Up or Out. Short Story By A. Byss
Up or Out
By A. Byss
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In the dark, Sheba the Queen of Cups held a finger to her lips to shush Private Bellamy. Ruby wine sloshed in her goblet, threatening to drip on her loose fitting robes. He always wondered if they were secretly bedsheets. She was so seductive, so beautiful, and yet so unbelievably useless.
At least the trio of fives gave him a crack at winning.
Over the candlelight across from him, Nagel gazed at his own hand, a lit cigarette in his mouth. He reached down and drew a grenade from his belt, setting that into the pot. A couple of shotgun shells jingled and a cigarette pack fell over, but his raise was more than enough.
Bellamy’s attention went to the skittish Lapine, and never understood why the bespectacled bundle of nerves bothered to play. The anxious fellow chewed his lip, easier to read than a picture book. A moment later, he placed his cards face down on the table. His chair creaked as he stood and called it a night.
Just two to go, Bellamy thought as his focus shifted to Rucker.
The fat man sniffled, his acne-scarred cheeks quivering as he tapped a rifle round against the old wheel they’d turned into a gaming table. More than once, Bellamy thought he had figured out his tells, winning small pots against Rucker’s bluffs.
Slowly, he slid a few coffee tins forward into the pile.
“Mmm,” Nagel said. “I could use a cup of that now.”
“And I’d love a glass of gorzalka if you could spare it.” Rucker’s deep bass made the air tremble.
“Wouldn’t we all,” Bellamy muttered.
The others chuckled, before Rucker pointed a thick finger his way. “Up or out.”
“Oh, I’m calling.” Bellamy grinned, trying to wear his wickedness. His fingers slipped into his satchel, rooting about until they found the curves and smooth texture of a grabenwurst. Rucker’s eyes widened as the sausage was added to the prize pot.
Nagel drew a sharp breath through his nostrils and laid down his hand. A pair of Vassals—the hanged Untermann of Swords, the racked Count of Coins.
“Not bad, not bad,” Bellamy added confidently, laying his trump hand. In the candlelight, Sheba became a skeleton. But for lack of a warm lady, he would settle for the pot.
“Too hasty, friendo,” the fat man replied.
Bellamy’s grin vanished as Rucker laid out twin Kings and a trio of fours, a full court. “Fuck me!”
“Too late to offer that,” Nagel snapped, presenting the winner with a middle finger as he stood. He was always a sore loser.
With Nagel’s departure, only the two of them sat in the old barn. Rucker sniffed as he studied Bellamy. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna beg for your cigarettes back.”
Bellamy smirked. He had several packs left, a little perk after a shift of body disposal. “Nah, but maybe for that sausage. Getting sick of this game though.”
“Did Alfaro twist your arm to make you join or something?” Rucker grinned, earning a chuckle in reply.
“Only joined ‘cause he was desperate for one more player.” And was first to go out, Bellamy didn’t add. “But I hoped someone would bet cold ash. Close to earning corporeal.”
“The last time someone staked ash, the game ended in a knife fight,” Rucked explained. “MPs showed up and threw three of us into the stockade. After taking the pot for themselves, of course. You not gettin’ enough action out there?”
Bellamy shook his head. “The sergeant makes us split all earned ash equally. I’m so close but it’s taking forever and I’d rather have my promotion before the next deployment.”
“What about visiting the shrine?”
“Of Death Wishes?” The private curled his toes inside his boot, suppressing a shudder. He hated that place, the way it seemed to whisper all around, but he couldn’t show cowardice before the fat man. “I hear almost any… request, I’d accept would go off base.”
Rucker stayed silent for a long moment. When he next spoke, his lips smacked with moisture. “Maybe we could help each other out. Got a proposition from someone, and I might need an assistant. Just a little job that might net you enough to make corporal.”
The private narrowed an eye suspiciously. “What’s the risk? Are we going AWOL?”
“Doubt it,” Rucker replied, his nose wrinkling as he snorted, turned and spat into the dirt flooring. “Maybe get stockade time, maybe get flogged, but only if we’re caught.”
Bellamy leaned back, considering this. Punishment might delay his promotion, even if he had the ash to pay for advancement, but how long? Another tour of the trenches? By then, he’d have enough anyway. At a glance, he had nothing to lose and everything to win. “What’re the details?”
“Dunno yet. Meet me at the church in an hour and we’ll get the dope from Father Zanolini together. Bring your lockpicks just in case.”
“Can I turn it down if I don’t like it?”
“More for me then,” the fat man said with a shrug. “But if you fold, keep it to yourself, alright? You rat me out, you can forget coming to these games no more.”
“Hey hey,” Bellamy gestured for him to take it easy. “I owe you, remember? That time you tossed back that grenade?”
Rucker chuckled. “Forgot. That was ages ago.”
“I ain’t no rat. And talk is just talk, so no harm in hearing our good father out.”
“Attaboy.” The cart wheel-turned-table creaked as Rucker pressed its surface to stand, his log seat shuffling dirt, pushed back by his huge hamstrings. He gathered his winnings and tucked them into his pockets, finishing with a tip of his hat. “See ya in an hour.”
“Ciao.” Alone, Bellamy drew a cigarette from his breastpocket and lit it on the candle wick. His lungs yearned for the smoke, acrid air filling his chest and throttling his veins. His pulse faintly quickened, his heart slightly squeezed before that cathartic release came, and the world itself took a step back.
And a step back was what Bellamy needed. Corporal was the first rung that led out of the trenches. Up and up, to sergeant or a commission. Then cajole his way into a staff position, logistics or supply, oiling the gears of war instead of being fed into them.
But for now, he was what he was. A bottom of the barrel private among the Loyalists, one rank above the hungry rats feasted on the dead. He flicked the spent cigarette, sparks and dying embers spinning into a corner, as the dark air closed in again. Time to get his tools and get to work.
###
“I hate coming here,” Bellamy grumbled, staring at the church’s double doors.
“Same,” Rucker admitted as he scratched his wide ribs. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The doors moaned like a dying man’s final gasp as they entered. The chamber’s rear was littered with broken pews, while those closer to the sanctuary were huddled about unevenly. A shaft of dull light speared from a broken window pane, highlighting a mural that ran the length of the aisle walls. Desiccated men shambled forth, wrists bound by an endless length of barbed wire, dragged to the waiting warfront and into the hungering maw of moloch.
“Father Zanolini?” Rucker announced, his powerful voice booming over the stone and plaster.
“Back here,” someone replied distantly from behind the sanctuary.
Bellamy swallowed as he followed Rucker to the altar. The centerpiece was a massive golden artillery shell, upon which was carved a praying woman who glittered in the light of a dozen oozing candles. He was no epitome of faith, yet even now he paused to add just a pinch of ash from his purse into the bloodstained bowl at the sanctuary’s base. “Smite me not for my trespasses…”
Rucker eyed him, and paused. “You cry about needing enough for a promotion, then waste your ash on that?”
“Do you want me to take it back then?” Bellamy lobbed in reply with a hint of sarcasm.
The fat man pursed his lips, his scarred cheeks thickening, before he turned away. So even he has his limits, the private thought.
Behind the altar, they found a trap door. The ladder leading below groaned dangerously under Rucker’s boots, and Bellamy waited for his partner to descend before climbing down himself. The pair stood in a dark stone tunnel, and followed the light of a lantern which hung over a robed man, who held a knife slick with black blood. Behind the priest laid a body on a slab, the shirt removed, and the skin peeled away in a vivid pink flap.
Only once before had Bellamy seen Zanolini without his mask, and witnessing his visage again was no easier. The ancient man’s gray skin was crusty, a patch of scars over his right brow. But it was his eyes that drew the most attention, as they shined of gold over the irises. Shining dribbles even ran down his cheeks, transforming his wrinkles into spiderwebs of lines that glittered in the gloom.
“Do you always prepare the dead like that when no one’s looking?” Rucker asked, his voice echoing against the stone walls.
“I think a-not,” Father Zanolini replied in his strange accent, drawing a heavy sheet over the corpse. “On occasion, some of you do something interesting. Something worthy ah, more than the sacrificial pyre. I see you brought a friend today.”
“He’s aiming for the top, so I wouldn’t mind him owing me a favor or five.”
Ash Father Zanolini chuckled. “I don’t mind. If you get caught, it’s on you though. They’ll never touch the clergy.”
“That’s fine,” Bellamy said. “But I might not do the job if I don’t like what I hear.”
“So the risk is all on you, Rucker,” Zanolini leaned against the slab, a wrinkled grin forming on his decrepit, turtle-like lips.
“Oh, that’s fine,” Rucker said whimsically. “Cause the split’s 70/30.”
“What!” Bellamy shot back, holding up a palm. “I didn’t agree to that.”
“Show him the payment, Father.”
The ancient man sneered, his countenance creasing along a thousand lines as he leaned to the side and drew a fat purse that filled his entire palm. He set the pouch on the bowl of a weighing scale resting on a shelf, a faint cloud of dust escaping it. Zanolini then gathered a few heavy weights and counter balanced the contents at one and a half pounds.
The private stared in awe. His meager cut of ash was still more than he had now. More than enough to secure his promotion, with a down payment towards sergeant.
“I’ll tell you what,” Rucker said, wearing a smirk. “We’ll round your share to a third, and we’ll call the difference a, heh, a recruitment fee.”
Zanolini nodded. “You do this a-job for me, and I’ll have more for you. There’s always more work, I guarantee.”
Bellamy crunched the numbers. Suddenly, he could see the slashes of sergeant turning into chevrons. Maybe even an officer’s bar. After all, it was impossible to earn ash without getting one’s hands dirty. “Alright, alright fair. Just this once though.”
Rucker nodded, glancing at Zanolini. “Alright Father, what’s the job?”
The ancient man sucked his teeth, with a hissing that caused Bellamy’s skin to crawl. “A seminarian. So close, so close to being a deacon. As part of his training though, he went out to the a-trenches. Quick with the word but slow on his feet, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now he’ll rest in several places for all time.”
“I really hope you’re not about to have us pick up some litter,” the fat man almost sang. Bellamy stared at his partner, cold running down his neck.
“Very fucking funny.” Zanolini grit his yellow, disgusting teeth. “His censer. It came back. But not to me.”
“Wait,” Bellamy interrupted. “The Major didn’t return it to the Church?”
“Your officers will return our tools, eventually. Sometimes they like to umm,” Zanolini spun his finger around, trying to recall the word. “Red tape, you know what I mean. So, I go complain and they tell me ‘Sure, sure Father! Is no problem, but could you do a little something for us? Just a tiny favor from the Church of the Gray Ashes. Oil for our bureaucratic gears.’”
The ancient man flicked his wrist in disgust. “They keep it in the quartermaster’s cache near the mess hall. I want it back. Tonight.”
Bellamy’s stomach twisted into knots, but Rucker responded coolly. “No problem, but we need to swap it with a fake. Questions will be asked if church property is misplaced, savvy?”
“Fine, fine, I will pretend your trash is bonafide when they someday ‘gift’ it back and kiss my ass. Just get to work,” Zanolini replied dismissively.
Rucker nodded and turned, ushering Bellamy to the ladder.
They left the church, passing a few trucks where porters unloaded provisions for the mess hall and ammunition crates for the armory. The pair remained mum, sauntering down an alley between the ruined buildings of Leichenberg in search of privacy. There, Rucker kicked a broken brick to the side, and Bellamy checked behind them to ensure no one, especially the MPs, were listening. “Are we really going to steal from the quartermaster’s supplies? Someone is bound to notice the censer is missing.”
Rucker rolled his head, a faint smirk on his lips. When he spoke, he kept his voice down for once. “What do their censers look like?”
“I…” the question gave Bellamy pause as he racked his brain. He only ever saw them in use, foggy with their spicy smoke.
“Maybe someone will notice the swap,” Rucker explained, “but if our good father says it’s a proper censer, the quartermaster won’t say a damn word. Not when it’s his ass on the line.”
Bellamy chuckled. “The left hand washes the right.”
“Seems I made the right call bringing you in on this. You remembered your tools, right?”
The private nodded, patting a satchel at his belt. “Are you gonna get the decoy?”
“I got an angle,” Rucker said, and began to walk.
Bellamy tagged along, striking another cigarette as he followed the fat man to some of the outlying buildings along the town’s eastern perimeter. Here the shelling from a year ago had been the worst, and only a few structures survived.
The old school was one of them. A massive hole remained where an enemy round blasted out the southern wall. Bellamy and Rucker tread over chunks of mortar and large stones, into the smell of mildew growing in rotten wooden floors. Motes of dust fluttered about in the dim light.
“Well, if it isn’t Chuckles,” someone said, stopping Bellamy in his tracks.
The pair spun, spotting a figure leaning against the ruined wainscotting, a long bayonetted rifle resting behind him. He was tall, a full head over even Rucker, wearing a khaki uniform. White braiding ran down his sleeves, while a gold shield was pinned over a lapel. His countenance was hidden within shadows, yet when the figure inhaled his chomped cigar, Bellamy could make out fleshless lips.
“Comrade Maretzki,” Rucker raised his arms welcomingly, grinning like a fool. “Pleasure as always.”
The tall figure’s sinister laughter left Bellamy’s stomach icy from unease. “And here I was, thinking today was going to be boring. Oh Chuckles, what could it be this time?”
“Just need to ask you for a trifling, a tiny little favor if you’ve got a second to spare.”
Maretzki replied by blowing smoke their way.
“We need a decoy. A fake censer,” Rucker blurted out.
“Mmm. Now that’s interesting. What for?”
“Just another job from an old man.”
“Of course,” Maretzki said. Bellamy got the strange feeling that empty eye sockets were trained on him. “Mind stepping out, junior? Your big brother and I have to talk shop.”
“Bell, you wouldn’t mind, would you?” Rucker asked with uncharacteristic politeness.
He didn’t. Although Bellemy bristled at being spoken down to, this Maretzki caused the hairs on his arms to rise, his guts to float. He left gladly, dodging a broken desk and stepping over a shattered chair leg. Once outside, he kept going to a lamp post over the muddy street. From here he could still see the opening of the school, but just down the dirt road was the courtyard with the church and mess hall.
Bellamy’s fingers trembled as he sought another cigarette, eager for the relief it offered. It took a few puffs, the end glowing a vibrant orange, until the acrid odor of tobacco calmed him, his lungs and heart craving the comfort of the slow taste of death.
He had finished, and pondered having another, when Rucker finally emerged from the school. The fat man made a beeline towards him, carrying something in his hand.
“Got it?” Bellamy asked.
Rucker uncurled his fingers. The private noticed and wondered if the fat man had always possessed extra knuckles in his middle and ring finger, but focused on the small sphere. It was not ornate, although there was some intricacy regarding the caged top half. A chain rain from a pinched bullet casing welded on one side.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Bellamy said.
“It shouldn’t. In Riverbone, the Bishops use fancier versions. Out here, simple designs like this are expected. Especially if you’re sending a priest into the trenches.”
“Makes sense I guess,” the private said as the two began walking down the road. The mess hall dinner bell was due to ring soon. “So who’s Maretzki?”
“Keep it down,” Rucker said, lowering his own tone. “He’s a member of the Veilbound. A merc unit currently in Lord Kael’s employ. See, I owe ol’ Maretzki a little debt after I borrowed from him. This job’ll pay him back, make us square.”
Bellamy nodded, his brow furrowing. “Well, seeing as I’m doing a little more than I thought I’d be, I’d say the cut should be more 60 to 40, wouldn’t you?”
“Seriously?” the fat man frowned, unimpressed.
“Well, I didn’t expect to need my lockpickin’ skills. And I’ve been thinking over my involvement in this. Seeing as you need me more than you first thought, I’d say I’ve earned 40%.”
Rucker put a palm on his own forehead, wiping down until his lower eyelids sagged and his mouth hung, an expression like a gutted fish. His features snapped back into place like rubber as he swiped off his chin. “Fine, but this is final. No more negotiation after this. I swear, this job is barely worth it for me anymore.”
The private grinned. “Well, Father Zanolini promised plenty of work.”
“He also promises us an afterlife with an open bar and courtesans. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Bellamy opened his mouth in rebuttal, then shut up. The fat man had a point.
###
“So how do we approach this?” Bellamy asked after the last bite of his bread. It was perhaps the only decent grub on his entire tray, as the bean soup was under salted and the vegetables tinny from being canned.
Rucker rubbed his mouth on his sleeve. “See that guard behind me?”
Bellamy’s gaze went over the fat man’s shoulder. Beyond a few benches occupied by diners, the sentry stood with a shotgun over her shoulder before a hallway. Her grim features spoke of boredom. “Yeah. Is there another way in?”
“Sure but there’s guards at the other entrances too. Comms, cache and a few important rooms are in there. Not the kinda places you want the grunts goofing off. Difference between her and them is, she shouldn’t turn her back on the entire mess hall.”
“So how are we going to get past her?”
“I got an angle,” Rucker commented, drawing a carefully folded piece of paper from his breastpocket. He whispered, “don’t open this in front of everyone.”
Bellamy accepted and obeyed, lowering it under the table top and taking a quick peek at the contents. It was an order of some kind, a couple of place names and coordinates. The bottom was signed by the Major. “Is this real?”
“Course not. It’s just gibberish, but it looks like something for the radio heads. That signature though? I got a little glimpse at the Major’s handwriting one time, and I’m not too shabby with forgeries.” Rucker smirked, clearly a little too proud of himself. “Show that to the guard, say you need to run it to communications. She’ll let you by.”
“What about you?” Bellamy asked.
“Don’t worry, I’ll schmooze my way past a few minutes after you go.”
“Why bother?” Bellamy frowned, folding the missive and tucking it into his pocket. “Just give me the censer. I’ll pick the cache lock and knock this out on my own.”
“Look at you, Mr. Bigshot,” Rucker mocked, rolling his head from side-to-side. “Cause one, I wanna make sure you don’t screw this up. Two, we don’t know how long it’ll take to find, so either we both search or one of us acts as lookout. Three…”
“Three?” Bellamy asked when Rucker’s explanation trailed off.
The fat man grinned mischievously. “I hear there’s good stuff in there, stuff no one will notice was swiped. If that’s true, two sets of pockets beat one.”
The private’s stomach felt uneasy. It was one thing to reclaim the church’s property for them. After all, the inconvenienced Zanolini would cover their deception. Yet stealing other goods was almost a step too far.
Almost. But not totally.
In fact, the more Bellamy considered it, the more strangely comfortable he felt with the idea. How could a purloined bottle of absinthe or a pack of cigarettes be “crucial to the war effort?” No. He was tired of being sneered down upon, tired of being a mere “private” in their army. He deserved better, a position befitting him. And it was high time he took what he was due.
“You got a damn good point, Ruck.”
“That’s the spirit, Bell. Alright, so listen up.” Rucker leaned in conspiratorially, his stomach rolls enveloping the edge of the table top. “Go outside and have a smoke, settle your nerves. Then come back and head straight to the guard, show her the missive. Once through, go down the hall. You take a right at the fork. The corridor will turn left. The cache is the second door on the left, and there’s a sign if I remember. If you need to duck somewhere, there’s a bathroom on the right, opposite the cache.”
Bellamy nodded. “Smoke, guard, right, left. Second door on the left. Anything else?”
“I’ll knock before I come in, so don’t bash me or nothing.”
“Roger.”
“Knew you were the chum for this job,” Rucker wore a sly grin as he eased back into his bench. “See ya in fifteen.”
Bellamy deposited his tray on a table beneath the pass through window into the kitchen, where punished enlisted scrubbed dishes and left the mess hall. Once outside under the dull gray overcast skies, he found a quiet corner and lit up. As the world eased away from him, pressure pushing everything outward, he thought over his decisions.
He’d never done anything like this before, but the concept didn’t even inflame a pang guilt. Leaders like Colonel Voss and the Major were just broken gramophones who kept repeating “Victory!” at every opportunity. Utter fanatics, thrilled over every pathetic centimeter of captured soil, every speck of miserable ash taken from fallen foes. If that’s all it took to stay out of the trenches, well, Bellamy could do that too. Maybe better than them.
And someday, someday real soon, he would.
“Time to work,” Bellamy muttered as he lifted his boot and stubbed the cigarette on the heel.
Returning to the mess hall, the ranks of diners had begun to thin out. A few pockets remained, huddle groups enjoying the last dredges of their watery beers, a reward for their exemplary service. Discreetly, Bellamy eyed his former table but Rucker was nowhere to be seen.
“Halt,” the guard commanded and the private obeyed. She wasn’t much to look at, with her split lip and weak jaw. Her sockets ran deep, the faintest flicker of orange within.
Slowly, Bellamy drew the missive and presented it to her. She glanced at the paper for a moment, coming to the bottom, before returning the order. Without a word she stepped aside and he strolled past, as easy as eating pie.
Guess that fat fuck really is good at forgeries, he thought.
The brick corridors were cracked, dingy and dim, save for lantern sconces with candles. He walked to the split and went right, passing some rooms. Just as Rucker told him, the hall veered left, and he soon discovered the door with a metal plaque that read, “Storage.”
Bellamy checked both ways before drawing his tools. As he suspected, the security was nothing more than a mortise lock. Single lever, simple as they come. Kneeling, he inserted a sturdy wire bent like a step, his tension rod. Turning it gently, he heard the bolt click back. He then applied his pick, pressing up against the lever until the bolt ticked against the top of the faceplate.
Turning the tension wire, the bolt drew back. Pocketing his tools with a devil’s grin, he entered.
It was dark within. Bellamy noticed a switch, yet stopped before flicking. All it would take is for a guard to pass, notice light through the door crack, and investigate. So he drew his flashlight instead, and kept its bright cone away from the exit.
Along the walls were shelves of various items. Rows of wine and liquor bottles. Telescopes for sniper rifles. Boxes of Dragons Breathe incendiary ammo, far too valuable for the rank-and-file grunts. There were several trunks piled up, some of which bore heavy padlocks.
He huffed and opened an unlocked box. Inside were modifications for rifles. Bellamy whistled low and eyed one of the drum magazines. Yet he decided against such a prize, lest his sergeant ask questions about his pilfered upgrade.
He struggled to quietly remove a trunk from atop another when he heard the faintest tapping at the door. Quickly, he dosed his flashlight, and a fat figure appeared in the doorframe.
“Find it yet?” Rucker asked after carefully shutting the door behind him.
“No. Glad you came though, these boxes are heavy and several are locked.”
“Since it’s church property, it’ll be locked up but readily accessible.” Rucker began rolling up his sleeves. “Probably one of those two over here.”
A coin flip’s chance was better than a die’s. “Give me light and let me work.”
The padlocks were thick, but Bellamy knew the trick to them. Pulling at the shackle itself caused the pins to shear, and soon he was making steady progress. “How long do we have?”
“All the time in the world,” Rucker said as held his flashlight above. “I told the guard the mess hall bathrooms were a disaster. One seat ruined, another covered in vomit. Said it was urgent. Since she knew me from other ‘missives’ I’ve delivered before, the big softy let me by.”
“You’re one of a kind, Ruck,” Bellemy said as the third pin set.
“I prefer to be called the ‘high card.’”
The private scoffed, as the shackle gave way and the trunk opened. It wasn’t the censer, but rather a rack of pistols. Ammo magazines were neatly stormed in form inserts. Rucker whistled low and reached for one.
Bellamy blurted out, “Wait don’t—”
He took the gun. The curved handle didn’t react. Didn't glow with searing heat.
“Hot damn, not even soulbound yet! I’ve been wanting one of these,” Rucker muttered with an evil grin, taking a magazine and loading the receiver in front of the trigger guard. “Next bastard who charges my dugout’s gonna get a nasty surprise.”
“Won’t your CO ask?” Bellamy asked.
“Nah, I’ll scuff it up later and get it bound. Say it was looted.” With that, he closed the trunk and stuffed the pistol into his belt, hiding it under the flap of his tunic. “Well, next one.”
The private almost asked if the quartermaster would notice. But then again, why did it matter? If Rucker was caught with a stolen pistol, it was on him. Bellamy left the matter alone, kneeling down to unlock what he hoped was their objective.
“Where’d you learn to do this anyway?” Rucker asked quietly as the second pin cleared.
“I found a pick on a dead man during body recollection some months back. Then one day at base, I was bored and started playing with my own trunk lock.” The fourth pin caught on the shear line. “Took a while, then I did it again faster, and faster. Someone told the sergeant. I thought I was in trouble, but he brought me a lockbox seized from the enemy. I cracked it, and we scored some enemy maps, good intel. After that, I was the company locksmith. Plenty of practice.”
“Hmph,” Rucker grunted. “I don’t get why you want to move up, given your skills.”
The cylinder twisted, and the shackle unclicked. Bellamy turned a quizzical brow to the fat man.
“Used to be a sergeant myself,” Rucker explained, “but was demoted. It just ain’t worth the hassle, Bell. Every rung up that ladder just leads to a bigger ass to kiss.”
I bet your ass is bigger now than then, the private pondered as the trunk was opened.
And inside was the prize.
It was ugly for certain. For a moment, Bellamy thought it was a metal skull, before he realized it was more like several. A conglomerate of eye sockets, nasal passages and rows of teeth all jumbled into a sphere. Staring at it made him nauseous.
Rucker drew and swapped it for the fake censer, stashing the real one in his satchel. “Alright, got what you want yet?”
“Not yet,” he said as they replaced the lock. With their task done, they were a pair of kids in the candy store. Bellamy took a small bottle of whiskey and a few packs of cigarettes. In a shelf corner was a gold plated lighter, and a pocket watch. He was tempted to take more, but worried about his pockets bulging with his ill-gotten gains.
“Alright, you go first,” Rucker said. “I’ll leave a few minutes later, and we’ll rendezvous at the church.”
“Roger,” Bellamy replied, giddy with their success. He turned off his flashlight and returned to the door. All he could think about was his promotion, and the celebratory drink to come.
When he opened the door, the guard stood with her back to him, knocking on the bathroom door.
Panicking, Bellamy closed the exit, skin chilling from just how close he had been to getting caught. Outside he could hear the guard’s boots slap against the floors and thought she might be leaving. Still, he reached for the lock.
The handle slammed into his wrist before he could turn the bolt, his carpals shrieking with pain immediately. He stepped back, holding his wrist.
Glancing up again, Bellamy found himself staring down the barrel of a shotgun.
The guard’s face was tight and puckering, daring him to make a move. Bellamy’s mind spun as his opened hands rose in surrender. He almost, almost glanced to his left, to Rucker, but he didn’t want to accidentally give away his partner.
“Turn around!” the guard ordered.
Bellamy complied slowly, drifting in the direction of the cache instead of the wall. “I can explain. I took the missive to the comm room and they sent me he–”
“Rucker?” the guard suddenly asked. Her voice smacked of recognition.
The fat man darted out of the darkness with shocking speed. The guard gurgled, and the receiver of her shotgun settled from motion but did not go off. Something warm splashed on Bellamy’s shoulder and sleeve.
In the dingy hallway light, he realized it was blood.
“What the hell are you doing?” Bellamy hissed when he saw Rucker lowering the bleeding woman to the ground, leaving her head towards him and face down. He left his knife embedded in her windpipe.
“Relax, I’ve got an angle,” the fat man insisted. A core of fear knotted in Bellamy’s chest but he let his arms drop. As long as Rucker had a plan, they could get out of this.
Then he saw the pistol pointed at him.
“Sorry friendo,” Rucker said, aiming as he still knelt beside the dead guard. “Hands up.”
“What the hell, Ruck?” Bellamy obliged, his heart and mind racing for an answer.
“A dead guard’ll raise too many questions, and they’ll start a search. But if they have a culprit, they won’t suspect a pair until I’m long gone.”
The private’s mouth opened and shut a few times, like a fish out of water.
“To be honest, I do feel a bit bad. I even left you a bit of ash in your bunk, enough to get you to corporal.” Without taking his eyes off the private, the fat man reached down and wiped his bloodied hand on the dead woman’s sleeve. “Figured you wouldn’t be too mad, between that and your lootings here, because we were never taking the censer back to Zanolini.”
“But,” Bellamy stammered. “What about Moretzki? Your debt to him?”
Rucker stared at him in disbelief, his shoulders sagging some. “I can’t believe you fell for that bluff.”
He didn’t comprehend, until the staggeringly obvious dawned on Bellamy at last. Who would lend anything to a grunt bound for the trenches?
“The censer’s my ticket into the Veilbound. Up or out, like I always say during poker. You wanted to move up, I wanted out, and knowing when to fold is how you really win.”
“Rucker,” Bellamy started, his wits desperately rubbing together for a spark, grasping at straws for an escape. “I got a better idea. We can both get out of this.”
The fat man rolled his head slightly, considering it. His other hand was moving but Bellamy couldn’t see it. “Alright, what’re you thinking?”
“It’s simple. We just move the body to the trunk and then we—”
The shotgun blast lit up the storage room, the thump echoing over the walls. A dozen pellets shredded Bellamy’s knee, and a half a second later his leg screamed with the agony of nerves and tissue that were no longer there. He dropped, clutching his leg as his neck flexed, screaming soundlessly.
When Bellamy forced his eyes open, he saw Rucker’s trigger finger over that of the dead woman’s. He had bypassed the soulbinding safeguard simply by using her own hand as a buffer.
The private rocked back and forth, drawing a shuddering breath. His leg was still attached, but his joint was ruined, blood splattering onto the floor. Suddenly a shadow fell over him.
“Eh, sloppy work but it’ll buy time.” The fat man reached out and ripped the knife from Bellamy’s sheath, slipping the blade into his own.
“I’ll tell them!” Bellamy swore, eyes stinging from hot tears and fury. “I’ll tell them everything we did!”
“Go right ahead. I’m sure they’ll believe a desperate thief heading for the firing squad. I’m outta here before they get wise.” The shadows and Bellamy’s watery vision kept him from seeing whatever the fat traitor set on his chest. “But like I said, I feel bad. So here’s a final meal from your ol’ pal Rucker. Take care, Bell.”
He was gone. And when the hot tear ran down his face, Bellamy realized he’d left both the sausage and a pack of cigarettes on his tunic. Winnings from their game.
He started to chuckle. The giggles rose, a welcome relief from the pain, from the disbelief of what just happened. Even after all this time, Bellamy still couldn’t read that fat bastard. And the last vestiges of his sanity began to crack.
He was still laughing when the guards arrived.
