The Night Children by Alexander Gordon Smith Page B

turned.
    Please, sir, his face said. Tell me again, because it’s too quiet here, just talk to me.
    “Yeah, sure I do,” Donnie said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a photo. “Betty, she’s a looker, right? And waiting for me.”
    The Ingrid Bergman double that stared back from the photo was called Betty, although she wasn’t his sweetheart. She was his next-door neighbor back in Lafayette and they’d been friends since before they could walk. But everyone needed somebody to take to the front with them, and when he’d asked her for a photo to show the boys she’d been more than happy to pose as his beloved. Betty. Sweet Betty Marmalade, he’d called her when they were growing up. He couldn’t remember why.
    “She’s real pretty,” Eddie said, his teeth chattering. “Wish I had a girl like that to keep me warm at night.”
    “Plenty of time,” Donnie said, clapping an arm down on the kid’s shoulder and feeling the icy air nudge its way into his coat. “You’ll be a hero when you get home, all the girls will want a piece of Eddie Argento. You’ll need to keep hold of your rifle to beat them back.”
    Eddie giggled, nudging his helmet up.
    “You think?”
    “I know, kiddo,” Donnie said. “I know.”
    “Much longer?” Eddie asked, and Donnie thought he was talking about the war until the kid nodded into the trees. Henry was up there, on point. He was a scout, and a good one. He’d been the guy to suggest going after Cuddy and his squad when they didn’t radio in on their first night. This time there hadn’t been a call for volunteers, their platoon sergeant had just picked the men who happened to be sitting in the same hole—Donnie, Eddie and Mike—to go with him.
    “Not sure,” Donnie said. “No way of telling how far they got.” They had been supposed to cut out and around, flank any Nazi lookout posts along the front, then sweep in when they got to the village. That meant moving pretty far north before heading east. “Henry’ll know, he’ll find them.”
    And right then he knew that he and Eddie were thinking exactly the same thing. They were hoping that they wouldn’t find them, because then they’d find out what happened to them. And when a squad didn’t radio in when it was supposed to, didn’t make contact for a whole twenty-four hours, that could only be bad news.
    They stumbled along, leaving a trail of ragged breaths behind them. And Christ was it quiet now, no wind to blow the pines, no creatures chattering, not even the distant thunder from the front. The forest was gripped by a profound, deafening silence—as if it were holding its breath, as if it were watching them go. How old is it here? Donnie wondered. How many centuries have these trees stood sentinel? He had never in his life felt so insubstantial, so fleeting, as here among these voiceless methuselahs, this ancient and unforgiving place. It would swallow them all whole as punishment for their trespass, without making a single sound—the way a shark swallows a fish whole in the deep, dark ocean. Nobody would ever know. Is that what happened to Cuddy’s squad? Not shot, not captured, just devoured in an instant as the snow and the dirt opened up beneath them then closed over their heads. Here one second, gone the next, and trapped for all eternity.
    The forest watched them walk. The lunatic moon grinned down at them. And it was all he could do not to scream.

0011
    Donnie saw Henry signaling up ahead and instinctively ducked down, fumbling for the rifle looped over his shoulder. Eddie crashed to a heap beside him, swearing under his breath as he reached for his own weapon.
    Henry was a hundred yards away, crouched against a shallow bank, just a smudge of green against the dirty snow. His hand was raised, palm out, which meant he’d spotted something in front of him. Donnie checked his watch, blowing frost from the glass face to see that it was just after midnight. They’d been walking for nearly three hours now, which put them roughly nine miles off the