stands with his firearm drawn, holding it outstretched, aimed at the poor boy’s forehead as he stumbles on through the long grass toward us.
“It’s a trap,” James cries. “There’s thousands—tens of thousands of them in the next valley.”
He’s yelling at Marge, making eye contact with her and her only. It’s as though the rest of us don’t exist.
Ferguson cocks his pistol, pulling back on the hammer. The sound of the metal ratchet clicking slowly within the gun is painfully ominous.
“We didn’t stand a chance,” James says, kicking awkwardly at the grass as he walks. Dark veins bulge on his neck. His arms twitch.
Marge raises her hand, signaling for Ferguson not to fire. For his part, Ferguson stands as still and erect as a statue. His outstretched arm threatens death in an instant.
James glances at Ferguson, but he doesn’t seem to see the gun. He mouths the words, “I’m sorry.”
My heart sinks.
David and Jane are dead.
If Ferguson feels any emotion at the loss of his adopted son, he doesn’t show it. I’m expecting at least a flicker, a twitch of heartache to show on his face but he doesn’t even blink. His face is set like stone.
James lumbers on, struggling to walk. Spasms ripple through the young man as the transformation seizes his body.
“You’ve got to run. Flee while there’s still time.”
He falls to his knees in the grass and stares down at his trembling hands. Blood drips from his fingers. Slowly, his eyes look up, pleading with Marge. There’s an unspoken cry for compassion, for mercy. Intelligence shines from behind dark pupils. I can see the anguish in his soul. He can’t understand why this has happened to him, but there is no reason. He’s done nothing wrong. Time and chance have condemned his courage when cowardice would have seen him live.
Marge speaks softly, saying, “You’ve done well, James. Your service will be remembered.”
“Thank you,” he replies with tears streaming down his cheeks.
Marge lowers her hand and Ferguson fires. The shot is sudden—a thunderclap of violence. Deep red blood explodes from the back of the boy’s head. I jump. I want to scream at Marge, and yet I don’t. But why? Is it because it’s too late to make a difference? Am I also resigned to the bitter, brutal choices that have to be made? Am I afraid of her authority? Perhaps it’s all of these in one form or another.
I feel sick.
Such heroism demands more than summary execution. Is there nothing we could have done for him? What about my father? Marge held on when he was past hope.
We could get more tablets. We could ride back into town and retrieve more boxes. But I know this is the desperation of a young mind. I hate to admit it, but Dad’s right. As much as it takes courage to change, it takes even more to accept this cruel, harsh, inhuman world.
I hate Marge.
I hate Ferguson.
Bile rises in the back of my throat.
I hate myself.
I hate Zee.
I hate all Zee has made of us.
Seeing James lying on the brilliant green grass as dark red blood runs out from the back of his head, I can’t help but cry. There should be hope. Life should not be so harsh. Death should not be so final, so abrupt.
Marge walks off through the lush grass. Ferguson points at James, telling a couple of the men to put his body with the rest.
Anger boils within me.
I cannot be silent.
“Noooooo!” I yell, clenching my fists and directing my voice at Marge.
She stops walking but doesn’t turn back to face me.
“You lied,” I cry. “His body is still warm and you’ve already forgotten about him.”
Slowly, she turns to face me. Her face is flushed with anger. Ferguson stands by her side and finally I see the truth. I’ve always seen Marge as this kind, tender woman thrust into a role she hates, desperately trying to hold us all together, but now I see past the facade. She has ice in her veins, not blood. Even Ferguson pales next to her. He’s nothing more than an attack dog.
“It’s a trap,” James cries. “There’s thousands—tens of thousands of them in the next valley.”
He’s yelling at Marge, making eye contact with her and her only. It’s as though the rest of us don’t exist.
Ferguson cocks his pistol, pulling back on the hammer. The sound of the metal ratchet clicking slowly within the gun is painfully ominous.
“We didn’t stand a chance,” James says, kicking awkwardly at the grass as he walks. Dark veins bulge on his neck. His arms twitch.
Marge raises her hand, signaling for Ferguson not to fire. For his part, Ferguson stands as still and erect as a statue. His outstretched arm threatens death in an instant.
James glances at Ferguson, but he doesn’t seem to see the gun. He mouths the words, “I’m sorry.”
My heart sinks.
David and Jane are dead.
If Ferguson feels any emotion at the loss of his adopted son, he doesn’t show it. I’m expecting at least a flicker, a twitch of heartache to show on his face but he doesn’t even blink. His face is set like stone.
James lumbers on, struggling to walk. Spasms ripple through the young man as the transformation seizes his body.
“You’ve got to run. Flee while there’s still time.”
He falls to his knees in the grass and stares down at his trembling hands. Blood drips from his fingers. Slowly, his eyes look up, pleading with Marge. There’s an unspoken cry for compassion, for mercy. Intelligence shines from behind dark pupils. I can see the anguish in his soul. He can’t understand why this has happened to him, but there is no reason. He’s done nothing wrong. Time and chance have condemned his courage when cowardice would have seen him live.
Marge speaks softly, saying, “You’ve done well, James. Your service will be remembered.”
“Thank you,” he replies with tears streaming down his cheeks.
Marge lowers her hand and Ferguson fires. The shot is sudden—a thunderclap of violence. Deep red blood explodes from the back of the boy’s head. I jump. I want to scream at Marge, and yet I don’t. But why? Is it because it’s too late to make a difference? Am I also resigned to the bitter, brutal choices that have to be made? Am I afraid of her authority? Perhaps it’s all of these in one form or another.
I feel sick.
Such heroism demands more than summary execution. Is there nothing we could have done for him? What about my father? Marge held on when he was past hope.
We could get more tablets. We could ride back into town and retrieve more boxes. But I know this is the desperation of a young mind. I hate to admit it, but Dad’s right. As much as it takes courage to change, it takes even more to accept this cruel, harsh, inhuman world.
I hate Marge.
I hate Ferguson.
Bile rises in the back of my throat.
I hate myself.
I hate Zee.
I hate all Zee has made of us.
Seeing James lying on the brilliant green grass as dark red blood runs out from the back of his head, I can’t help but cry. There should be hope. Life should not be so harsh. Death should not be so final, so abrupt.
Marge walks off through the lush grass. Ferguson points at James, telling a couple of the men to put his body with the rest.
Anger boils within me.
I cannot be silent.
“Noooooo!” I yell, clenching my fists and directing my voice at Marge.
She stops walking but doesn’t turn back to face me.
“You lied,” I cry. “His body is still warm and you’ve already forgotten about him.”
Slowly, she turns to face me. Her face is flushed with anger. Ferguson stands by her side and finally I see the truth. I’ve always seen Marge as this kind, tender woman thrust into a role she hates, desperately trying to hold us all together, but now I see past the facade. She has ice in her veins, not blood. Even Ferguson pales next to her. He’s nothing more than an attack dog.
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