After (11 page)

“Cut him down!” Smith ordered, wrapping his arms around the hanging man's thighs and lifting, knowing someone else had made it into the room almost as fast as he had, because he could hear him.

Vallar. Vallar righted the chair and sprang atop it, and shouted to the men as they came in, “A knife! Someone! A knife!”

The kid was dead. Not cold, but good and dead. Smith had seen a lot of dead people. There was a quality about the dead that was nothing like actors lying still, pretending to be dead, nothing like sleeping men or injured men who'd lost consciousness. It was too late to save his life. All Smith cared about now was getting him down and covering him up before the cowards who'd bullied him to death got the satisfaction of seeing he'd shit and pissed himself. The thought of the men congregating in the latrine laughing at the state of the poor kid's corpse made Smith want to put a bullet in every last man left. Putting the final bullet into his own skull would be the easiest thing in the world. Christ, he'd have liked to have done it months ago.

Above him Smith heard the sound of a blade sawing through threads, of fabric ripping, and the full weight of Kosinski's body dropped onto him. He staggered, lowering the body to the floor as carefully, as gently as he could.

“Get me a blanket.”

Someone, Dunn, handed him a blanket, and he hurried to spread it over Kosinski, just up to his chin.

You have to; you can't just trust your eyes, your instinct, so Smith put his fingers to the kid's throat. He was so sure, he might have been more scared than relieved if he'd felt life throb in his jugular.

“He's dead. Isn't he?” Vallar asked, adding “sir” as an afterthought.

“Yes.”

God fucking dammit. The poor kid. Smith had known. He'd known he needed help, and just watched him float away. Like he was already a ghost.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“What are you lookin' at?” Riggs growled. That boy needed a good punch in the mouth. That would wipe the grin off his face. That would teach him to stare.

“What the hell you do to that Kosinsky boy, you and Baldwyn?” Lott asked through that shitty grin of his.

“I didn't do nothin' to that little faggot.”

“No?”

“Not my fault he was too much of a pussy to stick it out when things got tough.”

“Things got tough for him, did they?”

Why'd Lott have to be such an asshole? “Yeah. Everyone died, remember?

We're all stuck here on this shitty base, eating shitty food, digging in the dirt and fucking our fists. Tough.”

Fuck it. He didn't have to listen to Lott's bullshit. Little ass-wipe didn't know shit.

He'd go to the weight room. It would feel good, the cold weight of the barbells in his grip. Straining. Burning. Sweating. He'd do a lot of sets. He'd flex his arms, lift the weights until his muscles shook, then more, until his arms felt soft and weak, and then he'd make himself go another three sets. Even now, so wound up, he could picture how he'd feel tired after. Tired and empty. It would feel good.

* * * *

In his gut, Smith was dead sure Kosinski had been tormented past his limit, that he'd hung himself out of terror or unbearable humiliation or sheer loss of faith that life could ever be better than awful. That someone, or some group of someones, had driven him to suicide.

But there was no note. No marks on the body, at least none his untrained eye could detect. And he'd looked damned carefully, feeling, in the end, like he'd committed another violation on the corpse of that poor kid.

And he'd called in every man, asking one after the other, discreetly as he could, if they'd noticed anything. Had his behavior changed suddenly? Had he said anything?

Was there some incident that coincided?

He was about as good at playing detective as he was at impersonating a shrink.

Except for some squirming and evasive eyes he got nothing out of the likely suspects.

And all he learned after the rest of those twenty-one interviews was that in the months since the remnants of the soldiers stationed at the base had been thrown together, no one had really gotten to know Kosinsky. He'd been quiet after the dying, and he'd stayed quiet. Some of the men were shaken up; as with the patrols that went out and never came back, it was hard, seeing their small number dwindle further. But no one seems sad about Kosinski in particular.

Most of the men seemed to think he'd killed himself out of sheer depression at what had happened. Christ, they were all mad as hell, scared as shit, going out of their minds. And since Smith could find no evidence that it was anything else, he let the men believe that Kosinski had hung himself because the end of the world had been too much for him. Not like he was the first. The others had just done it so early in the aftermath, they'd gone almost unnoticed.

* * * *

Evan. Beautiful Evan. So good, warm and safe, holding him this way, in the dark, the two of them curled up together.

In his arms he felt Evan shudder. Was he crying?

Diego felt guilty about it, but he couldn't stop hating Kosinsky for doing that.

Didn't he know, didn't he care that it just reminded all of them how close they were to death? Diego kissed the back of Evan's head and pulled him closer.

Worrying over Evan was easier than thinking about the other stuff. Kosinsky. The whole world shrunk down to twenty-two men and that small corner of the base.

“When did you know about me?” Diego whispered, eager to talk about something happy. To help Evan not to hurt.

“That you loved me?”

That wasn't exactly what he meant, but he said, “Yeah.”

“When Jen died,” Evan said, and Diego could hear from his voice that he really had been crying. “When I told you, and you saw how much her death hurt me; the way you were looking at me, I knew you were feeling more than sympathy. It was like my pain hurt you as much as if it was your sister who'd died in that accident.”

Diego buried his face in Evan's neck, feeling embarrassed and also just wanting to be closer. Thinking back, Evan was right. Diego hadn't even known, then. Not until months later, when there had been talk of their unit deploying, and he'd realized he wasn't even afraid for his own safety. That the thing that scared him was the thought of Evan getting injured, getting killed.

Now everyone was dead, and they were still alive.

“It seems so unfair,” he whispered against Evan's neck, against that soft skin he knew was pale with one little freckle just below the hairline, even though he couldn't see it now, in the dark. “You had to go through that, losing her, thinking about how her life ended so young. In the end, she didn't lose so much time.”

“No, I'm glad. She got to die quickly. No pain. Even my parents, I'm glad for them.

They didn't have to watch her go through the horrible dying.”

“You're right,” Diego whispered back, stroking Evan's arm under the covers. “It was a mercy, her dying that way.”

* * * *

Padding, silent, Evan slipped between tidy, empty beds, the empty beds of dead soldiers, soldiers like him, like Diego, and slipped into his love's bed. Diego greeted him with a kiss, soft and sweet. Not hungry.

“I think maybe tonight you should stay in your own bed,” he told Evan in a gentle voice.

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing. Just, tonight, it's better.”

Was it over already? Had Diego gotten bored with him so soon? Or had someone said something to him? Scared him, somehow?

“Diego. Please. Just tell me what's bothering you.”

Evan heard Diego draw a deep breath, then let it go long seconds later.

“It bothers me. I'm not a good...” Another deep breath, another long, shuddering exhale. “I'm not a good lover to you, Evan.”

“Diego...”

“I want to be. I want to give you the kind of pleasure you give me. I do. But I can't.”

“Why not?”

Diego was silent for a long time.

“My family, where I come from, men don't do those things,” he finally said.

Evan laughed.

“I'm not stupid,” Diego came back. “You know what I mean. If you do them, you're not a man. I mean, what we've done, it's not so bad. For me, I mean. But to...”

“What?” Evan whispered, “take a dick in your mouth? Let a man fuck you?”

“I don't think I can.”

“Come on, Diego. You have to let go of that crap. The culture that tells you you're not a man because you're with the person you love? That's shit. Flush it.”

“Christ, Evan.” He was still whispering, but there was anger in his quiet voice. “It's not easy like that.”

“I know that, Diego. I know it's not easy.” Evan pulled in a deep breath and let it go. Calmer, he said, “You think it was easy for me? You grew up with Latin machismo, and I grew up the son of a 4th-generation Army man who couldn't even hear about someone being gay, or see something in a sit-com without telling us all it made him want to puke. You think that wasn't in my head the first time I kissed a guy?”

“I'm sorry,” Diego whispered after a while, pulling Evan closer.

“I know. It's all right.”

That night, until Evan had to go back to his own bed before they fell asleep, they only held each other, each thinking their own thoughts.

* * * *

When he thought about doing it, his gut dropped, then went tight. At the same time, though, he'd get hard. And the idea of feeling Evan close, of their kisses, that did something else to him. Made him feel scared and soft and safe all at once. A hot, full feeling he'd never had in the past, thinking of the women he'd been with.

Fear could be overcome. He'd gotten past his fear of jumping from the crane platform. He'd shut off his fear during the dying. He knew how to push his fear down and move forward.

After almost a week, not kissing, not touching, not whispering all the thoughts and little stories they'd saved up during the day, Diego went to Evan. Evan didn't say anything. But he pulled him close, kissing his face over and over, like he'd reunited with someone he'd feared was dead.

Evan didn't try to really kiss him, though. Didn't touch him, except for wrapping his arms around him and holding him close.

Scary to think of it. But fear could be overcome.

“I love you, Evan.”

“I know, Diego. I love you, too. You're the only one. The only person I've ever loved like this.”

Until the actual moment when he kissed Evan's cock, he was scared. Sometimes it's like that. As long as you still have a choice and you can decide not to jump, not to join up, the chemicals in your brain keep you scared.

But then you jump, and you're free-falling and it's all sensation—that rush of adrenaline as you drop, the wind pulling at you—and your brain turned on a thousand percent, ready to pull the rip cord at just the right second, just the right altitude.

When he felt the soft, warm skin of Evan's cock head touch his lips, Diego's fear vanished. All he knew at that moment was that Evan's scent, the firm heat of his cock, the sound he made—something between an exhale and a groan—made him feel fucking amazing. His brain switched on, aware of every sound, the crickets outside, Evan's uneven breathing, the whiff of the sheets chafing against their skin as they moved, aware of the way Evan smelled, a strong smell that made Diego's dick harder, made him want even more, and Evan's taste, salty and animal.

Never. He'd never guessed it could be so hot, so intense, giving pleasure to someone else. Just feeling Evan twitch and hearing him sigh was better than half the blowjobs he'd gotten. Diego licked, sucked, used his lips and his tongue, knowing just what each caress of his mouth was doing to Evan even before he groaned and flexed and thrust.

“Oh. God. Diego,” Evan whispered, digging his fingers into Diego's hair, and Diego tasted his lover's come, and proud, happy, swallowed it all.

In his head it had seemed foreign, alien, strange. Doing it, though, it was like being a kid again, disoriented in the woods, and stumbling accidentally onto a familiar path, and realizing he wasn't lost. That he was almost home.

* * * *

“Yeah?” Baldwyn yelled toward the door after the second barrage of knocking.

Since when did they knock and wait for an engraved invitation around here?

The door opened a little and Lott stuck his head in.

“All clear?”

“All clear, what?”

Lott finally came in and shut the door behind him.

“Well,” he drawled, grinning as usual, as if he was thinking of some joke he'd just heard, “I don't much like the idea of surprising people, these days. I suppose it's best to give folks some warning before entering a room.”

“What? We're a bunch of fucking debutantes now? Afraid you'll catch us in our bras and panties?”

“Something like that, I guess. Now that folks is pairing up, I fret I'll interrupt you and Nichols here making love some afternoon.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Lott?” Shit, were some of the guys really...

“Nothing. Shit, it's only natural, isn't it? No women left. I said before it was coming. Now it's started, it's just a matter of time, I figure.”

“A matter of time for what?”

“Just, it won't be long for those ways to spread around. Two guys getting all the suckin' and fuckin' they can handle. Who's gonna hold out for old age and death, or for the Lord to drop a few angels in our lap?”

“I fuckin' am.”

“'Course you are.” Lott was laughing now. Something about that laugh made Baldwyn's gut clench up.

* * * *

Grabbed hard. Torn from Diego. Yanked up from his knees. Dragged through the dark, into the light. Behind him, Diego's voice, shouting. Then not shouting. What had that other sound been?

They shoved him along the hall. When he turned around, a knee to the nuts dropped him. Air gone. Gut seizing.

There were three, maybe four with him. Black ski masks pulled down. Terrorists.

Like you'd see on T.V. with hostages.

Except it was them. Other soldiers. Men he knew.

He wanted to puke out the pain in his gut. Boots kicked his ass, the backs of his legs. Evan struggled up, to his knees, to his feet. No words. They just shoved him forward, through the door to the stairwell, up, up, up.