Robert Buswell<\/p>\n
In the alcove we spoke in whispers, as if afraid to wake some long-departed saint. But the saints, rotten and stinking in their crypts, were so unlikely to awaken that our whispers could only be attributed to superstition, a superstition which galled Courtney.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re way too old to believe such stupid shit,\u201d she whispered. She gesticulated angrily with graceful hands, hands which I longed to touch, to hold.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen stop whispering,\u201d I replied quietly, but loudly enough to anger her further.<\/p>\n
\u201cFine,\u201d she said. She glanced through latticed window at the graveyard, perhaps expecting some saint, roused to anger at her presumptiveness, to rise, loose meat scraping off on headstone edges, and cast a withering curse on her.<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay, back to the war.\u201d I shifted against the stack of useless books. \u201cHow are we going to start this?\u201d<\/p>\n
Courtney and I had been planning this war for a while. We had chosen sides and shuffled troops; she placed most of hers in Europe and the Americas, while mine occupied mainly Indonesia, Africa, and the Middle East. I continued to question my strategy even though it was far too late to shift tactics.<\/p>\n
\u201cI want nuclear early,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I hesitated. \u201cI know we haven\u2019t talked about it much, but I\u2019d rather not go nuclear until we get some good ground action.\u201d<\/p>\n
Courtney laughed, a laugh flush with derision only a fifteen year old can muster. \u201cGround action? Even the most backward civilization has armed drones now. There\u2019s no hand-to-hand anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know what I mean. Ground action. Like disabling the satellites and letting them go at it.\u201d<\/p>\n
She stared at me, a look of concern surprising in its sincerity. \u201cDrew, are you sure that\u2019s wise? I have half a billion more than you do. That\u2019s a pretty big advantage without technological weapons.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe you\u2019re right, but I\u2019d still rather not go nuclear until we have to.\u201d<\/p>\n
She frowned. \u201cTwo nukes early and then no more until the end.\u201d<\/p>\n
I paused. It was a fair offer, considering how big the war would be. \u201cFine, but no more than 100 kilotons each.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd I want chemical.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou already have radiological. That only leaves me with biological.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you\u2019re a year older than me,\u201d she said, nudging my boot with her toes. \u201cYou agreed to a handicap.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI already have the smaller side.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd?\u201d<\/p>\n
We fell silent. I looked away first, out to the graves. The saints still slept, as unaware of their complicity, indeed their responsibility, in our endeavor as kittens on sunlit flagstones.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ready?\u201d Courtney touched my arm as she spoke, a loaded touch with no discernable intention.<\/p>\n
I turned back to her. \u201cBut what about us?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cUs?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, us. What about afterwards?\u201d<\/p>\n
I could not interpret her expression. \u201cWe part.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know, but what about later? Will I ever see you again?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know the answer to that.\u201d She selected a book and flipped through, stopping at pictures. The saints glared out in all their impotent glory from the dust-edged pages.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you could change your mind, you know.\u201d I hated the sound of my voice. \u201cWe don\u2019t have to stay apart forever. It\u2019s just a little war.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, it\u2019s a world war,\u201d she said. She tilted her head, hair falling off one bare shoulder like some saint herself, watching me. \u201cTell you what. If you win, I\u2019ll change my mind.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. What we have isn\u2019t real if it depends on the outcome of a war.\u201d My voice was rising. Were the saints shifting at the sound?<\/p>\n
She dropped the book and stood up, her barrettes brushing the alcove roof. \u201cYou know why I can\u2019t!\u201d she shouted.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you know why you can,\u201d I said softly, staring at the ancient stone floor. I could almost feel her indecisiveness, hated baggage which haloed her in pale colors.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet\u2019s go,\u201d she said, walking down the stairs into the sanctuary. I followed, my longing an obscenely dripping stigmata.<\/p>\n
In the sanctuary, stained glass saints watching in consternation, we pitted our forces in silence. Courtney had two billion Christians to my 1.5 billion Muslims, but I fought with the determination only wounded pride can proffer and it was a very close battle indeed. Millions died, many hers, leaving us somewhat evenly matched after two hours. She called for full nuclear then but I resisted, saying that we had not yet exhausted conventional arms.<\/p>\n
Another hour\u2019s passage left me with few options. When she again demanded nuclear, I conceded. Of course it was over then. We sat back on thick wooden pews and watched the world end for hundreds of millions more. I glanced out into the graveyard through the open doors and saw earth cracking.<\/p>\n
\u201cCourtney, look!\u201d<\/p>\n
She turned. The saints, angry features all, were rising. Headstones splintered, disintegrating from violent upheavals beneath them. There was no loose meat to scrape off, only raw power and indignation. \u201cRun!\u201d she shouted. We ran.<\/p>\n
By the time we reached the strip mall where we\u2019d parked she had decided the rising was only a trick of light, the light of faraway mushrooms casting their eerie afterglows down into the graveyard.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe dead don\u2019t rise,\u201d she said. \u201cNot even saints.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah.\u201d I couldn\u2019t think of a wittier response. Staring blankly at a storefront displaying Saints merchandise, I tried to conjure words to keep us together.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe have to go,\u201d she said suddenly, a warning edge to her voice.<\/p>\n
I saw silver streak the sky in my peripheral vision and reached for her hand. As a malignant sun blossomed nearly overhead I looked down to see that even at the end she pulled away.<\/p>\n
We flickered ahead.<\/p>\n
The saints, pacified, lay down to sleep once more.<\/p>\n
ROBERT BUSWELL<\/strong> is a fictional construction worker who lives in a mobile home in the American South with his common-law wife and eight children. He enjoys chewing tobacco, riding all-terrain vehicles, wearing overalls, transporting loaded handguns, attending religious services, consuming alcoholic beverages, and voting. He is currently working with two fingers at a Smith Corona on an autobiographical novel, which documents his rise from poverty to slightly less poverty.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Robert Buswell In the alcove we spoke in whispers, as if afraid to wake some long-departed saint. But the saints, rotten and stinking in their crypts, were so unlikely to awaken that our whispers could only be attributed to superstition, … Continue reading