Holy City: Chapter Six

V was lying face up in his bed, his eyes closed, wide awake. His bowl of stew was in its usual place, empty glass of water next to it. Fontan was used to the routine and took the tray from the cell, carefully reaching out to the end of her fingertips and sliding it back under the bottom bar.

V listened as Fontan’s footsteps trailed away. He heard the ping of the aluminum tray as it was placed on the wooden desk. Then he heard Fontan quietly fall into her seat, a soft sound that allowed V to drift. V floated harmlessly for several seconds until he heard munching. He stopped drifting and listened. He heard the soft crunching a squirrel makes as it chews a nut. Then there was slurping and then more munching. Fontan was devouring V’s meal like she was starving.

For a couple of minutes, V listened to Fontan eat until the last drop of stew had been slurped. The chair made a slight squeak as Fontan reclined back, hunger satiated, her belly full. V listened to Fontan’s breathing as she fell asleep and V allowed himself to drift again, over the brig, over the base, he thought about drifting back to Alexandria, but knew he couldn’t go back there. For hours V pleasingly floated above the ground unburdened by the chores of daily life.

He was brought back to his cell as the brig door opened breaking the silence like the shattering of a window. Two sets of feet walked in.

“At ease, private” V heard an unfamiliar voice. “This order is from Cpt. Horace.” V could hear the crinkling of paper as it was handed from one soldier to another. He sat up in his bed, opening his eyes and staring at the bars of his cell but not seeing anything at all. He was staring so he could hear better, his eyes unfocused, his ears focused like antennae.

Three sets of footsteps marched to V’s cell. Fontan led the contingent, another soldier was jangling keys. When V looked up to greet his visitors, he saw a man and woman standing behind Fontan. They wore the same sky blue uniform as Larkin and Larkin’s replacement from the day before. Fontan was dressed in her usual khakis.

V knew enough not to say anything as the man behind Fontan stepped forward and unlocked the door.

“Get up.” The man in sky blue demanded. V stood up, his knees shaking slightly.

“Hands out front.”

V put out his hands. Cuffs were placed on them by the woman. She was much better at this than Fontan had been three days earlier. It took her a little over a second to secure V’s hands. She put her baton in the small of his back. Everyone moved forward in unison.

The four of them marched out of the brig into the burning sun. The cuffs around V’s hands and the chains around his feet served as musical accompaniment as they marched over the compound. Surprisingly, they went to the front gate, which led to the no man’s land between the first and second checkpoint.

“This is where we bury deserters.” The man in sky blue announced as the gate to the second checkpoint closed behind them.

Larkin’s replacement was waiting halfway to the first checkpoint. V noticed that Fontan marched alongside him with the woman in blue behind and the man in front. Fontan still had her M30 around his shoulder, but it felt like she was a prisoner, too, that both of them were being marched to their executions.

They reached Larkin’s replacement. She was holding a pistol in her hand. She wasn’t holding it in a normal way. She was holding it by the barrel, the grip out.

She didn’t say anything as she directed the pistol to Pvt. Fontan and Fontan didn’t say anything as she took it. The instructions must have been in that crinkled up paper V heard earlier.

“I guess it’s time for my cigarette.” V dug in his shirt pocket and produced the cigarette the captain had given him. He put it to his lips. Larkin’s replacement quickly took it out of his mouth and threw it to the ground.

V looked at the cigarette lying half-buried in the sand and wanted to crack a joke. His brain ran through several lines but none of them seemed appropriate. He looked at Larkin’s replacement. Whatever he could say would be lost on her anyway. There was no need for jokes or speeches. V closed his eyes.

He started mumbling. The words were indecipherable.

“What’s he saying?” the man in blue asked.

“Who cares?” one of the two women answered.

“He’s praying to his false god.” The other woman said.

“Let’s go.” A softer voice, Fontan’s voice, said as V felt a hand clasp his right bicep.

Fontan guided V forward. V’s mumbling continued in a steady stream of low bass.

After ten paces they were out of earshot of the powder blues. V stopped mumbling.

“I’m sorry they made you do this.” He told Pvt. Fontan.

Pvt. Fontan didn’t say anything back to him.

Ten more paces and Fontan’s hand clenched V’s bicep forcing him to stop.

Fontan’s clenched hand moved downward forcing V to his knees. V’s eyes remained closed. He did not start mumbling again. Instead, he was listening. He was listening to the planes in the sky as Pvt. Fontan moved behind him. He was still listening to the planes in the sky when he heard Pvt. Fontan exhale deeply, not once but twice, before she was able to control her breathing again. He was still listening to the planes when shouts came from the tower behind, when sirens roared throughout the camp, feet were now running, guns, not the M30s that every soldier carried, but big guns, antiaircraft guns were firing. V was still listening to the planes.

Several bombs dropped, explosions and gunfire in all directions. V opened his eyes, the fence in front of him, the first checkpoint, had a gaping hole the size of a bulldozer. There was another explosion behind him that shook the ground. V could no longer sense Fontan. He wondered if she had run to safety.

A single gunshot punctured the serenity of the beautiful rhythmic sound of the planes’ engines. V wondered if he was dead. But the hole in the gate was still in front of him.

“Run!” He heard Fontan’s voice. Then he heard Fontan’s feet running in the other direction. Gunfire and bombs were still exploding. V knew they would stop soon and the sound of the planes would disappear back to where they came from. Fontan was right. It was time to run.

V stood up, making sure to stay bent at the waist, trying to stay as low to the ground as a standing man possibly can. The chain that linked his two ankle braces no longer linked them. Pvt. Fontan had severed it with her shot.

V could indeed run.

So he did. He ran for yards first, hurtling through the hole in the first checkpoint. He could hear explosions as he kept running, no longer the sound of planes, but explosions and gunfire, as he kept running for miles and miles, through desert, canyons, mountains, more desert, until there was no more gunfire, no more explosions, no more sound of planes, until his chains had melted off and he was alone in the middle of the Aten.


Next Chapter: Chapter Seven
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