Marek Huberath - Nest of Worlds

The sergeant pulled the trigger. In a sharp, dry rattle, a series of shots. Cartridges bouncing on the pavement. Saalstein fell as if cut down with a scythe and flapped in a few convulsions. A pool of blood spread around him.

“He attacked me,” said the sergeant. “I shot in self-defense.”

“Yes, sir, you shot in self-defense,” said Bobrov.

“He was insane. Probably a rapist too,” said Brown.

“All right, then,” said the sergeant. “We divide this eight ways, equally.”

The guardsmen put out their helmets while Brown, counting out loud, divided the money. He shoved his portion into a pocket.

Bobrov folded up the sleeves of his uniform. His forearms were cut; blood had coagulated in brown lines.

“According to the rule book,” said the sergeant, “you don’t roll up your sleeves unless the temperature’s over twenty-five. You already got a lesson, Bobrov.”

“That old whore had claws.” Bobrov put on his helmet. “And dirty hands, too. She put them in the garbage first, or in her crotch.”

“You were standing on her hands, that’s the reason they were dirty,” Corporal Jura told him.

“Had to, she was swinging her arms like a windmill. The old cow. I’ll have pus now for a month.” Bobrov inspected the cuts carefully. “She was fat, but she could move.”

“Only Brown had it good,” said one of the soldiers.

“Of course, Kratz. You’re always the one with the rotten luck.”

“You’re not kidding. The woman was like a toad; she wouldn’t let go. I had to smack her one with the gun to make her stop clutching. Not like your Mrs. Death, eh, Brown?”

Gavein went cold with fear.

“Yeah, a young thing. Finger-licking good.”

He wanted to tear them apart but felt terribly helpless. What could he do against six automatic rifles and two grenades?

For a moment he thought of attacking them with his bare hands and relying on his weird invulnerability. But if he wasn’t invulnerable, he would die before he could punish them. And what if they were speaking of someone else, not Ra Mahleiné?

When would they stop counting their damn money?

From their continued conversation Gavein learned that they had murdered several people: a young girl they referred to as Mrs. Death; a couple of old women, one of whom had fought fiercely; and a sick old man, bedridden, whom Kratz had dispatched with his bayonet.

Gavein listened in horror. The vilest scenes imaginable rose before him.

“Kratz, Brown, burn that,” ordered the sergeant, pointing at the station wagon.

The men stepped back several paces, and two fired rounds into the gas tank. Some gas leaked out and ignited, but not enough to burn the car.

“Shit,” said the sergeant. “He was driving on fumes. Must have come a distance.”

“Maybe he really was from the DS. He had that kind of uniform…,” said the fat one with few teeth.

“Cut the jokes, Olsen,” snapped the sergeant and turned Saalstein face up with his boot. “This one’s from prison, not the DS,” he stated. “That Death guy, I’ve seen his photograph. He’s different, older.”

“You’re always stepping in it, ain’t you, dickhead,” said Bobrov, laughing and offering Olsen a cigarette.

“All right, let’s get moving. We should head back to the camp. But keep your eyes peeled, men, even behind you. Thieves like this one come in pairs, like snake eyes. If we get the other one, it’ll be that much more glory for the fatherland.” He shouldered his rifle.

“That Sergeant Kurys, he goes by the book,” muttered the corporal.

“Fall in,” commanded Sergeant Kurys.

He forced himself to wait a quarter of an hour in the doorway. It was a beautiful morning, full of spring and sunlight. Flies were gathering now on Saalstein.

Finally Gavein emerged from his hiding place, his fear for Ra Mahleiné overcoming all other thoughts. He passed smashed shop windows, the burnt skeletons of cars.

He walked faster: broken street lamps, scattered newspapers, plastic bags of garbage torn open and stinking. He began to run, clumsily, limping on his sore ankle. Saalstein had brought him closer than fifty streets. Soon Gavein recognized 5665 Avenue. He gasped for air, saw spots before his eyes, had to slow down. He ran again. A few more streets, a few more abandoned cars, and there at last were the wrecks of the military trucks and the gutted flower shop: the intersection of 5665 Avenue and 5454 Street.

He saw her at a distance of two hundred meters. She was in a wheelchair, looking in his direction. He ran to her. Gasping, unable to catch his breath, he knelt and put his arms around her. She pressed his head to her breast.

“Gavein. You made it back.”

She rumpled his hair.

“And nearly broke my glasses,” she said and began to laugh and cry at the same time. And he also. Laughing and crying at the same time—that was a first for him.

After a time they wanted to talk, not just hold each other.

“It took longer than you promised,” she reproached him.

“They weren’t honest with me.”

“But you’ve put on so much weight!” She laughed.

“This padding is not me. I’ll tell you in a moment. What’s the matter with her?” He pointed at the small figure hunkered over on the pavement and sobbing. The young woman’s hair was blazing red. Her face was lowered over her knees.

“They shot her mother. She’s been crying all day.”

“They? Who are they?” He could picture the patrol of Sergeant Kurys.

“I don’t know. She took me out for some air. We were far when they came out of the house. Eight, maybe ten guardsmen. They drove a jeep. Then they ran into a street lamp and had to go on foot. Maybe they were drunk.”

“They weren’t drunk.”

“It’s a slaughterhouse in there, blood everywhere. They spared no one. They probably weren’t looking for you, if the army let you go… I don’t know. I walked there, to look. I had to pull Lorraine off the body of her mother. And you know I have hardly the strength to walk. I use the wheelchair a lot now.”

“I’ll go see.”

“Don’t. It’s too dreadful. They broke Edda’s head open. The floor is covered with her brains. Mass was stabbed. They shot Myrna. They tortured Anabel. She’s in our room, went up there to clean. She’s lying naked with a belt around her neck. You know, her body is a girl’s, undeveloped. Such small breasts, and her nostrils so large. You can see them, the way she’s lying. I hated her, but I’m sorry for her now. In her uniform she looked older.”

“They thought she was you. I overheard them. Thompson probably sent them. They killed the man who drove me from the DS. We came upon them by accident. I was able to hide, but they shot him. Do you know that the DS no longer exists?”

“They said that this morning on the TV. I was so afraid for you.”

He leaned back, took her face gently in his hands, and looked at her carefully. Ra Mahleiné was thin, drawn. The skin was tight on her cheekbones, but she had a tan, thanks to her outings with Lorraine. Her eyes seemed larger than before and even bluer. Her gaze was intense, imperious, perhaps because she had taken off her glasses, which made her eyes smaller. There were pale, unhealthy circles around the eyes. But that may have been only from her wearing sunglasses. The spring sun had lightened her hair, making it lovely against her tan.

“You’re beautiful, a goddess of youth.”

Her smile was very pale and very sad.

“When,” she said, “will you see the truth?”

In answer he ran a hand through her hair. It was soft to the touch, silken.

“I love your hair.”