Today, Woo-jin was the dumper, pouring the contents of the waste buckets into the canvas bag held open by his partner, another North Korean soldier who was virulently loyal to the PLA, despite his lowly songbun status. Woo-jin was keen to keep his eyes down and follow his superior’s directives, especially when in the company of his zealous partner. Woo-jin was thankful that they hadn’t yet received the order to empty the port-a-potties — Middle-Eastern soldiers, who must have made enemies of some low ranking officer with a bad attitude, emptied those once a week when the big vacuum trucks came to suck out their contents. It was a smelly, gross affair that he never wanted to experience. It was bad enough having to dump the trash where four dead bodies lay rotting, two of them his ex-comrades, though he did say a Buddhist prayer silently for each of them every time he made the trip to the trash pile. He wished he could show some other form of respect to the corpses — perhaps by burying them — but that treasonous action would surely get him killed.
Woo-jin spoke fondly of Seul-ki as he and his compatriot walked the heavy load to the trash pile. They were ordered not to bury the two American bodies with the garbage, as that would be construed as giving them an honorable entombment — even though it was garbage. They dumped the trash, Woo-jin happily jawing on about the love he had found, while the other soldier listened, annoyed at the banal conversation.
Woo-jin thought he saw movement near the overpass and stopped momentarily to look, afraid of what he might see. Soldiers routinely came back from patrol, excitedly telling stories of how they found Americans hiding and took great pleasure in killing them. His partner was like those soldiers — far more eager to spill blood than Woo-jin was — and so he quickly turned and led the other soldier back toward the encampment, not interested in being a part of further bloodshed. Watching Julie raped and murdered was more than enough violence for him.
As they walked back to the encampment — the only way in or out was via the armed gate at the end of the driveway — they stopped near the barn so the other soldier could fire up a cigarette. As Woo-jin continued to speak of his love for Seul-ki and the plans he wanted to make after the war, the other soldier hushed him. He thought he heard a female voice coming from inside the barn. The soldier rushed to the still-open barn door and peered inside, his rifle locked and loaded, cigarette slung from thin lips, its smoke burning his eyes.
“Who’s in there?” he said in Korean, and then again in English.
Woo-jin followed closely and peered inside the barn. It was empty.
“There’s nobody in here!” Woo-jin said.
“I know I heard someone in here!” the other soldier cried.
Woo-jin laughed, “you’re going mad!”
“I am not going mad. You know, nobody likes you. All you ever do is drone on and on about your stupid girlfriend! We all wish you would just stop talking.”
The soldier stormed off, leaving Woo-jin standing in the barn alone contemplating what the soldier had said. It was true that he droned on and on about Seul-ki. He missed her terribly and wanted to go back to Korea and care for her and her family. But he also knew that it would be practically impossible for them to ever be together. North Korea maintained a ten-year enlistment in its army during peacetime, and an infinite wartime conscription term. Unless the PLA lost this war, he was in it for the long haul. Seul-ki would surely be married off by then, and she would only be a memory.
As Woo-jin turned to go back to his quarters, a hand slapped hard across his face, sending him reeling to the ground. His immediate superior, Major Chaek, sneered down at him. Woo-jin remained stoic despite the rifle being jammed into his kidney, causing severe pain.
“Lance Corporal!” the Major shouted, “what do you mean by not performing your duties? You neglected to empty this trash!”
He pointed to the stump, and sure enough, he and the other soldier had forgotten to empty the overflowing trash barrel near the stump. The generals had taken to having meals and meetings at the stump, and the barrel spilled over with garbage. Woo-jin scrambled to his feet, bowed, and shouted, “right away, Major!”
The Major huffed away, having proved his superiority, while the other soldiers continued about their day, openly snickering at Woo-jin’s misfortune. Woo-jin, who was still holding the large canvas sack, trotted to the barrel and transferred the trash from one receptacle to the other. No other soldier that could help him would, including his partner who shared the garbage removal responsibility — he just flicked his cigarette to the ground, sneered at Woo-jin, and sauntered back inside his tent. As Woo-jin filled the bag, he gazed at the photos sealed into Medusa’s stump of May and Winston with the Mayor and other family and friends. He caught himself smiling at the Gone with the Wind thirtieth-year commemorative flyer. His mother adored that old American movie, he recalled, after watching the film with her on a bootlegged USB drive since Western culture was banned in North Korea. She liked how strong Scarlett O’Hara was, and how the southerners were resilient and courageous, and that they rebuilt the south after losing the Civil War. And here was Woo-jin, exactly where the story had taken place. He noticed that he was being watched by several men, so he scooped up the canvas bag, hauled it over his shoulder, marched to the gate, and requested permission to leave the compound to go back to the trash pile. Permission was denied at first because all soldiers leaving the encampment must be in pairs, but Woo-jin pleaded with the sentry that the Major was very angry with him, and that he would give the sentry a pack of Camel cigarettes if he let him leave the compound alone this one time. The sentry gave in and granted Woo-jin permission to leave.
Winston made quick work of the hole, keeping an eye trained on the area around the overpass, and expecting Jimmy to return at any moment. He hadn’t heard any “one-off pops” today, so he assumed that Jimmy must still be alive. Winston imagined that Jimmy would skirt along the fence line of the water treatment plant up to the road — the road he and May lived on — cross it, and disappear into the relative safety of the tall field of grass. The field occupied a great deal of the area flanking the blueberry bushes, and the thought of being ravaged by several species of ticks so prevalent in the southeast fields of grass caused Winston to squirm. Jimmy would then have to travel a half mile or more, going past the Harris camp until he reached Flippen Road, pass through a couple of back yards, finally reaching the Harris shed. When he found it empty, he’d have to do the same in reverse, without getting caught or sidetracked. Winston had time.
The shovel blade went in smoothly, quietly. The area around the overpass, under the loam, was sandy and pliant. Winston was grateful. He dug one large hole for both bodies, which was far easier to dig than the hole for the apartment’s septic system. He was nervous, but he also made a promise, and once back in the safety of the apartment, he could reconsider future trips made to the outside.
It took twenty minutes to dig the hole. He marched to Med and Julie’s bodies and cursed Jimmy for stealing his handkerchief as he rifled through the reeking garbage searching for something to wear on his hands. He found two plastic grocery bags that probably came out of his very own recycling bin, emptied their contents, turned them inside out, and used them as gloves. Julie was first. Winston removed as much debris from the bodies as he dared, trying to remain quiet. Her arms were above her head, her body face up, and just about the only recognizable feature remaining was her long, flowing raspberry hair — her body was bloated with maggots and patterned in an alluvial pattern of deep mauve. Med was below her, their bodies creating a tight v-shape, and their legs posed in a grotesque, prancing death dance. The two dead PLA soldiers were face down and off to the side, under more garbage. Winston gripped Julie’s forearms with his bagged hands — an animal had gnawed off all of her fingertips and most of her hands. Her feet were trapped momentarily between Med’s legs, but Winston tugged harder and dragged her corpse toward the hole. There was no sign of Jimmy’s return yet. The relocation was going fine (Julie’s skin had pulled away from the meat of her forearms, which formed a nice anchor for him to hold onto) until Winston dragged her body over a single red oak shoot. The sprout was just firm enough that it tore a gash in Julie’s frail, putrefying abdomen. The weight of the viscous lividity caused her to split into two equal pieces, and her wormy entrails spilled onto the ground.