The soldier boys who were gathered around all nodded. “Legendary eight,” they echoed. “Legendary.”
“How’d you do that?” Mahlia asked.
“None of your business, castoff.”
And just like that, the softness snuffed out. Whatever good had been there was gone, his voice turned hard and brutal as concrete. “Get your stitching done and quit your talk.”
“I—”
“I’ll fry your tongue in oil, if you don’t shut up. Cook it and eat it myself.”
Cold as bone, that fast. Just another killer with footprints of blood behind him, and a river of it ahead.
Mahlia ducked her head and focused on the job, suddenly hoping for nothing other than to be forgotten.
At last she and the doctor sat back. “There,” the doctor said. “You’ll mend.” Mahlia’s neck and arm were cramped with the work. It was awkward to share the labor this way, but it was the only way.
Ocho studied his closed wound. “That’s some tidy stitching.” He called out. “Hey, boys, look at me. All sewed up.”
Yeah. You’re sewed up. Now get the hell out so I can get the meds and get out, too, Mahlia thought.
If she could just get these warboys gone, she could still make her way back through the swamps to Mouse. Even in the dark, she had a pretty good sense of where he was waiting. She’d bring the doctor. They’d make the trade and Mouse wouldn’t die.
The lieutenant stalked over. “How you doing, Sergeant?”
“Right as rain.” Ocho dragged himself upright. Under his dark skin, he was pale, but he made it to his feet. “Ready to march.”
His leader shook his head sharply. “Sit down, soldier. We’re not going anywhere. We’re going to set up search patterns, base out of here. No reason to live in the swamps when we got this fat little town to feed us.” He set his hand on the doctor’s shoulder. “Now, where’s your antibiotics?”
Mahlia’s heart skipped. No. Those are mine. Mouse’s.
“We don’t have any,” the doctor said. “Don’t worry. It’s a clean wound. Very clean. There shouldn’t be complications. Everything was sterilized well. We used sterilized water and alcohol to swab it as we worked.”
The lieutenant jerked the doctor close. “You think I’m some dumb war maggot? Animal’s got dirty claws. Dirt needs meds.”
Mahlia cleared her throat. “I thought you said it was a pig.”
Quick as a snake, the lieutenant grabbed Mahlia and spun her about. He looped his arm around her throat, choking off her oxygen. The doctor cried out, but the other soldiers grabbed him and pulled him back.
“Ain’t you the hair-splitter?” the lieutenant said. “How ’bout I take you with us? Make you Ocho’s nurse? My sergeant lives, I might even send you back with that left hand of yours still attached.” His breath was hot on her cheek. “You like that idea? Or maybe I cut it off and string it around your neck. That way you still get to keep it close.”
Mahlia couldn’t breathe. The man had completely cut off her air. He lifted and her feet came off the floor.
“Or maybe I just stand here and feel you kick. I like it when a pretty girl kicks.”
Stars filled Mahlia’s vision. From a distance she heard Doctor Mahfouz begging. “Please. We only have a little, for true emergencies. It’s so difficult to acquire.”
“My soldier ain’t an emergency?”
“That’s not what I—”
“Get your meds, doc. Your girl’s running out of air.”
Beaten, Doctor Mahfouz scrambled up the ladder and into the squat. Only when he came down again, with pills in hand, did Lieutenant Sayle drop Mahlia to the floor.
She stumbled away, gasping, her hand on her throat. Air felt like fire as it sawed in and out.
The soldiers caught her and shoved her back toward where Sergeant Ocho lay. Mahlia fell to her knees beside the wounded boy.
Behind her, she heard the lieutenant say, “Dig in, boys. Get that perimeter secure. We’ll be here awhile.”
No.
9
INFECTION RAGED THROUGH Tool’s body like an invading army. Delirium hazed his vision. Darkness had overtaken the swamps. Cricket chirps and the high whine of mosquitoes filled the night.
Tool cracked his one good eye, observing the red-haired boy. Moonlight outlined his skinny form as he pried up a sharp stone the size of an egg.
Tool almost smiled. Human children were always the same. Ribs and hollows sewn together by the barest coverings of flesh. Scarecrows, begging to be torn apart and scattered to the wind, like grass dolls.
It didn’t matter what continent he fought on; it was always the same. This one hopped about like a pale, freckled grasshopper, checking every rock in the hopes of finding one that would bash in Tool’s head, but he was the same as all the rest.
“I know what you are planning, boy.”
The child looked up at Tool, gray-blue eyes glinting like glass shards, then went back to feeling the rocks along the banks, testing each one, reaching as far as Tool’s long arm would let him stretch.
“How come you don’t stop me, then?” the boy asked.
“Soon enough.”
“Mahlia’s coming back.”
Tool snorted. “Your sister has been gone for hours. And now you are searching for a weapon. I think we are past any illusions about your sister coming back.”
“She ain’t my sister.”
“You are both human. She is your sister.”
“That make you a dog, then?”
Tool growled at the taunt. He tried to sit up, but it was too tiring. The mud he had piled against his wounds to staunch the bleeding cracked as he moved. He was surprised to see that it had dried. Time was passing even faster than he had thought.
He lay back, breathing heavily. Best to save his energy.
It was foolish to think that there was anything left to save energy for, but it was his nature. He had been designed too well. Even now, finished and broken, surrounded by hostile humanity, he sought survival. Nature always struggled on, even when hope was gone.
The boy tested Tool’s grip again.
“Do not try me, boy.”
“You could let me go. I could go get the meds for you.”
Tool almost laughed at that. “I think one betrayal is enough.”
The boy bristled. “What do you know? You’re just a dog-face.”
“Also tiger and hyena and man.” Tool stared at him. “Which of those do you think is the oath breaker, boy?”
“My name’s Mouse. I already told you that.”
“Name yourself or not. You are all the same to me.”
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
Tool made a face, disgusted that the human child could insist that Tool was somehow wrong. “Do not blame me for your sister’s betrayal.”
“She ain’t the one who’s gonna kill me.”
The conversation was all just a distraction. The boy’s hand was out again, worming about in the mud, still seeking a weapon, perhaps hoping he would locate the lost machete. Tool could respect that. He, too, fought to survive.
“I kill because it is my nature,” Tool said. “Just as it is yours.”
“I kill for food.”
Tool bared his teeth. “I, too, eat what I kill.”
The boy’s eyes went wide at that, and if Tool hadn’t been so exhausted and racked with pain, he would have laughed.
10
MOTHS FLUTTERED AND DROWNED in sticky pools of spilled blood. Mahlia swept a dirty rag through the mess, sopping it up and wringing it out in a rusty iron bucket beside her. As she bent to scrub again, she stole a quick glance at the soldiers, trying to get a bead on them, then ducked her head to her work.
Soa, this time. Watching her from beside the campfire. Thoughtful predatory interest, like being watched by a coywolv.
She didn’t like his eyes on her, but when it wasn’t him, it was always another. Slim or Gutty or Ocho or one of the other hard-faced boys,
as if through some unspoken communication they passed their close attention from one to the next.
No way she could escape with their eyes all over her. She mopped more blood and fought the urge to scream. Mouse was out there in the swamp with that dog-face, and she was stuck here, like a rabbit in a trap.
What would Mouse do in this situation? Would he just be crazy enough to run for it? But she needed to collect meds first. Needed to get away clean. And if she ran, what would happen to the doctor?
There was no way she could just bolt, even if they stopped watching her so closely. It was an impossible trap, with no good solution. Mahlia started scrubbing again, ramming her frustration into the work.
Boot steps, coming close. Mahlia’s skin prickled, but she didn’t look up. The boots stopped right in front of her, standing in the blood, blocking her work. Soa. She was sure of it.
She steeled herself and looked up.
He stood over her, smiling slightly. “You got a problem cleaning up our blood? Think you’re too good or something?”
Mahlia shook her head.
“You sure? ’Cause I saw you making a face.” Soa knelt down and ran his fingers through the blood, lifting them up in front of her face. “You think you’re too good to clean up the blood of patriots?”
He reached out and slowly ran his fingers down her cheek, smearing her. “Think you’re too good for us?” he asked. “Think we’re just animals? That’s what you peacekeepers always used to say, right? Called us animals? Called us dogs?” He dipped his fingers in the blood again and touched her forehead. Stroking her with wet fingertips.
Mahlia struggled not to flinch at the soldier boy’s touch. It was what Soa wanted. He wanted her to act disgusted. Wanted her to act like she was above them. And if she did, she knew he’d kill her. Kill her for spite.
Soa didn’t even have a soul. He was just a snake looking for an excuse to bite.
“I don’t want to fight,” Mahlia said. “You want me to clean, I’ll clean. I don’t want to fight.”
“Don’t want to fight.” Soa laughed. “More of that peacekeeper talk.” He dipped his fingers in blood again, marked her other cheek. Gave her a sharp shove, almost a slap. “Got a surrender slogan for me? One of those peacekeeper sayings? ‘An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind?’ Some shit like that?”
Behind Mahlia, someone sniggered. Others were watching. All of them waiting to see what Soa would do next.
“Well?” Soa asked. “You got a surrender slogan? I’m waiting.”
She knew what he was referring to. When she was little, the slogans were everywhere, painted on the walls of the city. The peacekeepers paid local people to put them up, trying to buy some goodwill and make people think about how they’d gotten themselves into the mess they were in, but the pictures and sayings always ended up getting scrawled with militia and warlord battle flags, and eventually the peacekeepers gave up.
Mahlia cleared her throat, hunting for one that wouldn’t set Soa off.
“ ‘Disarm to farm’?”
“That a question?”
Mahlia shook her head. “ ‘Disarm to farm,’ ” she repeated. A statement this time.
Soa grinned, wild eyes. “Oh yeah. I remember that one. That was a good one. All those peacekeeper soldiers giving rice and corn and soybeans if you’d just turn in a gun. I traded them an old .22 for a sack of rice I was supposed to go out and plant. Firing pin was all rusted out, and you suckers still paid.”
“I traded a .45, didn’t even have bullets,” another said.
“What was their whole thing?” Soa asked the group. “Our girl’s having a hard time remembering.”
“ ‘Turn the other cheek,’ ” someone said.
“ ‘Beat your swords into plowshares!’ ”
“ ‘Only animals tear each other apart!’ ”
More and more slogans poured out, the good intentions of the peacekeepers turned into a grand joke that soon had every soldier boy doubled over laughing as they named slogan after slogan. Every saying the peacekeepers had used as they tried to quell the violence of the Drowned Cities.
When their mirth died, Soa stared into Mahlia’s eyes. “You peacekeepers thought we were stupid. Thought we’d just let foreigners take us over. Make us into slaves. But we knew what you were up to all along. We don’t roll over; we fight for our country.” Soa scooped his hand through the pooled blood and shoved his dripping hand hard into her face, smearing. “When we bleed,” Soa said, “you say thank you.”
Mahlia fought not to flinch, but it was impossible and Soa didn’t stop. Just kept smearing. “You like that, girl? You like that? You too good for our blood, huh, peacekeeper? You too good?”
“That’s enough, soldier.”
To Mahlia’s surprise, Soa broke off. She blinked blood from her eyes.
From his sickbed, Sergeant Ocho was waving Soa away. “Don’t let the war maggot rile you, soldier.”
“I ain’t riled, I’m just teaching her a lesson.”
The sergeant’s voice was dryly amused, but still it carried authority as he said, “I think she gets it.”
Soa looked like he was about to protest, but then he looked at Mahlia and made a face of disgust. “Well, she gets it now.”
“That’s right, Private. She gets it.” Sergeant Ocho waved him on. “Now go ask Gutty when that goat’s going to be cooked. Smells good.”
And to Mahlia’s surprise, Soa actually backed off. With a final jerk to her hair, he set her loose and headed toward the fire.
Ocho watched him go, then nodded at Mahlia. “Get yourself cleaned up, and then get our dead clean, too. They need last rites.” He looked at her seriously. “And keep your thoughts off your face. Soa’s dying for an excuse to cut you. I ain’t going to save your ass twice.”
Mahlia stared at the sergeant, trying to figure him out. He wasn’t human, but he also wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t hungry for blood, not like Soa or the lieutenant, but that didn’t make him nice, either.
She got a new bucket of water and cleaned herself up as best she could before setting to work on the dead boys, swabbing off their bodies and arranging bloody torn garments. She arranged one of the boys so his broken neck wasn’t so twisted. He couldn’t have been more than ten years old. One of those cannon-fodder licebiters who got swept up in recruiting drives, and who they shoved out in front to draw fire. Bullet bait. Not even really a recruit yet. Only the first three horizontal bars of Glenn Stern’s mark branded on his cheek.
“Half-bar,” Ocho said. “They die faster.”
Mahlia glanced over at the soldier where he lay. “Not like you.”
Gold-flecked eyes studied her, unblinking. “Got to learn quick if you want to stay alive. Drowned Cities eats stupid for breakfast.” He straightened, pushing himself up in bed, wincing. “ ’Spect you know that, though. I ain’t seen a castoff in more than a year. Last time I saw a girl like you, LT had her head on a stick.”
“That what you’re going to do to me, after I heal you up? Put my head on a stick?”
Ocho shrugged. “Ask the LT.”
“You always do what the LT says?”
“That’s how it works. I do what LT orders. My boys do what I order.” He nodded at the dead boy that Mahlia was cleaning. “Right down the line to half-bars.”
“Looks like that worked out real good for him.”
“Hell, we’re all bullet bait sooner or later. Doubt it makes much difference. You make it to sixteen, you’re a goddamn legend.” Ocho paused, then said, “If the LT decides to put you down, I’ll make sure it’s quick.” He jerked his head toward the fire where Soa was carving meat off the goat’s roasting form. “I won’t let Soa near you.”
“Is that how you make friends? By promising not to torture them before you kill them?”
Ocho’s scarred face suddenly broke into a grin. “Damn. You’re pushy for a castoff.”
“I ain’t castoff. I’m Drowned Cities.”
He laughed. “That d
on’t mean you ain’t pushy.”
It was almost like he was human. Like he didn’t have a dozen kill scars hacked into his bicep. He could have been anyone.
A crash resounded from the fire pit. Mahlia jumped at the noise. She spun to see a cooking pot lying on its side, rice spilled across concrete. One of the soldiers, a skinny boy with ears that had been cut off, was sucking on his hand. Soa was shouting at him.
“Grind it, Van! The pot’s hot, right?” He slapped the smaller boy upside the head.
Van dodged back and his hand went to his knife. “You touch me again, I gut you.”
“Let’s see you try, war maggot.”
“Shut it, you two!”
It was Ocho, sitting up straighter than Mahlia would have thought he could, his voice full of command. “Van! You pick up that rice. You serve us all off the top, and you eat what touched the ground. Soa, get out and get some fresh water. I won’t have you fighting in this unit. We ain’t Army of God.” He made a dismissing motion with his hand. “Go on. Get to it.”
“Trouble, Sergeant?”
Lieutenant Sayle’s voice floated down from the squat above, where he had ensconced himself. A voice full of threat. Everyone seemed to freeze. “Anything I need to know about?”
“No, sir,” Ocho responded. “Just a little kitchen mess, right, boys?”
They all said, “Yes, sir,” and then Van was scooping up rice and putting it onto palm leaves and handing it out to the other soldier boys as they shuffled up and took rice and goat, and then went back to their various posts. Only when everyone else was served did Van squat down and scoop up the last rice for himself.
Mahlia watched as everything got cleaned, trying to figure out what felt odd about it all. It felt wrong. She kept trying to put her finger on it, and then it dawned on her… They were afraid.
They were all staring out at the black rustling jungle and casting nervous glances toward their dead, and every one of them was afraid. They’d had four of theirs torn to pieces in seconds. Despite all their bravado and threats of violence, these soldier boys were little puppies in comparison to the creature they were hunting in the jungle, and they knew it.