Dong-joo was able to prevent the Blue Team player from scoring, and Woo-Jin was thankful for not having that red mark upon his player record. The match lasted for nearly two hours with a score of 4-3, and Blue Team won again, despite Woo-jin making two of the three goals while one other Blue Team player scored one point. It was a good day with both generals and teams congratulating each other on a job well done. All too soon, the North Korean soldiers were back at their stations after a quick lunch and carrying out their assignments, including Woo-jin and Dong-joo who gathered the afternoon’s trash and brought it to the trash pile. Woo-jin tensed up as they reached the trash pile, replaying in his head what had happened only a few hours before.
“Why did you push me down?” Woo-jin asked.
“Because you are weak.”
“I am not weak.”
Dong-joo kicked at one of the stiffening Russian bodies in the trash pile and said, “this man died for his country and the People’s Liberating Army. He was not weak, and yet he is dead and here you are alive. Would you have the courage to die for our country?”
“Of course,” Woo-jin lied.
Dong-joo shook his head, “no. No, you wouldn’t. You long for a girl — low Korean trash — who you will never reunite with, and I hear you praying to Buddha every night. They will not save you. They cannot save you. Your head must be in this war at all times.” He removed his sidearm from its holster and placed it to Woo-jin’s temple. “Would your Buddhist God save you from my bullet?”
Woo-jin did not flinch and replied, “if it is His will for me to die, then no, but Buddha is not a god…”
“Such bullshit. I could kill you right now and nobody would care — not your God, not your girlfriend, not even your comrades or superiors. Nobody would care. I would be doing them a favor.”
“That’s not true. I would be missed by someone.”
Dong-joo scoffed, “you’re pathetic. You should pray the Major kills you quickly for losing the game today.” He holstered his gun and stormed off.
“You should, too,” Woo-jin mumbled.
He finished emptying the trash, folded up the canvas sack, tottered to the underpass, and sat there motionless, hoping that Winston would show up. He was not worried about getting in trouble for shirking his duties; Woo-jin needed a friend.
Muffin
Winston slept soundly for a few hours and would have continued sleeping had it not been for the bizarre sensations he experienced while curled up on the church’s concrete steps. Crumpled into a protective ball, his lower back squelched out in agony as he slowly stretched out his cramping legs. As his eyes flickered open, he felt an odd sensation of warm, wet bologna being dragged across his hand, followed by his cheek, forehead, and then back to his hand. He would have sworn on the Bible that he smelled cheese, too. When his eyes dragged open, he was startled that a bloodthirsty, ravenous carnivore was attacking him! He scooted his body into an upright position against the church door, still too weary to defend himself, yet frightened by whatever creature it was that had decided to devour him right there on the church steps. When his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he discovered that his attacker was a small, fuzzy dog. The dog sat attentively next to him, watching him as if he were some long lost lover. Winston chuckled.
“What do we have here?”
The dog did not answer, though its tail swiped away a clean arch of grime from the walkway, its overgrown fur waggling at a mile a minute. The dog could barely see from behind its shabby beige and white fur, and its mouth was a golden shade of orange. Winston locked eyes with it, and then it attacked! The little dog jumped onto Winston’s lap and licked his face, muttering high-pitched grunts and whimpers. Winston let the dog love him and he stroked its grungy coat and checked its sex.
“You a little girl, but what kinda dog are you? A Shih Tzu?”
The dog was obviously someone’s well-mannered indoor pet that had somehow survived the war. Winston picked her up and placed her squarely on his lap, instinctively checking her over for injuries — and ticks — and speaking to her in a child-like voice.
“No, I believe you not a Shih Tzu. What’s that other one? Tell me,” he pulled her ratty fur away from her face to witness the happiest eyes he had ever seen, though they were crusty with discharge. Winston pulled his trusty handkerchief from his back pocket, wet it with the tip of his tongue, and cleaned the black, sticky substance from her eyes. She didn’t seem to mind the grooming. He was perplexed by the carroty color around her mouth, so he leaned in and sniffed it. She lapped at his face again, her tongue tickling his overgrown nostril hairs. He laughed heartily, which he hadn’t been able to do in a long time. In fact, he laughed so loudly that he quickly sobered, waiting for trouble to creep around the corner.
“I’ll be a damned fool if that there shit ‘round your mouth ain’t nothing but Velveeta cheese. And where they’s Velveeta cheese, they’s noodles. Now where’d you come across them goodies, huh girl? And what’s your name? Stella? Angel?”
The dog didn’t respond to either of those names, but relaxed in the loving and comforting embrace of Winston’s rested arms, her ears upturned to his soothing voice.
“Pumpkin?”
Nothing.
“Bailey?”
Nope.
“Lucy?”
Yawn.
“Molly?”
Not even close.
“Mus’ be Daisy, then.”
Denied.
“I dunno… how do you feel about Muffin?”
The dog sprang to attention and barked once.
“Muffin.”
Another woof. Winston chuckled, “alright, Muffin it is. Well, darlin’, I can feel you got a couple a full-blown ticks under this here matt a fur. Prolly got more, but they’s nothin’ I can do at the moment. Ya see, the world’s done shot itself to hell, but let’s have a looksee around and see if we can’t find the source a that orange face a yours.”
Muffin hopped off Winston’s lap as he stood and stretched. He guessed that it was about noon, and his stomach reminded him just how hungry he was. From where he stood, the sea of cars and trucks dictated his course, which was through the tiny yard behind the church. Muffin took charge, leading him toward the side building that didn’t appear to be a proper rectory, not that Winston knew anything whatsoever about the Pentecostals. Several decomposed bodies littered the grounds, too decayed to recognize. He and Muffin walked around them and to the front door of the building, which was slightly ajar. Winston readied his weapon, anticipating engagement as he pushed the door open.
“Honey, I’m home,” he spoke in a moderate voice. “Hello? Anyone here?”
Silence.
The building, which consisted of little more than a disheveled office, two small rooms, and one bathroom was still intact, confounding him. The real and tangible devastation inside the church he had discovered was a dichotomy to this building, its contrasting tidy condition piquing his curiosity. He stepped over its threshold. Several large, well-nourished cockroaches scattered as he paced cautiously through the building. Muffin scampered through one of the open doors and disappeared inside, its dark interior hidden by the shadows. He pushed the bathroom door open with the barrel of his gun. It was sparse — a toilet, sink, and medicine cabinet, dankly lit by a window. The door to the room next to the bathroom was slightly open.