Jordan came running into the bunker via the entrance at the rear. “That was amazing, Sarge. Now all we have to do is … blow … the …”
“It’s not fucking here.” Kent bit his lower lip and wiped the blood off the knife with two pinched fingers. “You can bet none of them fucking are. They must have moved them. They set tree trunks in their place to fool our aerial recon.”
“So what does this mean? All this was for nothing? We failed our mission?”
“What is our mission?”
“To land on the beach, to scale the cliffs, and to blow the damn artillery.”
“Our mission is to win the war. So no, all of this wasn’t for nothing.”
A massive explosion sounded outside the bunker. Kent and Jordan looked to each other then ran back outside. Smoke assaulted them there; dust was hanging in the air. They couldn't see more than a foot in front of them.
Kent tried to wave some away. Jordan was coughing as he said, “What the hell was that? I can’t see shit.”
“I have no idea, it didn’t sound like it came from our ships.” Kent pressed forward, still waving his hand, trying to clear a path.
Clunk. His foot had hit something.
He looked down to the ground. “I think this is what hit.”
Jordan joined him. “What is it? A shell that hasn’t gone off?”
“It doesn’t look like any shell I’ve ever seen.” Kent knelt down. The shiny metal-looking object was ploughed into the dirt. “I think we’re only seeing the top. It looks like the rest is dug into the earth.” Kent reached his hand out to touch it.
Jordan grabbed it and stopped him. “Be careful.”
Kent just shook his hand free and continued. He quickly touched it with the tips of his fingers. He snapped them away even quicker. “Son of a bitch!”
“What’s wrong, is it hot?”
“No, it’s cold. Freezing.”
“I don’t like this, what if it’s a Nazi weapon. It could have given you a disease or something. You might be infected.”
“I don’t think it’s German.”
“It isn’t one of ours. We don’t have anything like that thing. What’s it even made of?”
“I don’t think it’s one of ours either.”
“If it isn’t the Germans, if it isn’t ours, whose the hell is it, the Brits?”
“Nope. Not the Brits.”
“It’s got to be somebody’s.”
“I think it might be.”
“Whose then?”
“I don’t think it’s anybody’s whose fighting in this war.”
“You’re starting to scare me.”
“You know those magazines you read?”
“The ones you tell me I read too many of?”
“Yeah, those.”
“Oh shit, you’re not thinking …”
“I’m thinking that it doesn’t belong to any human army.”
JUNE
I pulled the covers over my pillows. I’d arranged them so they resembled the shape of my body the best I could. It didn’t look too convincing with the light on, but once I’d turned it off, if my dad did choose to have a quick look through my bedroom door, I was hoping they would be a good enough disguise to convince him I was still in bed.
I went to my old and rickety chest of drawers and removed the two tickets I’d hidden under my panties and in a pair of socks. I placed them halfway down the front of the panties I was wearing, pulled the belt on my jeans as tight as it would go, so they didn’t slip out, and then I fixed my long black Nirvana t-shirt over the top, in case I was caught during my escape, the tickets would have definitely increased the level of the chastisement I’d receive.
I knelt down next to my bed and removed a brown paper bag I had placed inside a pillowcase. I couldn't risk opening it up to check if everything was there, I couldn't hazard making even that small amount of noise, stealth was needed.
There was no reason that what I’d hidden inside shouldn’t have been there, unless my little brother had been snooping through my room again. I’d given him a pretty good dead-arm last time he’d done it with my most powerful punch to date, so I was confident he’d got the message not to mess with my belongings.
The reason I couldn’t risk opening it, and making that little-bitty bit of noise, was because of who was currently asleep in the living room, in his tattered armchair, a can of beer in one hand, the TV remote in the other, and countless stains on his white vest.
My dad. The enemy.
He spent most of his time in that god-awful chair. Even more so since he’d been fired from his job at the butchers for showing up late and drunk too many times. He tended to always fall asleep at the same time every night, once he’d downed enough alcohol. That was always the highlight of my day, and my brother’s. It gave us a little respite from his insidious ways.
He had a horrible temper. I’d never seen anyone else get as angry as he did over the smallest things. He’d throw stuff, shout horrible words right in our faces, close enough to be able to feel his spit on our skin, jab his finger in my chest when he gave orders or, as he called it, laid down the law. He’d once grabbed me by my hair and pulled me all the way down the hallway and into my bedroom before locking me in.
I think we were the only kids on our whole block, the whole city, or possibly the whole country, that had a lock on the outside of their doors. The window in my room had a lock too, he always had the key hidden somewhere I couldn’t find it, that’s why I’d had to wait for him to go asleep to be able to sneak out, that possible route was a no go.
The front door was always locked too, it was a prison disguised as a home, but I knew where he hid the spare key for that means of escape. I’d never risked stealing it before; I didn’t want to waste the opportunity on something that wasn’t that important. On that night, it was worth the risk, worth the possible beating I’d get for such a betrayal.
In order to get out of our crappy neighborhood I’d dropped out of college and taken a job at a comic book store. Okay, it wasn’t anything fancy, but I didn’t have any good qualifications. Even with the low wage I got, I had to give my dad most of it, but the rest I’d been saving, hiding from his grubby liquor-smelling fingers, in my friend’s house, far away from his reach and with someone I trusted. To be fair, I trusted random strangers more than I trusted him.
My mom had made the mistake of trusting him. She’d done so for way too long. She’d put up with the same abuse we were taking, but also his adulteress ways. He’d been fucking one of our neighbors for over six months when she found out. I’m not sure how she found out, but I am sure that was the last straw for her. She left him after that. She left us too, though.
At first I was mad at her for doing that. My only small slice of normality and security, gone. I fell into a heavy depression because of it. I started to cut myself. Not deep, just enough to feel something different every once in awhile. Always in places I could hide with my clothes. I wasn’t allowed to show much skin anyway, one of his rules, so it was easy to conceal the lacerations.
I’d never read comics before working at the comic book store, but during the down time, I’d started to devour every type of superhero comic I could get my hands on. They were an escape. A way to forget my horrible existence and that dick I had as a dad. I’d become a fan girl, a geek. I guess it was inevitable really.
I was an introvert, wore glasses and was slightly overweight. I wasn’t fat, but I was big enough during my short stint at college to get bullied. I had an abusive dad and my mom had abandoned me. I think they’re some of the prerequisites for being a comic nerd.
If it wasn’t for the comics, and the music I was able to download illegally via our crappy Internet connection, I think I’d have continued to cut myself for longer than I did.
There was a comic convention happening on that night. My friend at the store had begged me to go with him, the same friend whose house I used as a bank. I’d turned the offer down at first, knowing there was no chance my dad would allow me to attend. We had a curfew in our house. If you broke it, you were punished. Everything was about control.
Our time on the net was even monitored. I’d had to clear the history every time I downloaded music he didn’t approve of, which was anything he deemed as rebellious, and that was pretty much all I listened too. I’d even had to lie to him about my Nirvana t-shirt. I said it was a visual representation of my interest in
Buddhism, which he approved of. He thought if I were more religious it would make me more subservient, more willing to do his bidding, and more forgiving of his transgressions.
A major factor in my decision to risk the repercussions of breaking his rules with the use of the spare key was the fact that sneaking out to go to the comic book convention was pretty small in comparison to what I planned to do in a few months. That birthday was going to be the start of a new life for me. It was the reason I’d taken the job and was saving money.
I was going to run away. I was going to escape the prison of my home and start a new life. Free from rules. Free from abuse. I wished I could take my brother with me, but he was too young and it was too risky, but I’d return once I had enough cash, that was my plan anyway. I think it was my mom’s too, and she never came back for us, but I wasn’t like her. I wasn’t like any member of my family. Even if I was, I’d have considered it an insult and denied it.
I placed the paper bag in my backpack, being as careful as possible to make it a silent maneuver. I felt like a ninja about to embark on a mission in ancient Japan, but without the black pajamas and mask, although I was wearing all black. Not for camouflage reasons, it was just slimming. I put the backpack over both shoulders and fastened it tight, I didn’t want it to slide or slip down. I needed to be as noiseless as possible.
My door wasn’t locked, I’d been being extra good for a few weeks in preparation, so it was just a case of making sure I could open it silently. Before I placed my hand on the handle I turned off my bedroom light and stared at my bed, wondering again if the pillows were enough to fool my dad if he did come to check on me. They looked better than they did with the light on, but they weren’t great. But they had to do.
I wrapped both of my hands around the handle and rose up onto my tiptoes. I lifted the door up as much as the hinges would allow. I knew a trick for making sure the door didn’t make any unnecessary squeaks. I’d practiced the tactic a few times on previous nights. It was a well-planned operation to get to the comic book convention.
I started to slowly walk backward, keeping the door lifted. It made a small clicking noise as the opening appeared for the first time. I stopped in that position, held my breath, and waited to see if anyone had heard. My brother’s bedroom was next to mine, and the walls in our crappy apartment were paper-thin, so he was my primary concern at that point; I didn’t want him to come and investigate the noise. Thankfully he didn’t.
The more I walked backward, the more light shone in my room, and the louder the sound of the TV got. I could hear a familiar voice. It was the grating sound of the announcer on the wrestling show my dad watched. Someone had just been suplexed, and judging from the volume of the announcer’s screams, and the high-pitched tone, it was all very exciting.
Once I was sure there was enough of a gap for me and my backpack to fit through, I let the heels of my feet touch the floor again. I shut my eyes as I removed my hands from the handle, praying a loud creak wouldn’t escape when the door dropped back down to its normal level. It didn’t.
I swallowed, could feel sweat starting to run down the sides of my upper body from my freshly-shaved pits, and took another deep breath. It had to be a big intake of air; I wouldn’t be able to gamble breathing for a while soon after. I sidestepped out of my room and into the hall.
My walk down the hallway was as tense as the door opening had been. I knew I had to stay to the right, hug the wall, keeping low enough to not knock the picture frames off with my backpack, as the squeaking floorboards were on the other side. Again trials of my escape had alerted me to this matter ahead of time.
I peeked my head around the wall at the end of the hallway and into the living room. My dad was in his chair, asleep, obvious from his violent snoring. He even sounded angry when he was in slumber. His back was to the hallway, which made the next part a little easier, but no less nerve-racking.
I lowered myself to my hands and knees and started to crawl toward the rear of his chair. Every little movement I made making my heart beat faster. I made sure to not even blink; I did anything that I thought would limit the amount of noise I made. That might seem like I was being a little too paranoid, but if you’d have seen the evil in his eyes when he screamed in my face, you’d understand why I was being so cautious.
Once I was within reaching distance of his chair, I stretched out my legs, so my stomach was flat to the floor. Then I did the same with my arms, until my breasts rested on it too. I reached under his chair with my right hand and swept the floor with it, left to right, until I got my fingers on the key.
I slid the key out, the little scraping noise it made as I did making the butterflies in my stomach do flip-flops and my heart race up into my throat. I closed my eyes and prayed again.
Then I heard my brother’s bedroom door open. I almost shit. I started to choke on my heart. I needed to cough. My mouth was so dry it was painful. It felt like a nail was stuck in my windpipe, at an awkward angle, no less.