get him through the night.” Lily raised an arm and waved off Gurley's words. It actually relieved the tension a bit; her weary wave seemed less the act of a mortal enemy than a long-suffering but indulgent spouse.
But Gurley quickly ended the respite. “It's been nice knowing you, Sergeant,” he said, staring after her.
“Sir,” I said, not meeting his eyes. I was busy looking for his hands, his gun.
“I know you think it heartless. Or I think you do. I know Lily does. But leaving the boy here, yes, killing him, would spare everyone a lot of misery.”
“Sir,” I said, not sure if he still had a mind you could reason with, or if I was better off just leaping on him, and sparing everyone a lot of misery. “Just wait. She'll surprise you. I bet he'll surprise you. Kids are-”
“He's already surprised me,” said Gurley. “He flew across the fucking ocean. And that's not all. Come.” Gurley went to the boy, knelt, and then roughly tore open his coveralls. The boy fought him weakly. When he started to cry out, Gurley raised a hand as if to hit him, and looked to see if Lily had heard. She hadn't. The boy went silent with fear and looked to me for help. I screwed up what courage I could and stepped next to Gurley. But before I could lay a hand on him, he spoke: “Surprise,” he said.
I looked down. The boy's exposed chest and stomach were a mottled purple. The skin just above his collarbone was raw and red. I knew what Gurley was doing; he was diagnosing plague. “I saw it when I was working on the crash site,” Gurley said, and stood. “I didn't look in the groin area yet, but I don't have to. You've got lymph nodes here, too,” he said, fingering his neck. “You see why we have to get out of here? They sent the best germ weapon container possible: a human. A human rat. Which means he was dying anyway. Hell, he's lost enough blood he may not even survive long enough to die of plague. But we've got to get back. Get away from him. So we got a vaccine: like the major said, What if this is a new strain?”
I didn't know. I didn't know enough about plague or enough about how much Gurley knew about medicine to know if he was lying The boy looked ill, but he'd just come across the Pacific in an open balloon. The rash on his neck could have been from the coveralls. Where were the blown lymph nodes, the buboes? I saw Gurley glance back toward the boat. Lily was walking back toward us.
“You've got to tell her, Belk,” he said. “She's not listening to me right now.”
“Sir, I don't think-”
“Redo the math, son,” Gurley said. “You thought you were just risking the boy's life when you sided with her before. Now you're risking yours. And mine. And hers.” I didn't answer. I just stared at the boy then at Lily. When she finally reached us, she gave Gurley a look that caused him to rethink whatever he was about to say and stalk off instead. He looked back just once, and then loped away, hands flying about, swatting mosquitoes.
Lily turned to me. I hadn't had enough time to decide what to say or how. But Lily didn't wait for me to speak. “Louis,” she said, and we both looked down at our very ill charge. “Can you pick him up?”
CHAPTER 19
I TOOK A BREATH, I KNELT, I LIFTED HIM UP. AND THEN I carried the boy back to the spot where we'd beached the boat. It was a longer trip than we thought-I'd estimate a mile, but trudging through the tundra was such slow going, it could have been ten. The mosquitoes clotted around his open wounds like shifting scabs.
Lily and I eventually decided the best thing was to undo the mess of bandages Gurley had applied and apply a proper tourniquet, or as proper a one as we could manage. We also resplinted the arm and bound it to his side to immobilize it completely. But we only came to these decisions gradually, after several painful false starts. The boy's screams grew louder and louder. Several times I found myself wondering if Gurley was right: it would be better if the boy had died, or could die, quickly.
There were moments when he seemed he would. I've seen it happen to enough others in the hospital to know he was going into shock. The boy's red, windburned face somehow managed to lose all its color-or rather, soak up a new color, the blank white of the endlessly cloudy sky. At times, his color returned, but then I couldn't be sure- perhaps it was just that the light was failing and it was no longer easy to tell what he looked like.
Lily paid no attention to the sky or me or Gurley whom we could now see, back at the crash site, sticking out of the horizon like the last post of some abandoned fence. Lily gave the boy water and fed him broken bits of cracker. When he shivered, she found a blanket, wrapped it around him tightly. And when night finally did come, she had me set up a tent and help her move the boy inside. Then she crawled in herself. I tried to stop her before she went into the tent.
“Lily,” I said, and she twisted around to shush me.
“What?”
“Lily,” I said again. I still hadn't told her about Gurley's diagnosis. The more I'd seen of the boy, the more I thought Gurley was wrong. I didn't want to tell Lily about any of this, but I didn't want her to expose herself any more than she had, either.
I said nothing.
“Louis,” she said. “Will you keep watch?”
“Lily-”
“Please, Louis. I'm worried about Gurley. I'm worried about the boy. I'm worried about him and the boy, what he'll do. Just wait.”
She disappeared into the tent for several minutes. I heard some whispers, tears, and then nothing at all. Finally, her face reappeared.
“Where is he?” she asked, squinting toward the crash site. But it was too dark now to see, or to tell Gurley apart from the lonely stunted trees that cropped up here and there. She climbed out and stood up.
“I don't know,” I said. “I thought he was staying out there to defuse or detonate the remaining bombs, but I never heard anything.” What I'd really been listening for was the sound of a single shot from Gurley's sidearm, his skull perhaps muffling the sound if he held the barrel close. But there had been nothing. Just the wind, and when it paused, the whine of mosquitoes finding an ear.
“Did Gurley find out his name?” she said.
“His name?”
“I can't read the writing on his coveralls.”
I stared at the tent. “Lily, I don't know. No, if he did, he didn't say. I-I don't know Japanese either. Didn't Saburo-your Saburo-teach you any?”
“This is my Saburo,” she said. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them once more, they were full of tears. “I-I think I killed him.”
“Lily, what's happened?” I moved for the tent, but she stopped me. From inside the tent, the boy gave a little moan, and Lily winced. More than winced, really-she buckled slightly, grabbing her elbows, hunching her shoulders. “Can't you hear him?” she said. “I killed him,” she said softly.
I grabbed her. “Lily, the boy? You killed the boy? Right now? Jesus, Lily. What are you doing? Gurley would've-”
Another tiny moan came from the tent.
The Yup'ik say the tundra is haunted. But
I didn't understand this for a long time. When I was a young priest, I would tell people that ghosts only haunted those who believed in them. Don't put your faith in specters, I would say, put your faith in God:
