Ellen Datlow - Off Limits

I had covered ten more yards, perhaps, when I realized how cold the night was. The chill seemed to be falling from the sky and rising from the ground. I glanced up and saw the stars wink out: clouds. I could see a dry Spanish oak, low and spreading, maybe ten paces from me, but beyond that, I could see nothing. Somewhere in the direction I was tending, a gun fired. I saw the distant greenish bloom of what I presumed was a rifle flash. Then blackness. The memory of the rifle flash was all I had to fix my position on. I stood up. Crawling had been a noisy business anyway. Surely it was only sound I had to worry about now. I took a step, then listened. I could feel the bombs in my jacket pocket, not as a physical presence, but as my personal angel of death.

I had covered another forty yards or so when I heard a low grunt of laughter. I dropped to my face, too terrified at first to even worry if I’d somehow disturbed the bombs. Every muscle in my back spasmed, bunching against the bullet I was sure was on its way. But then I heard the sound of digging and remembered about the expedition to recover what potatoes remained from the prewar crop. In my mind, I could hear the song the men had gone out singing:

Heaven only knew what they’d make of me. They’d probably shoot me for a spy. I scrambled away from them, heading for an outcropping of boulders. In the murky night, the stones looked like a fist, thrust up from the earth.

I decided to stay where I was for the moment. They couldn’t dig potatoes all night. I estimated that I was not more than seventy-five yards from the Fascists. If I continued tending toward the east of where I’d seen the rifle flash, then that should take me to the ridge. From there I might be able to see the lights of Huesca.

Over the next few minutes, the clouds seemed to thin slightly. I could make out a large stand of reeds some thirty yards away. A little stupid from my exertions, I found it too easy to let my mind wander, to imagine that the grasses were sugar cane and that I was on a tropical holiday. It seemed entirely natural that the grasses should be swaying, even though there was not a whisper of wind. The night was as silent as a jewel.

The grasses were dividing, separating. The shadows within merged into a single, many-limbed juggernaut, pointing a forest of spikes at the sky. They were men, I realized, with rifles and bayonets. I buried my face into the soil but found I could not keep my gaze away from them. I almost fainted with relief when I saw that the phalanx was not advancing toward me but to the other side of the outcropping in which I cowered.

But the potato diggers would still be there. Infinitely slowly, I dragged myself to a gap in the stones. I could see the men, still stabbing at the ground with their crude sticks. I wanted to scream but could not make myself do it. I saw the three men at the front of the phalanx lower their rifles, pointing them at the Loyalists. But they did not fire.

Before the men could scream, the juggernaut was upon them. Bayonets sliced across throats. With a strength that could not be human, the enemy swarmed over the men, tearing heads from bodies as if they were snapping wings off a chicken. Not a bullet was wasted, not a sound made. The men gathered themselves into a juggernaut again, into a unitary, martial force, a single spearhead aimed at the Loyalist line.

I lay there, motionless, protesting against my inner voice before I even realized what it was telling me. I’m not a soldier, I pleaded. You have to warn them, it said. I got up and took the bombs out of my pockets. I pulled the stiff pin out of each one, twisting them out as the camarada had shown me. I whirled around, panicked because I could not see the knot of men. Then I did see them near the oak I had noticed earlier. I made myself walk forward. The beast did not look back, but moved forward, relentless as a machine. If I could warn the Loyalists at the right time, I thought, then the Fascists would be in range of their machine gun. But what was a machine gun’s range? I had no idea.

When it seemed that I was two-thirds of the way back up the slope on the Loyalist side, I took out the bombs and held them both in one hand, my fingers aching as they splayed to grasp the weapons. I pulled one pin out and lobbed the bomb at the nest of men. It exploded near the group, provoking an instant burst of machine-gun fire, so immediate it sounded spontaneous. I did not wait to be sprayed as well. I ran back down the hill, barely having the presence of mind to disarm the other bomb.

I didn’t want merely to run, I wanted to take wing, to get to Huesca and Alma and have it all over with. I plunged through squalls of mist that swallowed then disgorged me. The enemy may have been following me, or maybe not. I didn’t care. Death would almost be a mercy, I thought; for then it would be over.

Suddenly I was falling, my feet knocked out from under me. I landed hard on my sternum and realized, after considerable kicking and flailing, that I’d tripped over a wire. Then I saw the parapet of a Fascist redoubt. I leapt to my feet, ready to run as fast as my legs could carry me.

“ Alto .”

My knees were trembling so hard, I nearly fell again when I saw the soldier’s silhouette, the talon of his bayonet. He was framed by the wash of light from the trench.

“I am lost, señor ” I said. “I have to get to Huesca. I have a friend who has gone there. Have you seen her?”

His laugh had a bitter note I didn’t like. “Yes, I’ve seen a woman…” He shifted his rifle and brought out a match, striking it against his boot. He held it up to my face and studied me in the match’s brief flare. I could feel its heat.

I took a deep breath and let my good sense rescue me from the horror I’d seen but a few minutes before. This boy was hardly a child. Surely I could persuade him to let me pass.

“I’m alone,” he said tonelessly.

“We are all alone, señor .”

“I mean, I’m alone in the trench,” he said.

The leer in his voice had been unmistakable. “All right. But you can’t have it for free, soldier.”

I could see him fumbling in his pocket. He threw a few wadded notes at me. “It’s all I’ve got, bitch.” He sounded oddly relieved, as if he hadn’t wanted to force me. I picked up the notes. He stood aside and gestured to the ladder.

I swung a leg over the parapet. At first it seemed that the trench, stretching away for about ten yards, was empty, just as he’d said. Then I stepped onto the ladder and saw the sleeping figure almost directly beneath me. She was curled up on her side, a blanket covering her to the chin, her black hair tangled and stringy. Her skin was chalk white.

“Alma!” She did not turn her head.

I dropped to the ground as soon as I could. Alma seemed to stare at nothing, but she did blink. She was alive.

I rushed to her cot and put a hand on her forehead. She was as cold as a stone. Numbly, I petted her hair. “It’s me. I’m here.”

She looked confused for a moment. I think she tried to smile. She said something but her voice was too soft for me to hear. I put my ear to her mouth. “It takes sides,” she whispered.

I heard the sentry come down the ladder and come to stand behind me. “We can’t use this cot,” he said stupidly.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“Our lieutenant, he goes crazy when he finds out she makes him and his men stronger. He says maybe she makes the machine gun a cannon!” He cocked his jaw toward the end of the trench, where a machine gun tripod stood on scaffolding. The boy said, “They ruined her before I could take my turn.”