Adeline

The baby wriggled and kicked in its blanket when I pushed it between the rusty iron girders of the bridge. I held it over the river and looked down at the rushing water. I wanted to drink a bit of it.

“Just let it plummet,” Rick said. I turned and watched him put his knife into its sheath. He had used new leaves to clean it—they were settled around his boots in clumps of green and red.

“What are you waiting for?” Brother Paul said. He kicked me hard on my thigh with the tip of his shiny boot, and I dropped the baby. It hardly splashed, floated once, then disappeared. I wondered if it was a boy or girl.

“It’s for its own good.” Brother Paul put his arm around me. “It wouldn’t have had much of a life anyway, living like a wild animal out here in the woods with dimwit heretics for parents.”

“But how do you know?”

“Think about this,” he said, tucking in his shirt. “That baby is with Jesus now, sitting right up there in his steely arms. You actually did it a favor. Congratulations.” He pinned a little cross to my shirt near the collar.

I guess the baby was pretty lucky to be with Jesus and all, but it’s never fun to run into a group of separatists that must be put down while you’re on patrol. I tugged at my shirt to keep the pin from poking my skin.

A week later Brother Paul was leading our team through an old forest when we came to a campsite with a smoldering fire. Two women were stirring soup in a pot, but when they saw us come close, they ran. Brother Paul shot them and then listened to the pleas of a third woman in a tent nursing two babies—a boy and a girl—before shooting them. We ate their soup and wondered where the men were.

“Probably off fighting,” Brother Paul said.

“More than likely fighting some in our own unit,” Rick said. The other men agreed. I couldn’t be sure: I just liked the food. I was hungry. There’s nothing quite like soup simmering over an open fire. You can always taste the smoke.

After we ate, Brother Paul organized a burial. I helped dig the hole, and then we stuffed the bodies into sleeping bags. Their bodies sounded hollow when the dirt from our shovels landed on top of them, kind of like the ripe watermelons at the Piggly Wiggly back home. One of the babies slipped out of the bag, so I jumped into the hole to put it back into it’s mother’s arms.

“Pete, get out of that hole!” Brother Paul is strict and he yells a lot. “You don’t want to go where they’re going, do you?”

“No sir,” I said. The baby held his fist in the air—how did it do that? —it’s skin so clean and tight.

He gave me his hand and helped me out. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Now remove your hats.” We all took off our hats and bowed our heads, though I couldn’t help peeking at the others’ feet. Our boots were muddy, and mine had clumps of leaves stuck on the toes. I could smell the freshly-turned dirt. Only Brother Paul’s were clean. How could he keep such clean boots in the wet of Spring?

“And so we commit their spirits to you, Lord. May you have mercy on them.” Brother Paul was quiet for a bit, then said, “Stoke the fire, boys.” Me and Rick went into the woods looking for some bigger stumps to throw onto the fire. The forest had been pretty well combed through, but we managed to find several large chunks. Brother Paul likes thick wood. He gets irritated when we throw piddly green sticks into the fire. He says it disturbs his concentration. He likes to stare into the fire and he makes us sit silently around it, ejecting us from the circle if we want to talk.

Rick hoisted a large log onto his shoulder. Its bottom side wriggled with bugs like centipedes and roly-polies. I looked into the hollow place the stump left in the earth and watched a big worm try to escape into the ground. He was fat, and I thought of the way night crawlers squirm when a fishing hook pierces them. I always came home from fishing in the ditch with black worm gunk caked on my hands. Mama made me wash my hands before I went to bed, but I could never get my nails clean enough, so she had to do that for me, sitting me on the bed and digging out the crud with the pocket knife that she carried in her apron pocket. “Some day, when you’re bigger, you’ll be able to clean under your nails for yourself,” she said. After I was tucked in, she cleaned the catfish over the kitchen sink, and I couldn’t fall asleep until I heard the whump, whump, whump of the ball peen hammer on all the catfish heads. In the morning she cooked the catfish up with eggs.

Rick stepped on the worm and spread its guts on a root sticking out of the dirt.

“What did you do that for?”

“Worms are my bete noire.” Rick let the log roll off his shoulder. I felt the ground tremble when it hit.

“What?”

Rick sighed. “I hate worms.”

“It never did nothing to you,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter. I loathe them,” he said, spitting on the ground. “Now get your log and lets get out of these baleful woods.”

We walked for a bit. “What’s baleful mean?” I asked.

“Evil. Ominous. You know, like Satan.” He was walking in front of me, so he had to shout loudly for me to hear him.

“I like the woods. I don’t think they’re evil.” The trail was soft.

“It’s not so much the woods—the trees and plants—that are evil.” Rick was breathing hard. “It’s what’s among the trees and plants that are evil. Understand?”

“Yes.” I patted my holster.

Brother Paul was talking to the men around the fire when we got back. He must have had enough staring time. We threw the logs down, and Allen split each of them into five chunks of wood, perfect for our campfire. He was a pro at that. He always had his maul. The heretics were scared of that maul.

“Good job, fellas,” Allen said. “You brought me hickory.”

We joined everyone else around the fire. Brother Paul was talking about the next day’s activities, how far we were supposed to go, who we’d encounter, and other stuff like that. I didn’t listen too closely because he’d repeat it all in the morning. Besides, I had my boots to clean. I had drank most of my water but saved a little bit for my boots. In my backpack I keep a rag just for cleaning. Whenever we came to a stream, I rinsed my canteen, filled it, and then rinsed my rag. I’m always careful to do this downstream from the other men. They don’t like my boot juice in their canteen water. Brother Paul hit me once for doing that. I had to swear to Jesus that I’d never do that again. My boots gleamed in the firelight after I finished. I was thirsty, but Brother Paul said we’d be crossing a stream the next day a little before lunch time. I could wait that long.

I jumped when Joshua fired his rifle. We all stood up, and Joshua and Brother Paul crept into the woods. We were silent for a bit, but relaxed when we heard them laugh. Joshua came back holding a raccoon with part of its face missing. He passed it around the circle. Its hair was coarse, kind of like Grandpa’s beard. He used to hold my arms high above my head and tickle me with his whiskers until I could hardly breathe. Mama always made him stop by slapping his ass with a dishrag. When the raccoon came to Brother Paul, he tossed it onto the fire. The hair burned quickly, then the flesh. It smelled good. Such a shame to waste good meat.

At night I like to write in a little book I found in a woman’s backpack. Allen had just put his maul through her head, and then we scavenged her goods, avoiding the bloody stuff. I really wanted the cross with the dead Jesus on it that she wore around her neck, but Allen said no. She must have liked to read. Kind of stupid to bring nothing but books and a notebook into the woods, but some people are like that, especially near college towns. I slipped the little notebook into my shirt pocket, and we burned all her books, even her Bible. Brother Paul said it was contaminated. A heretic’s Bible is no Bible at all, he said, especially without an Interpretation Manual licensed by the Church. I wish I had a Bible. The dead girl hadn’t written much in her book, just a few thoughts and some passages about Jesus, stuff about carrying your cross and loving your enemies. There were lots of empty pages, which was nice for me. Her Jesus seemed so peaceful, kind of hidden in the pages. She didn’t seem like a heretic to me, but who am I to judge?

After Devotions, and as soon as everyone fell asleep, I hunkered in my sleeping bag, turned my flashlight on low, and wrote. I liked to write about my brother, liked to make up arguments I’d have with him or imagine the girls we’d fight over. I even once wrote about how Eric saved me from drowning in the pond near our house, how he canoed out to me and used his oar to chop at the water plants and electric eels that tried to hold me under. He won at the end and I was saved. I never showed the story to anybody. It’s probably still in my closet. I wasn’t very good at most subjects in school, but I always liked writing, even though I got a D in English. The teachers didn’t seemed to care what I wrote; they flocked around the smart kids like flies on cow shit. Grandpa once told me, Why don’t you do something worth while? Take shop, for Christ’s sake. At least that’ll learn you a trade. Mama made me quit school before I ever got a chance to take it though. Nobody there cares one lick about you, she said. They don’t care that you don’t have a daddy, or that your little brother’s dead, so go on and get out of that school. Nobody in our Patrol has caught me writing yet. I’m sure Brother Paul would punish me if he found out. He likes rules, and writing isn’t in the Patrol Code.

The next morning I was the last to wake up. The other men had eaten all the breakfast, but I could wait the six hours until lunch. The raccoon had turned to ash during the night, not even any bones left. I rolled up my sac, placed it on my pack, and prepared myself for the march. Brother Paul told us the plans.

“There might be some resistance today,” he said. “But the Lord is with us.” He led us in some songs we learned at Church before we were christened as soldiers, but they just didn’t sound the same to me without the drums and guitars.

We walked for some time without incident. Sometimes we sang, sometimes we passed pictures of our family down the line, and sometimes we just marched quietly. There are twelve of us in our patrol, and I wish we could get more men to join. Brother Paul wishes it wasn’t optional. In times of emergency, the church needs to draft all capable men for the Cause of Christ, he told us once. He thinks that time is coming soon.

Close to noon there was a flash of light. We all fell to the ground, and I heard Ron, in front of the line, moaning. His breath was all bubbly, like when you have water in your throat. When the smoke cleared, we all got up. Ron was dead. He tripped a booby-trap, and half his face was blown off. The day before I had been marching in the front. I got lucky I suppose. We buried him in the woods, canteen and all. The lid on his canteen wasn’t tight, and the water leaked onto his blue shirt and stained it dark. It seemed a shame to waste water like that.

“Worms are going to like him.” Rick said. He was panting.

I threw a shovel full of dirt on Ron. “I guess they will,” I said.

“The maggots will find him exceptional, too.”

“I suppose.”

Rick shoveled faster than me—he threw three shovel loads of dirt for every one I threw. His arms and back were muscular. They made his shirt look tight, and his buttons barely held. I can’t imagine him teaching English, those big hands of his holding a pansy book. My shovel loads were bigger, though. Plus I was much neater than Rick. He left a little trail of dirt from the pile to the grave. I didn’t leave a trail at all. I hate burying people, especially people I know.

After we laid Ron to rest, Brother Paul gathered us around the pile of freshly stacked dirt. We were in a clearing in the forest, and the sun light glinted off Brother Paul’s shaved head. I admired my handiwork. It took a while for me to learn how to shave a head with a razor, but once I learned, it wasn’t too hard. I’ve never nicked him, thank God. Next week it will be Allen’s turn.

“We lost a good man today: a father, a friend, a child of God,” Brother Paul said. “But now he is richer than us, richer because he is with Jesus, at his Right Hand, in the kingdom of Heaven. So let us not be sad, but rather let us rejoice in Ron’s commitment to the Lord.” Brother Paul always said that whenever we buried any of our own.

Later I helped Simon make the soup. Rick went into the woods by himself and came back with some good oak logs that split nicely under Allen’s maul. The fire was hot, and the soup was ready by two-thirty.

After lunch, I wandered to the stream to fill up my canteen. It was about half a mile from where we set up camp. I took all the other men’s canteens and filled them too. The stream was cold and clear, running fast off the green mountain west from where I stood. I was surprised at how cold it was. I shaded my eyes in the afternoon light, trying to see if there was any snow left up there. I couldn’t quite tell, but I seriously doubted it because it was late April. I took off my boots and put my feet in the water. I never used to wear boots. Sometimes shoes, but never boots. My toes were so pale. Mama would’ve worried about how pale they were. She didn’t like pale men. She liked her boys dark, baked in the sun until well-done. I dunked my boots into the stream and gave them a good cleaning. After I was done, I lay back on the rocky bank and let the sun warm me before it disappeared over the mountain. I fell asleep thinking about Grandpa’s barbecue sauce and pork heads.

I woke up after I heard a splash in the water, grabbing my gun as I jerked myself upright. There was a woman in the water filling up old plastic milk jugs. I aimed at her with my shaking hand, but she smiled at me and continued her work. Her tits were large, maybe full of milk, and I saw the nipples through her shirt. She wore her yellow hair in two long braids.

“I could kill you, you know,” I said.

“I know,” she answered. She walked closer to me.

I clicked the safety off. “Just one shot and you’d be down.”

“That doesn’t scare me,” she said. “My name is Leah.”

I put my gun down. “What are you doing, Leah?”

“Getting water,” she said, “just like you. Aren’t you going to tell me your name? I’d like to know at least that much before you shoot me.”

“Pete.” I fingered my gun. “Were you spying on me?”

“No. I was just waiting in the bushes for you to finish before I began.” She smiled, and her teeth were unbelievably white. “Those canteens of yours don’t hold much water.”

“I know.”

“You need bigger jugs.” She threw an empty one at me. “Here.”

I caught it. It was sticky where the label had been, but it didn’t smell milky at all. “Thanks. How many of you are there?” I asked.

“Not too many.”

“Are they all like you?”

She laughed. “You mean, are they all women?”

“No. I mean, are they all as fearless as you?”

“Yes, I suppose. We work at it.”

“Most people run from us.”

“Well everybody’s got to die at some point,” she said. “You can’t live without dying, so I figure there’s no use in fretting.” That didn’t make sense to me. How can you not fret about dying? I put my gun back in the holster and filled my jug. I’d tell Allen, Rick, and Brother Paul that I’d found the jug in the bushes.

“You have a baby?” I said.

She looked down at her chest and pulled her shirt away from her tits. She had a wet spot where her right one had pushed against the shirt. “Can you tell?”

“Yes.” I looked into the water. Her reflection was broken into shimmery bits, and little trout swam through them

“Her name is Adeline.”

“Where is your baby now?”

“She’s at the camp with the others.”

“You can trust them?”

“They’re all I have left,” she said. “I have to trust them.” She stepped out of the water on the other side of the creek and began to undue her braids, and in no time all her hair lay in a great mass on her shoulder. She was beautiful. I took off my hat.

“Of course you can’t follow me,” she added.

“I know. But I should.” I put my hat back on. It shielded the sun from my eyes.

“But you won’t.” She strung a rope through the milk jugs full of water, tied the rope together, and wore the water like a necklace. “You go first.”

“Okay.” I walked about twenty yards, then turned. She was gone. Why do I always go along with whatever anyone tells me? I thought of following her, of catching her and killing her, but my heart wasn’t in it. More than likely she was a fallen Christian, maybe even a heretic, but it was too close to supper to bother with her. Besides, no one else had seen her. Adeline—what a nice name. Seems like the sort of name I’d have for a relative, maybe a great Aunt or something, but I don’t.

•

After supper we sat around the fire and listened to Brother Paul read from Revelation. We were nearing the end of the second cycle of Biblical readings: John, Romans, First and Second Timothy, then Revelation. Last year we studied the Old Testament: Genesis through Dueteronomy (the highlights—battles and stuff), then Daniel, Psalms, and Proverbs. We even got to read a little bit of Song of Solomon, which the new recruits especially liked. I can’t believe that book is in the Bible, all that talk of breasts! It always made me horny whenever we read it, and after everyone fell asleep, I always had to jerk off. I kept a few spare rags in my sleeping bag to catch my semen. That’s a funny word—semen. Grandpa once told me that it’s where babies come from, that in all that syrup are thousands of babies waiting to happen, waiting to slip out from between a woman’s legs. My semen tastes kind of salty. Wouldn’t it be funny if guys could get pregnant just by tasting semen? I think it would hurt having a baby. Mama told me once it’s like shitting a watermelon. Is that wrong, to crave salt? I think Mama would be ashamed of me because I jerk off thinking about the Bride, but I guess that means I’m not gay. The homosexual is an abomination to God, according to Brother Paul, because all those potential babies, those potential children of God, are wasted in ass holes. The Song of Solomon rejoices in the love between a man and a woman. We don’t study the rest of the Bible much. The Pastor says that it’s not too important. Only heretics read more than is required or safe, and heretics don’t have an Interpreter or Interpretation Manual .

After I cleaned my boots I thumbed through my wallet. There wasn’t much use for it out in the middle of nowhere, but it reminded me of home, of going to church and having coffee and cinnamon rolls with friends at the church coffee bar. My Visa card had a holographic cross stamped across it that twinkled in the light, kind of like the Leah’s reflection in the water, along with the name of my congregation. I kept my Mama’s picture in the spot where I used to keep my driver’s license. I gave that up when I joined the Patrol.

“Look at this,” Allen said. “Did I ever show you this?” He handed me a little beat-up laminated card.

“No. What is it?” I turned it over in my hand and then looked up at him.

He smiled and brushed the hair from his eyes. “Read it.”

“The Union of Concerned Woodsmen and Carvers,” I read aloud.

“That’s right.”

“What is it?”

Allen leaned back on his elbows and picked a long, weedy sprig and stuck it in his mouth, sliding it in the little gap between his top front teeth. “It’s a union.”

“Oh.”

“My daddy was a member too.”

“What did you do?”

Allen sat up and took the sheath off his maul. He pulled a file from his pocket and began sharpening the edge. “Well, before I joined the Patrol and swore my gifts to God, I used to be in the lumber business.” The weed bounced in front of his face while he talked.

“Lumber?”

“Yeah. Like for houses and stuff. Barns. Shit houses even.”

“What about the carving part?” I asked.

“Oh. The carvers were some pantywaist artists who wanted in because they made stuff from trees we chopped down.”

“You mean artisans,” Rick said.

“Yeah. Whatever, English boy. Anyway, we let them in to be nice.”

“What were you concerned about?” I asked.

Allen spit out his weed. “Trees.”

“That’s a no-brainer,” Rick said, poking the fire with a stick. Brother Paul didn’t see him.

“People were using them up so fast. We wanted more. That’s what we were concerned about.”

“Have you ever put your maul through a child’s head?”

Allen’s face got all contorted like a rotting apple in Grandpa’s orchard. “Bullets are much cleaner,” he said, standing then walking into the woods. Brother Paul followed him.

“You’re such an imbecile,” Rick said after they left.

“Why?”

“You’ve distressed him.”

“I just wanted to know.”

“Well you don’t ask questions like that,” he said. “Of course he’s killed kids with that maul. He’s got to: it’s his weapon of choice, just like you and your pistol.”

“There’s a difference, though, a difference between a splitting maul and a pistol. Allen said so himself.”

Rick sighed. “When you’re expired, you’re expired. It doesn’t much matter how you became expired.”

“I still think there’s a difference.”

Rick bummed a cigarette from Joshua. We’re not supposed to smoke, our bodies being temples of the Lord and all, but Brother Paul overlooks that rule. Rick exhaled from his nose. “Okay: for the sake of argument, how so?”

“Distance,” I said.

“Distance?”

“Yeah. It’s like the distance takes some of the personal out of killing. With a maul, or a knife for that matter, you have to stalk, then attack. You see their eyes, you know? You sometimes feel their skin brush against yours.”

“But they have to perish. It doesn’t matter how it’s done.”

“You have to be diligent with a knife, though. With a pistol you just fire away. Sometimes you hit somebody, sometimes you don’t. God directs the bullets according to His plan.”

“You’re so full of shit.” He took a big draw on his cigarette and snubbed it on the sole of his boot.

“No, really.”

“Don’t be so quaterwitted. God doesn’t direct the bullets.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know,” Rick said.

“You college people are all the same: dumb asses with a lot of book sense but not a half-dollar worth of common sense to your name.”

Rick stood and pulled the knife from his sheath. The rest of the group had been singing Onward Christian Soldiers but got quiet when they heard Rick’s blade come out of its sheath.

“Men,” Brother Paul said.

Rick sat down.

“Just a friendly discussion,” I said.

Brother Paul looked at both of us before sitting down. “Let’s be united in our purpose of defeating the enemy.”

Rick put his knife away and sat down. The rest of the patrol stared at him a bit before resuming their song.

“Let’s say you had scope on that pistol,” Rick said later.

“You can’t put a scope on this piece of shit.”

Rick leaned in close to me, and I smelled his stale cigarette breath. “Let’s just say you could.”

“Okay. Let’s just say.”

“You see an apostate off in the woods. You pull out your pistol, take aim, and see him through your scope.”

“Okay.”

“You see his eyes. They’re blue, kind of Caribbean blue, and he’s got neatly parted hair. He looks like a nice guy.”

“Okay,” I said.

“A second before you pull the trigger he looks up and sees you. You can see right into his eyes, see his dismay, that disconcerted look people get right before they die. He’s closer to you now then he has ever been or ever will be.”

“Okay.”

Rick leaned back in his frayed foldaway camp chair. “Do you pull the trigger?”

“Yes I would. That’s my job. But it’s up to God whether he lives or dies.”

“So you would argue that there is a bit more divine intervention in you using a pistol then, say, me using my knife or Allen his maul?”

“I suppose that’s what I’m saying.” I took a sip of cold water.

Rick shook his head. “I can’t buy that argument.”

“Hey, you don’t have to. It’s what I believe.” I took another sip. “Besides, you asked.”

Rick got that look on his face whenever he thinks hard. “So what about those of us who do the Lord’s work in a more hands-on fashion? Is the divine intent a little less?”

“Yes.” I hated arguing with Rick.

“And why is that?”

“Well, I don’t know. It just seems that when your knife or maul or fist is moving it’s more you than God. Distance makes killing easier.”

“Wait a minute,” Brother Paul interrupted. “We don’t kill. Killing is forbidden in the Ten Commandments.”

“You mean the Decalouge,” Rick said.

“Right. The Decalouge. Believers in God are not to murder. That is what that commandment means. We are not killers. We are simply ridding our land of heresy and disbelief.” Brother Paul leaned back in his camp chair. “Like King David. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” I said, noticing that Allen had returned. He was sitting outside his tent reading his Bible and Interpretative Guide.

“I’ve had enough of this conversation.” Brother Paul stood up and kicked out the fire. Sparks flew everywhere, some catching the breeze and lifting up over our heads, over the tree tops, and into the night sky where they got tangled up with the stars before going out.

•

The night was chilly and I was restless. I wanted Mama’s thick quilt on top of me. The ground seemed extra hard and my pillow felt like a rock. Rick was asleep. I watched his chest go up and down and up and down, soft and quiet-like. He had a funny look on his face—maybe you could call it a grin—and I guessed he was dreaming, maybe about his wife, but more likely about all his damn books back home on his shelf. I wondered what his head would look like in my imaginary pistol scope. What would it sound like if a bullet went through his ear? Like a tomato hitting a picture window, a pop than phlatt? Would he twitch? I suppose we’re all electronic creatures. Once, when I was little, Grandpa called me from my room and I ran out to the yard to find him. It was summertime, a couple of weeks after Eric died. Grandpa was at the picnic table, and I watched him dump a five gallon bucket of green water into the rhododendrons. The fishes flopped around in the plants and their mouths stretched for air as he grabbed one of them by the tail and threw it on the table, whacking it on the head with the handle of his knife. The fish went still. Watch this, he said. He tossed his knife in the air and caught it by the handle, and in one smooth move severed the fish’s head. Its tail curled. Do it again, I said. He grabbed another fish from the rhododendrons and did it again. Its tail folded then fell flat. Why does it do that, I asked. Because its got electric in it, he said. I’m unplugging it when I take its head off. He finished off the rest of the fish and fried them for supper in lard. Mama’s cornmeal breading was crispy. Don’t we all have electric in us, even Rick with that stupid look on his face? He sleeps so good.

It was still dark when I gave up trying to sleep and crawled out of my sleeping bag and tiptoed over Rick and went into the woods. The air was even chillier outside the tent. Joshua was asleep even though he was supposed to be keeping watch. He looked like an idiot with his mouth open and a burned-out cigarette between his fingers. I had never snuck out of the camp before; in fact, I don’t think anyone had ever done so, or at least not in our patrol. I’m sure Brother Paul would not have approved of me sneaking off, but there was no rule saying that I couldn’t sneak off for some air, so I figured there was nothing he could do to me.

I had a hard time seeing the trail. The moon wasn’t any where near me, so I stumbled around and made my way toward the sound of rushing water. When I got to the stream, I noticed a fire on the opposite shore with several women sitting around it. One of the women was Leah, and the other two had short hair. I hadn’t seen them before. There were no babies. They all seemed to be laughing, though I couldn’t tell for sure because the stream was so loud. They wore long skirts and loose tops. I hid behind a bush and felt for my gun. How many times had Brother Paul warned me to never leave the camp without my weapon?

The fire looked nice. When I was little, Mama used to take me into the woods every Spring. She’d pour gas on the sticks, toss a kitchen match into the pit, and draw me up close to keep me warm. Sometimes she sang, and always she smoked. Her clothes smelled like grease from the kitchen. The stones around the fire pit were from the river behind Grandpa’s place. One winter we helped him drag the stones from the slushy water out across the crunchy snow to the clearing in the woods. I pulled the sled, tripping through the frozen furrows in the corn field. I don’t know why we had to do that in the winter. Mama didn’t read the Bible to me like most mother’s would have at a fire pit—isn’t that what campfires are for?—and because we didn’t go to church when I was little, we didn’t have an Interpretation Manual. She said that she never felt comfortable reading without one, and Grandpa thought that the church had its hands inside the President’s pants. (He never told that to anyone.) Instead, our big Bible sat on top of the refrigerator and was sometimes used as a coaster to protect the coffee table from water rings. Most of my friends went to big churches. That’s where they got their interpretation manuals. I wondered if the girls were telling Bible stories. Maybe Leah had told them about me. Maybe she had told her husband, though she didn’t seem like the type of girl to marry, in which case maybe she should die because she’s a fornicator.

And then I watched them do the strangest thing. Leah stood up and pulled down her skirt and let it crumple around her ankles before helping the brown-haired girl in the red top out of her skirt. Leah looked good in her underpants, but I didn’t touch myself. They both went into the stream while the third girl sat near the edge of the water. She was holding a little book in her lap along with some thin towels that were practically see-through. Leah put her hand on top of the young woman’s head, pushed her under, and then lifted her up.

“We’ll take care of them later,” Rick said right into my ear, putting his hand on my shoulder.

I jumped.

“I didn’t mean to unnerve you.”

“Why don’t we just leave them alone?”

“You know we can’t do that,” he said.

“Why not? They didn’t do anything to us.”

“But they’re nonconformists,” Rick said. “You know that.”

“But they’re women. There are no men.” We watched Leah and the girl leave the stream. They toweled off and hugged.

“Look at them,” Rick said. “They’re nearly naked out here and you can see right through their underwear. It’s Spring and the air is still bracing. People in their right mind don’t wade into cold streams during the night. And the men are near, you can be sure of that. Don’t be seduced by this foolishness.”

“I don’t think these people are violent.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I just got this feeling.”

Rick laughed. “You have a feeling?”

“Look at them,” I said. They had pulled their skirts on. “They don’t look violent.”

Rick leaned in close to me and whispered, “That doesn’t matter.” We watched Leah fill a bucket with water and pour it over the fire. It hissed and spat and smoke jumped from the wood. They walked back into the forest.

“We’ve probably killed more than they have,” I said.

Rick said, “You heard Brother Paul: we don’t kill. What’s the matter with you? Courage, Pete, courage.”

There was a faint orange glow in the sky, and I could just make out Rick walking in front of me. We crawled back into our bags and didn’t get out until Allen rang the bell for breakfast.

After breakfast I went to get my pack ready for the day’s march.

“No need to do that,” Allen said. “We’re staying put for a while.” He touched his toes. I heard his back pop.

“How long is a while?” I said.

“I don’t know—maybe two days or so. Listen: there are some women near by.” He stood up and rolled his head back and forth then winked at me.

“Women?”

“Young ones.”

“Who said?” I let my pack fall.

“Brother Paul.” Allen tightened his black belt and looked up at the sky. “It’s going to be nice today.”

•

“I suppose you want me to ask for your pardon for giving away your little secret,” Rick said. We were gathering kindling.

“It wasn’t a secret.”

“It looked like a secret to me: you alone in the woods, hiding behind a bush, watching naked girls take a bath.”

“It wasn’t a secret,” I repeated.

“So you were going to mention these female apostates to Brother Paul.” Rick stood up holding three sticks covered in lichens and moss, terrible sticks to start a fire with.

“They’re just women minding their own business.”

“As if that matters. You’re getting soft.” He poked me with one of his sticks. Part of it crumbled onto the green, mossy ground.

“I’m not either.”

“Well, I had to report your findings. I signed an oath.”

I picked up a branch and broke it over my knee. It snapped and echoed up the mountain side. The tree canopy was thin, but I could tell that this forest was thick and green in the summer. The mountain rolled up to the west, and the morning sun shone on the upper ridge. The trees up there were bare, though the trees that we were walking through had little buds on them, and some even had tiny little leaves that had unfurled like a baby’s fingers reaching for its mama. I thought the leaves were kind of cute, but I’ve never told anyone that.

“We leave tonight.” Rick bent and twisted a sapling that was growing near the trail until it ripped. The bark stripped down to the ground and revealed the green wood underneath.

“Will it be late?” I said.

“Brother Paul didn’t say.”

“Maybe right after supper?”

“Probably later than that. In the meantime, you’re to stay with me.”

I looked at Rick. “What do you mean?”

“Circumstances have led me to inform Brother Paul that you may be developing feelings for these women. Now, to be sure, I hastily added that you’d come around, that you’re no softy, that perhaps you’re only missing home, and that I didn’t think it was anything to get too concerned about. He wanted me to keep an eye on you today.”

I punched Rick in the mouth and he dropped his sticks.

“What did you do that for?”

“You’re not my baby sitter,” I said. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need anyone watching over me.”

Rick licked his bloody lip and picked up his loose sticks. “Of course I’m not your baby sitter. Don’t get so upset.”

“I don’t care one way or the other about those women,” I said.

Rick smiled. “Then we have nothing to worry about tonight, do we?” He stood up and I followed him back to the camp.

The warm day followed the sun behind the mountain, and by evening I could see my breath. We sat around the fire drinking coffee, smoking, playing Uno. Allen was carving a stick and tossing the shavings into the fire.

“I say we let Pete go first,” Allen said, “since he’s the one who found the women.”

“I’d have to agree with that,” Rick said, looking at me. “What do you say to that?”

“I suppose I could do that.”

Allen said, “You suppose? What’s that supposed to mean, ‘I suppose’?”

Brother Paul slapped me on the back. “Don’t worry. It will get easier with time. Your conscience will fall into line. It’s hard for everybody at first.”

“But they didn’t do anything to us,” I said.

Rick mimicked my words in a little baby voice. “That’s been your mantra lately, hasn’t it?”

“Mantra?”

“Yes. Like a maxim or catch phrase. Something easy to say that defines who you are.”

“Oh. Like a theme song.”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

“Kind of like the song, ‘Amazing Grace.’”

Allen threw his stick into the fire. “Is that our theme song?”

Joshua said, “I didn’t know we had a theme song.”

Brother Paul put up his hands. “Gentlemen, I don’t think we have a theme song, and frankly, I don’t see how it’s any better that we do. That is not our focus.” He looked at Rick. “Neither are mantras for that matter.”

“Well, anyway, mantras aren’t biblical, are they?” Allen said.

I shrugged.

“I suppose that one could make the argument that the Lord’s Prayer is kind of like a mantra,” Rick said.

Joshua said, “I never thought of that.” He ran his hands through his thick, wavy hair. I imagined that he was the type of guy that chicks liked: tall, wide build, big hands, and nice hair—pretty much everything I’m not.

“Get me a cigarette,” Brother Paul said. Joshua knocked one from the pack into his hand. He lit it for him, and Brother Paul took a big drag and sighed. “It’s not called the Lord’s Mantra; it’s called the Lord’s Prayer. So get this mantra horse shit out of your minds.” He jumped up and went to his tent, and Joshua followed, sitting on the ground outside the zipper. I could see Brother Paul’s shadow: he looked small and kind of hunched over, like he was writing something in a book. No one finished talking about me leading the attack and I didn’t bring it up.

•

It was after midnight when we lined up. We recited the Lord’s Prayer, thanks to Rick, then they stuck me in front of the line with a flashlight. I didn’t know how they expected me to shoot my pistol with a flashlight in one hand. Allen was behind me, and Rick behind him carrying unlighted torches, and everyone else behind him. Brother Paul walked up the line.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You don’t look so fine,” he said. “You look like a man in need of a shit house.”

Allen snickered.

“Or a latrine,” Rick said.

“I’ll be fine,” I said.

“You won’t let us down, Soldier?”

“No sir, I won’t.” I tugged at the cross on my collar. It was pricking my skin.

“Maybe you can earn another one of those tonight,” Brother Paul said, turning to leave.

“Aren’t you coming?” I said.

“No. This job is for you guys to earn your pins.”

We stumbled through the dark woods with my dim flashlight. My feet hurt, and I tried to think of all the things I’d ever killed: the deer I shot when I was fifteen, the countless squirrels, a possum or two, one raccoon, lots of flies, and three goats with a knife. (Kid meat is good.) Oh, and obviously the baby—can’t forget about that. I looked at my feet while we walked. I’d been on the path twice before, yet this didn’t feel right. Maybe it was my light. Maybe it was my thoughts. I held up my hand, stopping the whole line, and I heard Rick draw his knife. I listened for water to give me some sense of where we were.

“You lost?” Allen said.

“Nah. We’re close. Can you hear the stream?”

“I hear it,” Rick said.

“This flashlight sucks,” I said. “The batteries are shot. Hard to see in dim light.”

Rick fell out of line and handed me a torch. He lit it with a lighter. “Much better,” he said.

We wandered up the bank of the stream for a while trying to find a good place to cross, finally choosing a spot where several large stones jutted from the water.

“Now where do we go?” Allen said.

“This way.” I turned right and we followed the water downstream until we came to the fire pit I saw the women using. Allen stooped down and stuck his hand into the gray ashes.

“Well?” Rick drove the torch into the ground.

“Cold.”

“I could have told you that,” I said.

“They haven’t been to this spot since last night,” Allen said, swinging his maul into an old stump. It fell open and sleepy ants tumbled out. Rick immediately squashed a ton of them with the heel of his boot.

“Where to now?” Allen said.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been on this side of the stream.”

“I say we split up,” Joshua said. “I’ll take a group along the stream. You, Allen, and Rick go into the woods.”

“Sounds good,” Allen said.

Rick picked up the torch and found a trail. I followed him and Allen came behind me. The air was cold and the forest quiet. Our footfalls were muffled on the mossy trail.

Rick stopped walking. “Do you smell that?”

“What?” I said.

“Smoke,” Rick said.

“I smell it,” said Allen, raising his maul and sniffing the air.

Rick dropped his torch and stomped on it until the fire went out. In the distance we could see an orange glow jumping off tree trunks.

“If they were smart, they wouldn’t have a fire,” Allen said.

Leah was sitting by the fire when we approached. She wasn’t surprised to see us. “Come get warm by the fire.” Allen looked at Rick. He seemed surprised by her calm.

“Where are your friends?” Allen said.

“I’m the only one here,” she said.

“You lie. Pete said he saw three girls.” Allen went to her tent, looked inside, and called out, “Nothing but a bunch of blankets in here.” I wondered where the baby was. At least we wouldn’t have to kill it.

“I’m going to have a look in the woods,” Allen said. “You guys take care of her.”

“It’s nice to see you, Pete,” Leah said. Her hair wasn’t braided and she held her hands near the fire.

“Likewise.”

“And who is this?”

“That’s Rick. Rick, this is Leah.”

“Nice to meet you, Rick. It’s always nice to see the eyes of the one who’s going to kill you.”

“You’re looking at the wrong guy. That’s his job.” Rick pointed at me. “He’s the one with the pistol.”

“And what is your weapon of choice?”

Rick pulled out his knife. It glinted in the fire light, and I could see his hands shaking.

“Sharp?”

“I always keep it honed.”

“Let me see how sharp it is.” Leah held out her hand.

“I’m not giving you my knife.”

“I want you to cut me.”

Rick laughed, and his wet teeth glimmered in the firelight. “You’re fucking nuts.”

“On my palm.”

Rick looked at me. I didn’t know what Brother Paul would do—we’d never encountered anyone quite like her. I shrugged.

“It won’t hurt,” he said, holding out his knife.

“We’ll see.” Leah wrapped her hand around the blade. “It’s cold.”

“Steel usually is.” Rick jerked the knife away and Leah flinched.

“It didn’t hurt,” she said. She had her eyes shut and she let her hand relax. Blood ran into her lap. “Just a little warm.”

Rick stared at me, then looked at his knife. It wasn’t too bloody.

“What about this hand?” Leah held out her other hand and opened her eyes.

Rick held out his knife, and Leah grasped it.

“No,” I said, but Rick jerked the knife anyway. Leah flinched and this time her fingers went lax. They barely seemed connected.

“How about that? Did that hurt?”

Leah didn’t say anything. She lay back and shut her eyes.

“Did it hurt?” Rick got on his knees and leaned over her. “You apostate bitch, did it hurt?” Rick talked with an edge in his voice. “Answer me before I sunder you.”

She rotated her head slightly.

“Finish her off,” he said.

“No.”

“Jesus! Now is not the time to get all soft on me. I’m pulling rank: do it.”

I pulled out my gun and released the safety and pointed it to her head.

“Do it!”

My hand trembled. I’d never killed a person with a gun.

“What are you waiting for?” Little frothy bubbles of spit filled out the corners of his mouth.

“No.” I lowered my arm.

Rick leaped from his knees and drove his knife into her stomach. He pushed it up with a groan and turned the blade. Leah gasped, and I heard the baby cry.

“You coward! Kill it. Finish the baby off.”

I ran into the tent. Adeline had been sleeping under a bunch of old blankets, wearing an old sweatshirt and diaper. She stopped crying and looked at me when I picked her up. I came out of the tent. Rick’s arms were covered in blood.

“This should be your job,” he said, “but because of your lack of intestinal fortitude...” His voice trailed off and he returned to killing Leah.

I raised my gun and pulled the trigger. Adeline jumped in my arms, and Rick fell on top of Leah. Gray stuff drained from the hole in his head onto Leah’s thigh. I threw my gun down and went into the tent. I found some clothes for Adeline, some food too, and then I held her close and ran into the woods and I didn’t stop until I came to a clearing ten minutes later. I was breathing hard. I sat against a tree and looked up into the sky. A shredded piece of the moon was resting on top of a bunch of pines. I could hear gunshots echo off the mountain. Adeline started to cry.

“Now don’t do that,” I said, bouncing her up and down. “No, no, no!” It’s funny how you talk like a baby to a baby. I dug in my pocket and found a cracker, but she didn’t want it. She was shaking, so I wrapped her up tight and stuffed her under my sweatshirt to keep her warm. She groped and nuzzled against my chest until she found my nipple. It tickled when she began to suck—her lips were so cold!—but at least she wasn’t crying, so I let her do it. I put my head against the tree and shut my eyes and wondered what Eric would think of all this.