12

LESS OF A MONSTER

I take off my uniform in the tent and toss it in a heap next to my bed. “Is there any warm water left?”

Diesel nods. Moments later, he carries in a bucket full of steamy water from the fire and empties it into a large basin we placed on top of a stack of sandbags in the middle of the tent. We all wash from the same basin with soap Victoria collected. The lapping water spills over the edges occasionally and turns grey after a while. Soapy scum sloshes around on the surface, but it doesn’t matter, as long as the water is hot.

It doesn’t feel strange any more, standing naked before one another.

It is in our nakedness that we become aware of the fragility in us all. Even Victor, who likes parading around with a puffed-up chest, has his fragile side. A darkness that he hides.

What man doesn’t?

The thing that nobody tells you about the army is that you’re always going to wait for stuff. Hurry up and wait, we call it. It’s established army culture.

That afternoon we lie on our beds, waiting for Lieutenant Skillit as promised. He doesn’t arrive.

Eventually, it is sleep that comes for us. The exhaustion of the night out in the cold takes its toll and summons up the nightmares.

Against the dark canvas of my closed eyes, I again see the six of us there in the lake. Sergeant Torsten held high above our heads. It is a macabre image.

We dig deep for a little more endurance, a little more strength.

After a while, Jethro’s arms can’t take it any more.

“Pissy,” Victoria hisses at him.

The weight on my side is also growing heavier. I change my grip. Jethro bites down hard. Pushes his arms out to carry the weight again.

Suddenly, Torsten stirs above us. We can feel him coming to life, how the reviving muscles roll beneath our fingers and the limbs strengthen.

Our heads snap back.

Shocked, I stare right into Torsten’s empty eye sockets. His mouth drops open. His tongue twists like a snake over his bloodied teeth.

He hisses something inaudible, like some kind of command rousing the waters, for suddenly the water ripples around us. The circles push out to the embankment. Everywhere across the lake, hands reach up through the surface. Then the heads appear as a multitude of corpses slowly rise from under our feet. Every one of them looks like Torsten and they all glare at us.

The image is too horrifying to comprehend: A dead army of Torstens surrounding us. They reflect in the water. Where one ends, another begins.

Slowly, they approach. Until Victor’s combat knife flashes through the air. He slams it into Torsten’s chest above us. With a powerful thrust, Victor cuts through the rib cage. He cleaves open Torsten’s stomach.

In the suffocating cascade of blood and intestines, I wake up. Shaking and cold, but relieved, only to stare up at yet another terror. Someone with a gas mask. Unyielding eyes glare at me from behind the round glass lenses. In his hand he clenches a pistol. It is aimed at me.

I stare past the gas mask and then recognise the laugh.

It is Torsten.

Again, I wake up and realise that too was a dream.

Drenched in sweat, I sit upright in bed. In the muddled trail of the dream, I realise that it must be around midnight. I jerk my head around, searching for the intruder while my hand instinctively finds my rifle in the dark. Cocking it.

In an instant, the other guys are awake too.

“What’s wrong?” Victoria asks.

I struggle to find the words. Eventually, they push past my dry throat. “I thought Torsten ...”

“Is alive?” Cypher asks. A questioning frown cuts across his forehead. “I had the same dream.”

I look at the others.

“I also saw him,” Jethro says. “In a dream. Just now.” He grabs his rifle, jumps out of bed, and rushes to the door. Turning his head, he peers into the dark.

“The rest of you?” I ask.

They nod slowly.

“It’s only because our heads are screwed on the same,” Victor says. “He’s dead. You all saw him.”

Victoria doesn’t seem so certain. An unfathomable twitch tugs at the corners of her mouth. “I’m going to check,” she says. She throws on her thick coat, puts on a beanie, and pulls the hood of the coat over her head. With her rifle slung across her shoulder, she makes her way to the tent opening, raises the flap, and steps outside. Her flashlight springs to life, the beam cutting through the night. Breathless, I watch as the dark envelops her.

Half an hour goes by.

Eventually, I again catch sight of her in the dark. The light of her torch sweeps across the ground as she makes her way back.

She enters the tent and throws the overcoat’s hood off her head.

“And?” Victor asks.

Victoria’s eyebrows rise defiantly. “He’s feeding the maggots,” she says without emotion. “Still sprawled there beside the lake. Face down in the mud. Like a pig.”

Sleep comes around for me again. This time, I don’t dream about our dead section leader, but in my subconscious the disquiet still lingers.

By morning, I lie curled up in my bed, wondering what the day might bring. Will we be deployed to the front line today? Will Commandant Krux have more questions for us? Perhaps he was satisfied with my statement the day before. That’s probably why he didn’t summon us again yesterday afternoon.

I laze around a while longer, turning the thoughts around and around in my mind, considering the scenarios. Later, I pull the zip of the sleeping bag down slightly and reach out to my backpack beside the stretcher. Fumbling around inside, I eventually haul out the Book. I open the red hard cover. Page through the thin sheets to the Chronicle of the Redemption, find a chapter, and read it.

This is the only book we are allowed to have in our possession. Before the Darkening, there were many books. They were kept in places called “libookries” or something. Books of all kinds lined up inside. It is difficult picturing something like that. Perhaps it was like a gun rack in a weapon storeroom. Something to be kept behind lock and key, for everyone’s safety.

Because books are dangerous. So our mothers taught us from a young age. “That’s why the Force destroyed all books. Burnt them. Books are full of depraved ideas. And depraved ideas are the source of all evil – the place where the likes of the AntiForce are born and bred,” one of our mothers said. “People don’t need these shameless thoughts and filthy books. Only the one Book – true and sacred are the words.”

Evil ... Is that what Sergeant Torsten’s murder was? Is the guilty one evil?

Could evil come to you in other ways as well? Perhaps carried by the wind? Or through the rain and mist? Or is it passed along with the nourishment of your mother’s milk or the way you were raised?

Does evil perhaps lie hidden in the secret places inside your body?

The mere thought of it is horrifying.

I try to draw my concentration back to the words of the Book.

As day and night differ, so too do the old and the new time. Do not be misguided by prophets who glorify the old time, they who yearn for misplaced freedoms set to doom humankind.

True freedom lies beyond the border of the new time. Now, you might see only suffering, but this too shall pass. It is like birthing pains contracting a new mother’s body, but the exultant morrow comes. Then the light will break through and you will fully grasp the alchemising of the old and the new times.

I read the last sentence again and frown over the word “alchemising”. Perhaps Cypher would know what it means. I’ll ask him later. But first I have to drag myself out of the sleeping bag and go for a walk.

I close the Book, place it in my backpack, pull on my overcoat, then my boots. Rifle across the shoulder.

The morning air freezes on my face when I step outside. I rub my hands together to drive away a little of the cold. My lips feel numb. Even batting my eyes seems sluggish.

On my way to the fenced-off field toilets, one of the other troops stops me. It is a guy with dark skin and eyes. His smile seems friendly enough. I don’t know him, but he obviously knows who I am. “Hey, Eliam!”

“Yes?”

He pushes his helmet a little back over his head. “How are you holding up with the interrogation?”

“Why?”

He smiles crookedly. His demeanour becomes provoking. “There are rumours going around in camp ...”

“About?”

“You guys being on the Programme. Is that right?”

“Yes?”

He stands closer, probably to check out the Force number shining in my eyes as proof, but I turn my head away. “There are other rumours as well.”

I frown. “Tell me?”

He smiles as if marvelling at the secret. “You think you’re so special. The selected few, hand-picked for military service, unlike the rest of us, the witless volunteers. But we heard you’re all going to be booted off the Programme.”

“That’s not true,” I say, hoping not to show my surprise. Would all that horrible training have been for nothing? Whatever the answer, his words stir something up inside me. Then it boils over suddenly. “Who told you this crap anyway?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he answers, laughing scornfully.

“Was it Skillit? Krux?”

“I keep my trap shut when it comes to those two.”

I want to grab him and force him to tell me, but other troops and their section leader come marching by, leaving me no choice but to take control of my emotions.

“I have to go,” I say. “What’s your name? You didn’t mention it, did you?”

He coughs up a ball of slime and gobs to the side. “I haven’t, you’re right,” he says, grinning before he wheels around and walks away.

On my way back, my eyes wander over the dreary camp. All around the place, guys are lazing around on sandbags or sitting on upturned buckets. Others huddle together in small circles, talking. That’s where the rumours start, I can tell. Irritated, I blindly change direction to escape the wisecracks and scornful looks. They’ve probably all heard the rumour that we’re going to be kicked off the Programme. What will Jethro and the other guys say about it? I wonder as I quicken my pace.

Suddenly, I spot one of them. Victor. He stoops out from under the roof of a tent – 55 is painted on top.

That’s not our tent.

Strange. What would he be doing there?

I jump back behind a RegiMog and carefully peer around the corner of the truck bed to make sure I’m not mistaken. The hood of his overcoat is drawn over his head. But it is Victor.

He plucks the canvas door closed behind him and, lowering his head, he sneaks off. As he does, he runs his hand down the front of his pants, fingering the row of buttons on his fly. A while later, another guy emerges from the tent. He watches Victor go, smiling.

Breathless, I keep my eye on them. What just happened there?

Images suddenly flash before my eyes. A memory – one of those that remain etched in your mind.

Training Camp Alpha.

One dark evening. Possibly close to midnight.

Everyone in the barracks was sleeping.

But Victor got up.

He dressed quickly.

I followed him as he slipped out, curious to see where he was going at that time of night.

Later, I spotted him as he disappeared between the dead trees to the west of the camp.

I had to watch my step there.

That’s how you discover secrets.

Determined, I trailed him as he made his way through the trees, always keeping a safe distance between us. I nearly got caught when a twig snapped below my feet.

Victor froze and looked back.

I didn’t stir.

He proceeded further.

I followed.

Someone was waiting for Victor. There among the trees where the drones seldom patrol.

That was the evening I discovered Victor’s secret and realised: A monster becomes less of a monster once you fall in love with him.

The smell of burnt flesh drifts through the camp in the early-morning air. Still hidden behind the RegiMog, I turn my head away from Victor in the direction of the Front. That’s where the sickening breeze comes from.

Later in the morning, military ambulances arrive with the conveyed dead.

The bodies covered in burn wounds. Their skins crisp. Their gaping eyes scorched black.

I turn my head away from the atrocity and instantly the image of the burnt guy I once saw in front of Training Camp Alpha’s sick bay pops up in my thoughts. He gazed right through me with those staring eyes that had seen the horrors of war, seeped in the pain flashing between nerve ends, burrowing through bone and muscle.

His face was so distorted that you couldn’t make out his features.

Only his eyes.

I reckon he was about the same age as me, but in his mind, he was years older.