After (9 page)

“Please don't do that.”

“What?”

“Keep things from me. To protect me.”

“I don't, Eva. Not things that are about you.”

She pins him with her eyes, then gives him a gentle smile and nods.

“Come to bed with me.”

When she holds her hand out to him, John takes it. She leads him to the bed, pulls him in after her. She combs her fingers through his hair, the path of her touch like a lazy river winding and trickling over his scalp. And then, in the dark, in a soft voice that may be below the reach of the camera mics, she says, “John. Tell me. What the men have done?”

CHAPTER SIX

~

YEAR ONE

At reveille, a wan sun cast the men's washed-out shadows across the asphalt.

The twenty-three of them still alive eight months after the dying and after the three patrols that had gone out and never returned, lined up every morning, their posture as straight, their uniforms as neat as they'd always kept them. The Major tolerated no breach of protocol.

Smith scanned the men, looking for shoddy presentation. Giving the occasional dressing-down for minor infractions reminded the men that there was still a hierarchy.

That he was in charge. Which kept chaos at bay.

And it seemed to comfort them. Setting them these small expectations, giving them these little tasks that they could work at and accomplish each day so they had something to think about other than their dead families, their dead girlfriends, their dead comrades. Wondering how long until they were dead, too.

But while he called the occasional man out on some minor infraction of the dress code and doled out some small punishment, he peered into the lines of men, scrutinizing their faces. Searching for signs of worse things than a disregard for the futile regimen of keeping buckles and buttons and boots properly polished. Looking for cuts and bruises. For eyes sparking with fresh terror, or hollowed out by resignation.

* * * *

“You look different to me today, Baldwyn.”

Huh. Lott hardly ever said shit. “Yeah?” Lott just sat there, rubbing at his boot with a blackened rag. “Different how?” Baldwyn asked.

“For a month now, you been tight as a drum. Today, though, you seem calm.

Soft.”

A hot little twitch grabbed at him. “What do you mean, soft?”

“Like I said. Calm. Soft.”

Sometimes Baldwyn hated that little fuck. He hardly did or said shit, but he had a way of rubbing you the wrong way. Soon as you were ready to bust his jaw, though, he'd say some little thing, and you wouldn't feel like it anymore.

“Know what it seems like?” Lott asked. Baldwyn couldn't see if Lott was smiling or not, to know if he was yanking his chain, because he was still bent over that boot, his blond hair hanging down, hiding his face. “Reminds me of how a guy'll be all wound up when he hasn't gotten any in long time, then one day he's all at ease with himself in the world, and it turns out he got the lay of his life the night before.”

Baldwyn laughed because he had to do something, but it felt like a big snake was coiling up in his gut.

“You didn't get yourself a little last night, did you?” Riggs asked, and Lott finally looked up from that goddamn boot so you could see he was having a good fucking laugh.

“Yeah,” Baldwyn came back, “you wouldn't believe the tight little cunt I've got tied up under my bunk. I drag her out every night, and when I'm tired of fucking the bitch's throat, I bend her over and shoot a fat wad into her hot, tight ass.”

The guys laughed.

“Her name ain't Kosinsky, is it? Or Nichols?” Riggs yelled above the laughter.

“What the fuck are you saying?” Fuck if Baldwyn wanted a brawl with Riggs, but no way could he just take shit like that.

“Just that they're the prettiest girls left, and maybe you got tired of waiting for Britney Spears to come walking out of the wasteland,” Riggs said with a big shitty smile.

Baldwyn stepped up to Riggs. Sure as shit he was about to get a broken nose, but fuck if he'd let anyone make him out to be a goddamned homo.

“That whore? She'd let everyone left on base have a poke at her used up pussy. I like a girl who kicks up a little fuss. Makes me work for it, you know?” A rush of hot anger shot through his nerves. “Bet you'd like me to show you what I mean, eh Riggs?”

Baldwyn worked at holding his ground with Riggs leaning into him. “You wanna know what a broken jaw feels like?”

Baldwyn clenched his fists, knowing damn well even if he blocked the first swing, Riggs would keep at him until something was bleeding. But then there was the sound of Lott laughing. Laughing his goddamned ass off.

“What's so fuckin' funny?” Riggs growled.

“The two of you,” Lott said. Baldwyn always wondered how a guy like that, not scrawny, but no muscle-man, either, was never scared to shoot his mouth off. Never.

“So dang sensitive, both of you.”

“I don't think it's funny. Guys saying shit like I'm some kinda faggot,” Baldwyn got in. Better him and Riggs against Lott than Riggs pounding him into the floor.

“Sweet Jesus,” Lott said in that slow Southern way of his, “nobody thinks you're queer, either of you.” Lott laughed, real soft, under his breath so you didn't really hear it, just saw his shoulders and chest moving. “Fact is though, a man's wired to fuck, and none of us is likely to be satisfied with our greased fists for too much longer.”

“What the fuck are you saying, Lott?” Riggs snarled. “Baldwyn's ass starting to look good to you, is it?”

Baldwyn could let that go. That was against Lott, not him.

“I'm saying, we all better watch our backs, so to speak. Time's coming when it's fuck or be fucked, I figure.”

* * * *

One night, nine months after the dying, thunder exploded Evan's fragile sleep.

Real thunder. On the roof, on the windows, rain rattled, heavy, then fainter, then heavy again, like handfuls of pebbles thrown against the building when the wind swelled up.

Rain and thunder and lightning, those things didn't scare Evan. But he'd been dreaming bad things when the sound had woken him, and the fear, the awful dread of his dreaming was still on him, prickling the backs of his arms and legs, heavy in his belly.

In the dark he crept the well-known path between the rows of empty beds, the concrete floor cold and smooth under his bare feet, a fine grit of dust and dirt sticking to his soles. He'd sweep tomorrow.

When he got close, he touched the corner of Diego's bed with his toe, to make sure of his distance, to make sure he wouldn't bump the frame and wake him. Carefully, silently, he sank down on his heels and leaned back against the wall. It helped, sometimes, after the nightmares, feeling the presence of this other man, close and alive.

Sometimes he'd squat like that for five, ten minutes, just listening to the sound of Diego's deep, rhythmic breathing. Sometimes, if the moon was bright, Evan would watch Diego sleeping, his black hair pillow-matted, his dark lashes making two perfect crescents on the delicate skin just below his eyes, his mouth soft, relaxed. His jaw shadowed with stubble if he hadn't shaved in the last day or two. His tan shoulders naked above the covers, his chest, rising, falling, rising, darkened with hair between his muscular pecs. Sometimes, above the white sheet, a tawny nipple.

Tonight, though, there was no moon. But Evan could tell from the cold quiet that Diego's bed was empty. After the dream, the empty bed seemed ominous. An icy, heavy dread pooled in Evan's belly, trying to sink him down on the cold hard floor.

He listened. Nothing but the rain pelting the roof and the windows, and behind those scattered pebble notes, the continuous hiss of millions of drops falling into the dirt and grass, water touching water, doubling, tripling itself from droplets to rivulets to puddles widening, widening, creeping out and out until, in places, there was no grass or dirt on which to plant a boot, except under water.

Even though it wouldn't wake Diego, since his bed was empty, Evan didn't like the idea of turning on a light. Even without an enemy, somehow turning on a light in the middle of the night felt like putting out a beacon. Beckoning danger. So, in the thick dark, he walked the memorized path to the door, into the dark hall, to the latrine.

When he pushed the door in, light slashed into the dark hallway, stabbing his eyes. Squinting, blinking forward into the white tiled fluorescence, his chest went tight.

On the floor, in the corner past the last sink, Diego. Big Diego curled up so small he looked more like a child than a man, at first, hugging himself, his knees drawn up.

Getting closer, Evan calmed. Diego was all right. Or, not all right, but not hurt.

Diego knew he was there. He had to have heard the door. But he didn't move or look up or say anything.

When Evan sank down onto the cold tile floor next to him, Diego met his eyes.

“I fucking hate it here,” he seemed to breathe. His lips barely moved.

“Yeah.”

It was hard, seeing Diego scared and hopeless. Evan had gotten so used to Diego being steady and strong. Through boot camp. Through the dying.

“All day, all I want is for night to come so I can go to sleep and stop. Stop hearing. Stop seeing. Stop thinking. And then night comes, and I just lie there, stuck in my head. I can't even get out of this place by falling asleep.”

You sleep sometimes
, Evan thought.

“What are you doing up?” Diego asked.

“Thunder woke me.”

“I thought,” Diego said, and his eyes went bloodshot and wet, and Evan knew he was about to cry in front of him for the first time. Even during the dying, he'd never seen Diego cry, “I'd never miss them. My folks. The kids from the neighborhood. That whole world, the stupid parties and lame jobs and church and reality shows. I couldn't fucking wait to get away. To anywhere. And now I think I'd give anything to go back, even just to die along with all of them.

“But now, now that I'm stuck here, every day wondering if we're all going to die from some after-effect, knowing that if we don't, this is it, that nothing's ever going to be any different, that tomorrow is going to be just like today, over and over, for the next ten years, for the rest of my life. I hate this place. I hate this.”

Even at that moment, as Evan pulled Diego to him, letting him sob as he held him, Evan didn't know what he was about to do. When he'd joined up for his two-year stint, he'd decided to put that part of himself aside. It was practical; maybe official policy had changed, but the culture hadn't. He wasn't going to spend his tour being fag-bashed day and night. And part of him liked it. Keeping himself in check, like a saint. It made him feel strong. And he knew, no one would have guessed. Not even Diego.

But now, there was nothing, except this. This love he'd felt and hidden for two years.

Diego's cheek was wet and the wet tasted of salt.

“It's not all terrible. Is it?” Evan asked him.

Diego looked like he'd been slapped—that still, violently awake look of someone in shock.

“No,” was all he said.

When Evan touched Diego's naked arm, trailed two fingertips down his taut, warm flesh, Diego just kept staring into his eyes, breathing harder and harder.

“But,” Diego finally breathed, “you're not...”

“You're wrong.”

Slowly, Evan leaned in, not to kiss. Just to be a little closer. Closer than he could, before. Until he felt soft waves of hair touch his forehead. Until he could smell his skin, feel the heat of him against his face.

“But I'm not wrong about you. Am I?”

After a while Diego whispered, “No.”

He'd known. He'd known Diego wanted him, loved him, before Diego knew it.

And before he'd known he loved him, that way.

Now Evan looked at his friend, into startled, hopeful eyes. Diego's dark curls were soft. Had he ever felt anything that soft? Maybe, but not in years. And his jaw was rough with a couple days' growth of dark beard. And under that stubble, under the delicate, amber skin below his jaw, Diego's pulse throbbing wildly.

To Evan's lips, Diego's naked shoulder was smooth and hard as the curve of a spoon, but warm. Warm, and giving off his faint, tempting scent. Under his lips, Diego's sinewy neck, throbbing with life, that swollen pulse speeding with want, with fear, fear of Evan, fear of himself, fear of how this moment was changing everything. His hair smelled of the shampoo they all used, but underneath, his own, warm smell.

Diego's mouth. His lips were parted with shock, with panting, and Evan could see the sharp bottom edges of his top teeth. Gentle, like a question, he touched Diego's lips with his. Diego's lips stayed soft, open, passive. Only his panting breaths kissed him back.

There, on the floor of the john was a bad place to do this. It would be bad if someone came in. They could lie about the last two or three minutes, but there'd be no hiding his hard-on. Worse if Diego was hard, too.

So Evan stood, then held his hand out to Diego. When Diego finally took it and got to his feet, they turned off the light and went back to their room.

In their room, Diego walked toward his bed, pressed himself back against the wall, then just stood there, waiting. A more blatant invitation that Evan was expecting.

Their first kiss. Fuck, he tasted good. Warm and wet to his tongue. Just yielding, at first, then coming back after him with all his surprised want, all the need he'd been driving down for more than a year. God, yes, this warmth, this togetherness, so safe. So good.

Lost in that first kiss, long minutes slipped by before Evan broke free, and panting, said, “Get on the bed.”

In the dark, Diego was still. His breathing was all Evan could hear.

“Don't be scared,” Evan told him.

Diego sat down on the edge of the bed, then lied back. When Evan climbed over him, Diego's breathing got faster, louder. But he took Evan's kiss with as much hunger as before. And he just kissed and moaned and shook while Evan stroked his chest and belly, and when he finally touched one small, stiff nipple.

But then Diego stopped the kiss and panted, “Wait. Don't. I'm not ready.”