I put my hand into
something warm. Nearby, in the
perfect darkness of the smoke-filled night, someone
groaned. It was a weak sound, little more than a whisper, like
the flapping wings of a dying bird.
There was a
dull pain running down the outside of my left leg. After pulling the searing, ten-inch piece of metal out of my thigh, I must have fainted. I wasn't sure how much time had passed since then, but I guessed it had to have been at least a couple of hours. I thought about the sucking sound it had made when I'd yanked it out, about how bad it had hurt my hands to hold that
smoking piece of something. If that piece of shrapnel hadn't been so hot, I'd be dead, I thought numbly. I would have bled to death hours ago. It had
cauterized the wound it had made, though, and now the
blisters which had risen on the palms of my hands hurt worse than the hole in my thigh. That groaning sound came again.
Moving slowly, blindly in the dark, I crawled on hands and knees toward the sound. In the distance, far off, I could hear the
reports of the
rifles, like chattering teeth, punctuated periodically by the low whoomp of a
mortar. There were screams of
terror and
panic and screams of
battle and
frenzy out there, barely audible. The gasping, sighing sound was very close to me, but I could not find the source.
h'a-kah.
In that instant, I knew the source of the groans, and
I wanted to be dead. Not
to die, just to be dead, not to have to face what I was sure to find with my hands.
Parker, that voice had said. It sounded too thick, too wet to be
human, but there was only
one man who called me by my name. Parker. That was me. Everyone else had called me
Shorty since I'd come here, but Pedro had always called me by my name.
h'a-kah... Aihng heeah.
Parker, I'm here.
I felt my way forward, slowly, not really wanting at all to find what I knew my fingers must inevitably encounter. Then they did. A piece of tattered standard-issue pants, little more than a
shredded rag, and beneath, what felt like a huge piece of
overcooked chicken. I could feel the
cracks and peeled places where the skin must surely be
charred black. If I could only see, I thought, I might be able to help him, but this damned
fog, and
there was no moon.
h'a-kah... Ai ngeeg you to k...
Shush, Pedro, I said.
Shush, we'll get help. Someone will come help. Shush now. I reached out and found his shoulder. He was sitting half-propped up against something I couldn't see. He sighed deeply, seeming to
chuckle. Just by touching him, I could tell he was bad. He felt like a
paper doll, ragged and
fluttering a lost death in some gutter, forgotten by a
careless child who ran with scissors. That wet chuckle came again.
h'a-kah... huck 'at. Aihng ga-ing. you hagh to kioo ngee.
Parker, fuck that. I'm dying. You have to kill me.
What the fuck are you talking about?I said, almost defensively, as if he'd rapped a ruler across my knuckles.
You're not dying. You may never walk again, but you'll be fine. You'll see. That too-wet sighing chuckle almost became a gurgling
giggle. I felt his hand take my wrist. His hand shaking, somehow light and
insubstantial, led mine first to his face, which felt like touching a half-congealed bowl of
beef stew. There was no nose, no lips. I could feel a
flap of skin hanging from his forehead over one side of his face. I
gagged. He laughed again. Then, not letting me pull my hand away, he led my fingers to his abdomen. I could feel the hot slimy cords of
intestine spilling out over his sides and realized I was probably kneeling on them, as well. I pulled away and
vomited.
h'a-kah, aigh 'een haiting to gai hor owrs. aihng ga-ing. hleez. hleez helk ngee.
Parker, I've been waiting to die for hours. I'm dying. Please. Please help me.
I sat back for a moment, considering. I had lost my rifle in the fight. I put my hand to my hip. My
pistol was gone, probably blown clean out of the holster.
I had no weapon. The wet laugh came again.
Hoo-ell? Hut you haiting hor?
Well? What you waiting for?
I don't have a gun, Pedro. And anyway, if I did, I couldn't see you, what with the fog and all.
Now the laugh seemed to have some real mirth in it, or at least a sense of
sick irony. The sound of it terrified me.
h'a-kah, hyoo gum huck. iks gayligh'. hyoor glaing.
Parker, you dumb fuck. It's daylight. You're blind.
Horrified, I felt my own face. My eyes were still there, but the skin around them had been
charred and swollen so that no light could get past the inflamed and
scarred flesh. He was right. The tough little guy was right.
I don't know what you're
laughing about, you spic bastard, I said, miserably.
At least I had the good sense to not get dead all the way out here.
He laughed again, pleased, knowing that
I would do what he needed me to do. I only called him a spic in our most companionable moments, when we were as
like brothers as could be in a place like this.
Hyoo gringo hucker. Hyoo gonga hahha gooet hooih hyor hangs.
You gringo fucker. You gonna hafta do it with your hands.
Slowly, I got up to my knees. I found
his hand with mine, and held it tightly for a second. His hands then led mine,
blistered,
searing as they were, to his
throat. For a moment we just sat there. Then, slowly, he gave a last wet chuckle and nodded. I leaned forward, closing my fingers tight around his throat. The blisters on my palms swelled, strained, and popped, but I could hardly feel it. At that moment I could hardly feel anything, and when Pedro went limp, for a moment I kept squeezing, not wanting to add
braindeath to his list of
earthly tortures. Then I sat back, and slowly I faded back into the haze of
unconsciousness.
I awoke in a bed almost a week later. Pedro was wrong. I wasn't permanently blinded. By the time I woke up the swelling had begun to go down, and within a few days
I could see almost normally again, although my scars would last
the rest of my life.
I do not regret those scars, because they remind me of the most desperately necessary injury of my life. Luckily, my hands do not have eyes.
filled by request from Templeton's homenode.