Norman Rush - Mortals

What he ought to do first was crawl around to the front of the shed to ascertain how they were being locked in. It was conceivable that he could undo it and be the one to throw the doors open for Morel, let him out, usher him out into the melee.

He would crawl around to the front of the shed, take a quick look at the situation, and decide what to do. That was enough of a plan. Crawling was painful, but he was discovering something interesting in the process. His knee was hurting, but only intermittently. Fear and pressure had given him the power to dissociate from his panoply of injuries, all of them, including the new abrasions on the backs of his hands, his head wound, to dissociate for decent intervals. Now everything was hurting. But he was adapting. A shattering barrage of firing began and ended.

He paused at the corner of their shed. He had a clearer view of the dead man and it was definite that he was dead. Ray turned the corner. He thanked God that he hadn’t had to look into the man’s face, so far. That would come.

He got to where he needed to be and he realized he had to stand up to see what the deal was on their door lock. He could see it was a padlock, but he had to get up and handle it to see that, say, it was locked, that the hasp was pushed in all the way. He got up. The padlock was massive. It took a key to open it. It was fully locked.

He was through with crawling. He was up for good. It didn’t matter that he was being attacked by an irrational impulse to dance around. He was equal to it. Iris loved to dance. He had never been much of a dancer, because dancing had always made him feel false, in some way. Dancing went with inner cheerfulness, which came and went, with him. That was his view, anyway. Of course, why he wanted to dance around just then was a question for somebody. Morel probably liked to dance, despite his leg. He would ask him. Iris deserved more fun. She could even go to dinner dances now, if she wanted to. She liked to dress up. Excelsior , Iris! he thought.

He approached the dead man and bent over him. Ray rolled him over onto his back but he couldn’t bear what that revealed so he rolled him back onto his front again, shaking. This kind of thing has to stop, he thought. Something had blown away half the man’s face, the side of his neck, his shoulder. It was hideous. It was unnatural for the inner workings of the human machine to be on display in a shattered condition. Ray wondered if the mortar round that had compromised the wall of their shed had done in this poor bugger. He was wearing a belt with cartridge pouches strung on it. There might be a weapon somewhere in the vicinity, knocked away by the blast that had killed the man, it occurred to him. He didn’t see anything nearby, but maybe he would do more of a search later, after he had the man’s boots off.

He had to turn the corpse over again to get at the lacing of the boots. He crouched down. Definitely he did not want to be shot before he could get these seven-league boots on, which is what they would be for him. His feet were hurting almost as much as his knee, his scalp, just from the minimal walking around in stocking feet on the rocky ground, to tell the truth.

He got the combat boots off the corpse. He wanted to say something aloud in thanks, even though the boot donor, if that was the right term, was probably a death squad guy, a killer. But then indirectly he was a killer, himself, Ray Finch, indirect killer.

He got the boots on. They were too big but that was nothing. He wanted to kick things and in fact he still wanted to dance. Here I come, he thought.

It was wonderful, the way he felt.

He looked down at the corpse and said “Thank you.”

He had laced and tied the boots very tightly, too tightly. He would adjust them when he got back inside.

He gave a little time to ranging around in search of a gun the dead man might have been carrying when he was killed. But there was nothing.

He returned to the hole he had to reenter and studied the wall around it. It was radically fractured. Now that he was shod, they could break more pieces out and enlarge the getaway gap. He knew they could. He felt full of strength.

He put himself into the hole again. Morel cried out, relieved, and then apologized for making noise. He pulled Ray back inside.

Ray got to his feet. He stamped his feet. “I got them,” he said. He felt like kicking the wall, so he did. He kicked the wall in various places, concentrating finally on the margins of the hole they had made together. He kicked demonically. He couldn’t stop. He would be able to stop when he succeeded in making it bigger, knocking a chunk off. That would prove something.

“You’re going to hurt yourself. Stop that,” Morel said.

Ray continued the assault.

Morel asked if he had seen anything useful lying around outside, a tool of any kind, a crowbar, anything.

“I didn’t see anything. But then I didn’t go very far afield, looking. I thought I should get back. We have to plan. Since we don’t exactly have a plan.”

“There could be something useful in one of the other sheds in this cluster. There are about six, that I saw, around here. Did you check to see if they were locked, by any chance?”

“No, I didn’t. But we’re locked in good here. No, when I was out there I stuck to the outside of this place like a leech. I thought I should keep it crisp out there. And did you notice something? Nobody killed me. Here I am. We’re padlocked in. But I feel good. I’ll tell you, you feel like dancing once you get out in the open.”

“Lay off the kicking for a minute. Give it a rest.”

“I will in a second,” Ray said. But he didn’t know when he could. The kicking was turning into a kind of dancing, in his mind. Dancing had hold of him, the idea did, the picture of it did. He thought, The whole thing is a dance, life is, from our first steps until all we can do is twitch in our wheelchairs.

Morel came up to him. He said, “You’re getting a high out of this. I don’t like it. Take a rest.”

“Don’t touch me.” He didn’t want to be touched and he didn’t want to be interrupted.

The dance is already going when we have to step in, he thought. That’s what society was, the dance. The agency was a dance he had stumbled into, a dance within a dance. He thought, We have to dance … we have to find a partner, we look and we look and then we find one and then in the dance we get tapped on the shoulder and it’s Morel and the rules say it’s his turn, because the dance has rules.

“My brother could dance,” Ray said. It was true. Gay people were good dancers.

His right leg was hurting considerably. He wanted to kick the building down. He put all his concentration into the point of his right boot. He kicked desperately, willing the wall to come down, which it failed to do, but as he gave up, sat down, and watched his failure, a piece of concrete the size of a cauliflower fell away from the arch of the existing hole.

Morel gave a shout and bent down and pounded Ray on the back.

“Don’t touch me,” Ray said. Immediately he wanted to apologize.

“Right, I forgot. But this is good, man. Just a little more work and I’ll be able to get through that thing.”

“I think you could get through it now, really, but I’ll work on it more if you give me a minute. Getting my breath.”

“I’ll work on it myself.”

“Okay, go ahead. And here’s what we have to decide. Okay when we get out either we stick together or we separate and find someplace to hide individually, you understand, individually, we discussed this, individually out there, which would be optimal for one of us surviving. Because this thing is going to come to an end at some point and the forces of law are going to drift in and we might be there, waving, Here I am, over here. So if we’re both in the same place and the wrong guys find us. Well. You understand the odds.”