weeks, months of ⦠of boredom. Of nothinâ but the heat and the mosquitoes. Then thereâd be some sudden rush of vengeance out of all them jungles around the cities. The rebels would come whompinâ down on some little town, kill the men, rape the women. Then the governmentâd hit back and a bunch of rebel sympathizersâd up and disappear. And then ⦠and then it would all calm down. All sink back into the heat and the boredom. It didnât seem to us like anything would ever really ⦠happen.â
He took a long breath. It shuddered as it came out. He wiped his mouth with one hand. âAnd now it was cominâ. Finally. All of it. The bloodshed ⦠not just bloodshed ⦠the ⦠the torture, the mutilations. The long, long killings in the hot, hot sun. Mangrela was goinâ to fall, man. Me and Wexler, we knew we had to get back.â He lifted his eyes to me. Eyes as haunted now as those of the man in the bar. âNot just to get the story, Wells. Not just to get the story. We had to get out. Thatâs where the yank choppers were. The capital. And once the capital belonged to the rebels, we were finished. All of us.â
His whole body shook once in the chair as he let out the memories of a decade ago. He blinkedâhard. He was fighting the liquor, but soon it would win. He wanted to get it all out first.
âWe didnât even know if we could make it back,â he said softly. âI left that morning, as soon as we got the news. Wexler thought heâd have a better chance in the dark.â Coltâs eyes filled. I could barely hear him. âIt gets awful dark in Sentu at night. The stars ⦠I was afraid to travel in the dark.â He started to bring his drink to his lips, then lowered it. Another shot would probably have finished him. âEven in the day, it was a nightmare. The shellfire never stopped. The jungle was exploding everywhere. The roads ⦠the dirt roads. They were filled with refugees ⦠children, women, bleeding, desperate, dead. And soldiersâyou couldnât tell what side they were on anymore. Theyâd stop you, check your ID. You didnât know if they were goinâ to blow your head off or let you pass. They didnât know. It depended on ⦠God knows ⦠luck, their mood. It was chaos. It was a jungle where all the animals were humans, and all the humans left were either murderers or dead.⦠They stared at you out of the undergrowth. And the shells kept falling.⦠Wells, Iâve never been so afraid.â
I stared at that weathered face of his. It was not the face of a coward. Not at all. It was the sort of face you wanted beside you when the shooting started. Calm, hard, unwavering.
âYou see what Iâm sayinâ?â he said to me quietly. âYou see what Iâm tryinâ to say?â
I opened my mouth to answer. I didnât answer. I didnât see. I didnât understand why he was telling me this. I was drunk and I couldnât make sense of it.
Colt ran his hand up through his dense brown hair. With the other arm, he pushed to his feet. As he did, his drink fell from his loose grip. The glass tumbled onto the rug, spat its liquor into the shag. I saw the shag darken with scotch. I heard, in my mind, the beer glass shattering when he dropped it in the tavern. I couldnât shake the idea that everything was connected.
Colt towered over me where I sat. He swayed. He put his hand to his forehead.
âI didnât just go back there for the story,â he said. âNot just to get the story. Not just to get out.â Stumbling, he headed for the bedroom door.
âColt,â I said. It came out slurred.
He reached the doorway. He faltered, leaning against the jamb. I heard him say something. His voice cracked as he said it. I couldnât make out the words.
He straightened, swayed. This time, I heard it.
âEleanora,â he