again. Cray looked at him and closed his eyes. The air was shredded.
When it finally fell quiet they heard the beats of the dustoff helicopter, but Clive was dead. The medics carried him on a stretcher, his face covered over. ‘Would’ve been dead straight off,’ one of them said, ‘went through the head pretty bad.’
No one else had anything the matter with them and as the helicopter took off, spraying dirt beneath it, they were left with a black patch of ground that Clive had bled into. Pete shucked fresh dirt over it, a look of disgust on his face, his bottom lip poked out like a sulky child and he turned away from the rest of them with his hands on his hips. ‘And then there were five,’ he said and gave a little snort.
The dead Cong they lined up neatly and searched, patting down the warm bodies, dipping into pockets and down sleeves. Leon gave the machine gun to Rod for the while, his hands raw from gripping it, he couldn’t look at the bastard thing.
‘Oi, oi, someone’s over there,’ Daniel called, pointing his gun towards a dark-stained wooden house.
There was a face in the window, a boy, his mouth a black O. They had their guns ready and aimed at the door and Pete called, ‘C’mon out.’ There was no noise from inside, so he shouted ‘Out!’ his voice busting from him hoarse and angry. The front door opened slowly and an old man stepped out, a woman and a young boy right behind him. The woman held a baby. Cray looked at the floor.
‘Why haven’t you gone already?’ asked Pete, not to the family particularly. He sounded tired. ‘Better have a bit of a look in there, I reckon.’
Leon took Clive’s rifle and went inside with Cray. He felt like a dry river, like all the commotion was gone and nothing could happen now. He wasn’t ready for it, he didn’t want it. Inside it was dark; there was a smell of incense and dust and cooking, a strange smell of life, nutty and sharp. The wooden roof creaked. Cray nodded at a trapdoor in the floor of the kitchen.
Down through the trapdoor was stone silent, like all noise had been sucked out with a straw. Three chairs were turned over and a bag of rice was spilled across the table. There was a bad smell, a meal left to rot. Bowls were laid out on the table with spoons, they must’ve been getting ready to eat: so close to having a sit-down dinner, to sharing a normal talk, having a drink, maybe, and laughing. Eating out of a bowl, not out of a packet or your hands.
The silence was split by a high whine and Leon heard himself clench. There was a low door he’d assumed was a cupboard, the only place to hide in the cellar. It was the kind of noise kids made, playing hide and seek, excited and needing a pee, trying to hold in the urge to shout, ‘Here I am! You fuckin’ didn’t see me but here I am!’ Cray moved towards the door, stepping gently like a ballet dancer. From the look on his face the smell was worse the closer he moved to the door.
Leon’s lips felt like fish scales. ‘He’ll be armed,’ he whispered and Cray nodded. An inward count of three, and Leon trained on the door, then Cray raised his boot and kicked it open, firing into the space. A body twitched with the impact of bullets, a gun in his hand fell to the floor unfired, and Cray put his wrist up to his face and yelled. Leon thought for a terrible moment that he’d been shot in the face, but he carried on yelling and the smell hit him too.
‘Fucking hell!’ shouted Cray. ‘Fucking fucking crappy hell!’ He spat and turned away from the open door, his eyes streaming. The dead man had lost his foot and the flesh off his leg, but the bone remained. His torso teemed with small things that ate at him.
‘What is it?’ came a yell from above ground.
‘It’s all right – one dead Cong,’ Cray called back up.
‘Close the door,’ said Leon quietly, but it stayed open.
‘We should check in there,’ Cray said, breathing into his elbow.
‘I’ll go,’ said Leon, because Cray had a son at home. Cray stepped aside uncomplaining as he pushed the door with the tips of his fingers. Maggots made the man’s chest