “Open all night?”
“Yep,” Sean answered back. “Just me.”
“Uh-huh,” the customer replied absently. He turned to leave, and had actually taken a few steps before remembering his purchase. “Damn,” he said under his breath, turning to snatch the box from the counter and hurrying out into the parking lot.
Sean watched the man lope into the deeper darkness, and his hand returned once more to the gun. After a few moments, there was the faint sound of a car starting and Sean saw headlights blaze into life. The driver took the farther exit, so Sean was unable to see the other occupants of the car, but he did see the telltale white gleam of the broken tail lens.
Though the company commander had put the word out that fraternization with unvetted civilians was prohibited, this was generally more observed in the breach as it applied to Ibrahim. The boy had long been a mascot at the fringes of the marines’ sprawling encampment within the airport, and as word spread of his display of bravura at CP 69, demand was high amongst the lower ranks for his company.
Demonstrating an appreciation of military politics far beyond his years, Ibrahim avoided the battalion and company command posts and officers in general, sticking to areas generally populated by the enlisted men. He could be counted upon to show up wherever the “grunts” were breaking open their “Meals Ready to Eat,” or MREs as they were commonly called, to make a repast of the marines’ donations. His high spirits, reputation for fearlessness, and vehement hatred of the shared enemy made him a welcome guest wherever he went.
Sean tried to discourage the boy from joining the marines at their combat posts, but he would have none of it. It seemed his bloodlust was equal to, or greater than, that of the Americans. When Sean asked him about this, he replied, “Pigs,” and pointed over the berm into Hooterville.
Colquitt chimed in with his own observation. “Bet you’d like to have one of these, wouldn’t ya?” He shook his M-16 at the boy, and Ibrahim made a lunge for it. Colquitt snatched it out of his grasp. “I guess,” he observed quietly.
“You’re Christian?” Sean asked the disappointed kid.
Ibrahim turned a hot gaze on the marine, then dug into his pocket. He thrust his fist out to Sean, then opened it to reveal an ornate silver cross on a chain cradled in his soiled palm.
“That’s somethin’,” Sean remarked. “How come you don’t wear it?”
Ibrahim drew a forefinger across his throat and grimaced in answer.
“I guess,” Colquitt said uneasily, casting a glance into Hooterville.
Sean, for the first time, thought of the boy making his way home to the Christian sector each night. “Big ones,” he muttered.
That night, it was Colquitt’s turn.
The evening had begun with the usual desultory and inaccurate bursts of fire from the ‘ville. It appeared that the marines’ determined response over the past few weeks had taken its toll on the militiamen, and for some time now, they appeared content to simply harass the Americans. Colquitt had just zeroed in on a fighter who foolishly kept returning to the same window when an uncharacteristically accurate burst of automatic fire from the street level tumbled him back down into the hole. Just like that, he was dead.
If Sean had been numb over the great slaughter that had befallen his fellow marines and miraculously spared him at the battalion command post, he was no longer. He did not weep for Colquitt, though the pain and grief he felt for the young man, whom he had known only a few short weeks, was a more piercing hurt than anything he had ever felt. In the loss of Colquitt he at last experienced the anguish of all that had gone before — the great hole in the earth that had swallowed the young men he had sweated with, cursed at, trained with, fought with, complained about, shared both boredom and terror with, now lay in his heart. The Corps did not have enough bullets for all he hoped to do.