Mortals

Quartus was at him, he had him by the legs and was trying to pull him down, and even worse, Ray realized, the man was biting his right leg, in fact. Rage and disgust transformed him.

It was too much. Ray had been unprepared because Quartus’s rolling over and over like a log had not been a normal aggressive act. It had been something else, an invention.

Ray roared at Quartus. He would not allow it, what was going on, let alone just being touched by the animal Quartus. He unslung his rifle and, gripping it with both hands, raised it over his head and brought it down like a spear, driving the barrel into Quartus’s bare shoulder, tearing the flesh. It was not enough. Quartus was keeping on, like an animal. He was trying to pull Ray down. Quartus was strong.

Again Ray raised the gun and brought it down with all his force but to the right of the previous wound he had inflicted. It was weak of him and he should have deepened the original wound but it was not something he could do. There was a fresh new wound, anyway. There was blood, plenty of it.

Ray was in danger of being capsized, dragged over, despite what he had done to Quartus, but then he wasn’t and he could see why. He had hurt something in Quartus’s left arm enough to make it weaken almost to the point of not participating. Quartus couldn’t grip hard with it, claw at him with it. Ray was able to kick his right leg free. He was winning.

He was okay. There was something he wanted to say but he didn’t know what it was, except that he wanted to say it to his wife. Ray brought the gun down again, but this time Quartus had gotten out of the way, like a snake, an eel. He was half lying down, injured.

Ray steadied himself and brought his attention back as he had to and as well as he could to the huddled masses of the enemy yearning to be free and kill him, dismember him. He got his gun around properly and put two rounds into the space between them. They were restless. A couple of them were on all fours instead of lying obediently flat. They are restless, the natives are restless, he thought, and these were not conscripts, which was important. All present and reporting were bona fide volunteers. Quartus was lying doubled over. He was touching his wounds. All was well.

He hoped his enemies had seen that he was learning to be more tender with the trigger of his murder machine. He was getting the hang of it. He was being less profligate with his ammunition. He would have enough for everything.

But Quartus was on his knees suddenly, looking like he wanted something from Ray. And almost immediately then Quartus was diving at him, at his legs, again.

It was the same but not the same. Quartus was crawling up him violently. Ray now had the weapon in aiming mode, for the benefit of the foot soldiers, so he had to maintain this and strike to the side without compromising his stance. He caught Quartus on the neck with the stock of the gun, ineffectively, and then struck a glancing blow that grazed Quartus’s forehead, again ineffectively. He was going to have to kill the man, if this kept up. It was then that Quartus bit his bad knee, his swollen bad knee, giving Ray more pain than he had suffered from all Quartus’s previous efforts.

He wanted to kick Quartus to death with his better leg, the free leg. He tried it. He tried to kick Quartus hard enough to break something. But he wasn’t in the right posture to put his full force into it.

“I am going to fucking kill you if you don’t stop,” he shouted, hearing the hollowness in his own voice, kicking him again.

But he meant it. He was willing to do it, kill a bleeding man.

Quartus had his arms around Ray’s right ankle. Ray stepped back. He stabbed the muzzle of the rifle into Quartus’s cheek. He wasn’t sure what Quartus was doing or what he was understanding. Except of course that he had to not like what his men were seeing.

Ray said again, “Understand me, I am going to kill you if you don’t stop.”

The two fires he needed to pay attention to were the one behind him and the little one in the lean- to over the cots and the radio set. Fire went badly with ammunition stocks. He had to keep his mind on too many things.

His legs were trembling. His enemies could see that, which was bad. And he could see that both his knees were bleeding, weakly but definitely. And he had to wonder about what foul germs the dog Quartus with his prominent canines had put into him.

Quartus plunged at Ray yet again, aiming for the knees, making a plaintive sound. Ray jumped back but not quickly enough.

Quartus had Ray’s penis in his grasp. He had it with both hands. He was dragging at it and twisting. There was white pain all through Ray. It was unbearable and it was unfair. He was already fighting faintness.

I am killing you now, he thought.

He fired down, with the gun barrel touching Quartus on the hip. This is what you get, he thought.

Quartus screamed and let go. His jodhpurs were filling with blood, one leg of them was.

It seemed nothing could make Quartus lie still or be quiet. He was making animal sounds. His men were showing signs of doing something and they had to be stopped. Quartus had tried to damage him. He was still trying to swallow the pain.

He had put too many rounds into Quartus. He had wanted to cripple him, mainly, but he had been willing to kill him, and now he was bleeding to death.

Quartus was jerking around. It was pitiful. He had done it. He had shredded the man’s hip. He was deluging blood. It was coming out and staining the pebbles and it was making Ray sick.

It was unnatural not to want to help the dying man, if he was dying, and he probably was. He wanted to get help for the fucking stupid man. There was nothing he could do. He wanted Morel to appear and help. He prayed to God Morel would appear. Because he had been damaged, he was afraid. He was afraid the fucker had hurt his penis beyond just hurting it, actually damaging it.

Quartus’s men wanted to help him too. They were getting to their knees, up on their knees. He couldn’t blame them.

“Get down,” he said. They were moving around too freely, and he was in hell.

He gathered himself and shouted something to the effect that they should do something, sit down, it was glossolalia, really, just blurts of sound, pleading sound.

Quartus was writhing around, still. He was making small sounds.

An episode of black smoke began, obscuring everything. He got down on his knees. He didn’t know which was worse, standing or kneeling.

He was through killing now, if he could help it.

Piercing whistling rose and twined together into something hard and terrible, and then his friends were there, thrusting through the smoke, Mokopa, Kevin, everyone.

They were firing everywhere.

He wanted to explain what he had done, but there was no time.

He wanted to tell them he needed to speak to someone because he had killed someone. But there was killing going on.

He wanted to explain that they had obeyed, Quartus’s men, they had been okay.

He put his rifle down and relaxed onto his side.

He wanted his wife. He wanted to explain.

Confusion was expanding around him and in his weakness he wanted to wave it on like a traffic cop directing things. He wanted to wave it on to encourage it so it could go where it had to so that he could rest. He was already resting. He wanted to sleep more than anything he had ever wanted he could think of. But the confusion had his blessing, was the way he felt.

Shyness, for the first time, covered him, for his penis. He wanted to shield his shy penis with something if he could find anything. He was on his side, pressing his penis back in between his clasped legs. He could feel the pebbles burning a design of their own into the flesh of his side. It was his fate to be marked. Later he would see what the design of his life would be.

He was fading, and then Kevin, his friend, was there, crouching beside him and touching him. He felt better immediately. His friends were jumping through the smoke, howling.

This is it, he kept thinking.

There was the feeling that this was it, that this was the world, the world was what he was seeing. He was