The Lost War by Karl Gallagher (novel24 .txt) 📗

“Not a worry for today. Gentlemen, thank you. Please rest for two days and then resume your normal duties. We’ll do another of these in a few weeks.”

***

Goldenrod punched Newman in the chest. “You’re late,” she said.

“We took the scenic route.” He pulled her into a kiss. There were no words for a few minutes. Fortunately, they had the Applesmile pavilion to themselves.

She broke off the clinch.

“Right. Do I need a bath?” Newman still grinned.

“No. Well, yes. But—I guess the Autocrat didn’t tell you the news.”

“What news?”

Goldenrod took a deep breath. “Strongarm is dead.”

“What? How? I thought he was staying in camp.”

“He was. He . . .” Another breath. “He killed himself.”

The chairs were all outside. Newman sat down on the rug. “I knew he’d been beaten hard enough to be left for dead, and it broke him, but he seemed stable. Why?”

“It was worse than that.” Goldenrod relayed the announcement Burnout made of rape, parasitic infection, and unsuccessful treatments.

“Damn. Just . . . damn.” Newman stared at the wall, face tense. “Did they have the funeral already?”

“Day before yesterday. Lord Pulpit did well by him. I can take you to his grave.”

“Yeah. I’d like to pay my respects.”

The graveyard was on the downstream side of the camp. They took the path down the bluff slowly, not wanting to catch up to the four young men carrying a blue plastic tank from one of the portapotties. The path was much improved. Stones and split logs provided traction through the slippery spots. In some places it was even wide enough for them to walk side by side.

Strongarm’s grave was bare dirt. The others were all covered in weeds. The oldest graves had some growths a couple of feet tall. Their wilted flowers had kept them from being cut down by visiting friends.

Only Strongarm had a visitor now. Foxglove knelt by the grave. Tears cut lines through the dirt on her face.

“Again?” muttered Goldenrod, barely loud enough for Newman to hear her.

Newman studied the markers on the other graves. Round pieces of wood two or three feet tall were carved with names and decorations. Some had Celtic knotwork, others animals or weapons. Berry juice stained the wood to highlight the work.

There was no marker on the new grave. Well, that kind of work took time.

Goldenrod addressed Foxglove in a gentle tone. “How are you holding up?”

“Eh.”

Newman sat cross-legged at the foot of the grave. If he’d been alone he would have spoken aloud. Instead he hoped somewhere Strongarm could hear his thoughts.

Thank you, Strongarm, for welcoming the new guy. Thank you for sharing your joys and opportunities with me. Thank you for not being angry when I beat you at something. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed me to be to let me help you with . . . that.

His gut twinged as he imagined the parasites Strongarm suffered from. I don’t know how long I could have stood it.

Then he sat and stared at the grave.

Foxglove broke the silence. “I was so angry at him. We had something. He was still immature, but we were building something together. Then he got hurt and . . . it stopped. Lots of ‘I’m still too sore.’ And then avoiding me. And . . . and I didn’t push because I have my pride.”

She ripped a handful of grass up and threw it at the grave. “Damn it, why couldn’t he tell me?”

Goldenrod put a hand on Foxglove’s shoulder. “He was probably afraid you’d freak out.”

“Well, yeah, it was freaky shit. But I’d get past it. I could’ve helped him. At least held his hand.”

Newman said, “Men don’t like admitting weakness. I ran around for hours with a sore ankle because it was my first patrol and I didn’t want the guys thinking I was the kind of doofus who’d sprain an ankle in combat. Then we got back in the track and blood came out of the top of my boot and I realized I’d caught some shrapnel.”

Goldenrod was giving him a strange look. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve told that story.

After a minute to digest that Foxglove demanded, “If guys get to be so private about stuff why is Burnout spreading his business around? She told everybody everything.”

“Because suicide is contagious.” Newman’s voice was firmer this time. “If people think he just gave up because it sucks here it’s that much easier for the next guy to decide, ‘hell with it, I’m checking out.’ And we can’t spare anyone. Now—no matter how bad it sucks he’s not being eaten alive by worms. And the next one the orcs rape knows to start treatment right away.”

***

Autocrat Sharpquill assigned workers to haul fish from the weir and spear slow-learning cuttlefish. Ostensibly to save Goldenrod from the manual labor, it let him control distribution. She’d retained the right to take a few fish each day.

Today she’d brought Redinkle along to help carry. They were commiserating about Foxglove’s latest breakdown as they walked back to the bluff.

“Isn’t that your garden?” asked Redinkle.

“Hmmm? Oh, the vineroot planting. Yeah.”

“I thought you’d been spending more time on it.”

“Not since I started the weir. Root vegetables don’t take much work. Let’s see how they’re growing.”

They ambled over to the patch she’d hoed out of the flood plain.

Vines had sprouted from the chunks of vineroot Goldenrod had planted four months before. Most were twice as long as when she last checked on them. The rest were failing, the leaves wrinkled and brown at the edges.

“Oh, crap.” Goldenrod nudged one of the dying vines with her toe.

A furry head poked out of the ground. She jerked her foot back as yellow teeth snapped at her. The sudden motion