Fat Man and Little Boy by Mike Meginnis

beneath the skin. He is dying of what killed the short soldier, which is something in the air, a mystery. Rain shivers on his skin. Death calms the hand.
    The soldier’s legs are weak. He coughs as the husband coughed. He hacks.
    He says, “This isn’t how he dies.” He shoots the husband through throat and face. Blood foams. “This is how he dies.”
    He says, “We will not wait for the Americans to do what we can do ourselves.”
    He says, “This is how I die.”
    He pushes the butt of his rifle into the mud. He kneels before it and slides the barrel past his teeth. Balancing on his left knee, he raises his bare right foot, presses his right knee to the rifle. He puts his toe on the trigger. One round. Flesh and chips of bone. The body falls.
    Little Boy darts up on his feet. He runs away to throw up what’s inside him. Fat Man wipes the rot and mud from his face and shoulders, chest and gut. Little Boy still has the food, but he will come back, and then they can eat. Rain drums on Fat Man as if he were a tarpaulin. Two bodies grow cold nearby. He feels at home here. He looks up at the clouds. He is like the bodies, he thinks, but he is also the home of a terrible hunger. That is the chief difference.
    They hardly notice anymore the rot of the bodies. Busy little white worms tunneling the flesh, other bugs as well—spiders on their faces, flies on their extremities. This time the soft meat of their cheeks will be the first to go, and then their eyes. The skin between their thumbs and forefingers. The pink beneath their nails. The soles of their feet.
    The brother bombs leave them like this. Eat rice from their bag with dirty hands. Open their mouths and tilt their heads back to drink rain.
    Little Boy says, “What did you do to that soldier?”
    Fat Man, incredulous: “What did I do? What did we do.”
    Little Boy, blank: “What did we do?”
    Fat Man doesn’t say. Doesn’t know how. They walk together.
    They will walk for days. They will huddle for warmth. They will say few words. They will be brothers.

OCCUPATION
    Several weeks have passed. Fat Man kneels at the table. Little Boy sits with his legs outstretched beneath it, cash case in his lap. He carries the money now. He still refuses to count what’s left. He eats fish and sticky rice. Fat Man sucks noodles from a black ceramic bowl. They eat quickly, almost frantically, for fear of what will happen to their food if they do not. During recent meals there have been growths inside their dishes: molds, scum, and other rot. They are discussing ways to leave Japan. Little Boy thinks they might steal a fighter plane. His ideas are more and more impractical. Fat Man maintains that they can take a boat. He says that would be easiest.
    American soldiers drink sake and wave their dollars. They tease and pinch the woman who serves them their food. She tucks her chin into her neck and hides her face behind a veil of hair. Fat Man asks her for another bowl of noodles. He waves his dollar too. She takes it as she passes and tucks it in her sleeve. He gulps down the broth.
    â€œHowever we get there, we should decide where we’re going,” says Little Boy. “What do you think of America?”
    â€œWhatever you say,” says Fat Man.
    â€œWhatever I say?”
    â€œIf we go to America, we’ll have to watch the parades.”
    â€œI like parades,” says Little Boy. “Or, I think I do. Little boys like them.”
    â€œBut what if they find us?” says Fat Man.
    Little Boy asks what he means. Fat Man says he means Americans. He means what if they find out. “Bombs aren’t supposed to make people,” he whispers. The server sets a bowl of noodles in front of Fat Man and leaves without acknowledgment. The soldiers are calling her Charlene. They call her to their table; they want more. Fat Man continues, screening his mouth with his hand, “It’s like