The day was too bright for human eyes, too scorching for human skin. The wind blew gently now and then, but it was a sweltering, stifling, smothering afternoon. The golden stalks of drying, dying wheat bent elegantly before the breeze, as if worshipping some benevolent God, while the meadowlarks trilled and the locusts chirped and the stealthy soldier swatted impatiently at the gnats.
An unnatural sound suddenly shattered the silence: the snarling sound of static. A walkie-talkie attached to his belt snapped, crackled, and popped at the camouflaged soldier lying on his belly between the rows of wheat.
"Lieutenant? Come in Lieutenant. Come in." Holding the small black box close to his lips, the sweating soldier softly repeated the summons several times. There was no reply beyond the stuttering static. The solder waited, watched the wheat waltz in the wind, listened to the larks, swatted at the hungry bugs. After awhile, he sighed and tried again.
"Lieutenant?" Static hissed smugly, but there was no answer.
"Come on, Lieutenant," the solder said, exasperated. "You've got to be out there somewhere! Say something!"
"You forgot to say over," the box replied, snittering and snattering statically.
"Oh. Sorry, Sir. Over."
"Go ahead, Private. What is it?"
"I've spotted the fugitive at the edge of the field, sir. Over." It occurred to the private that his lieutenant hadn't said over, but he didn't mention the omission aloud.
"Good work, son!" the voice in the box exclaimed. "We'll be right there for the capture. Don't try to take him on your own. You hear me? Over and out."
There was a soft click as the private turned off his machine and the static suddenly ceased.
The private replaced the walkie-talkie in its holder at his side. He waited, squirming into a more comfortable position. The sun beat down on his golden head, giving it a halo-like glow. The beads of perspiration on his forehead sparkled in the sunlight, the image of a diamond diadem against his fair and sunburned skin.
He squinted into the sun, lifting battered black field-glasses to his blue, sun-reddened eyes, and then pushed quietly through the wall of wheat before him. Insects rose in a cloud around him, murmuring indignantly at being interrupted in their feasts. He brushed them away, peering through the glasses. He saw no signs of the fugitive.
"Where'd he go?" the private muttered crossly. He rose slowly to his knees and knelt, a little hunched over, sweeping his gaze across the field to the edge of the forest. Salty sweat stung his eyes. He wiped at them roughly, irritated at his lieutenant, his sergeant, the sun, the insects, and even at himself.
How had he let himself be talked into this foolishness? He wholeheartedly wanted the whole stupid game to be over. He was hot and tired and hungry and thirsty, and who cared about the stupid army, anyway? He raised the glasses again, squinting against the sun, trying to spot the fugitive, trying to avoid the vision of himself wolfing down chocolate chip cookies and ice-cold milk in the comfort of his mother's air-conditioned kitchen.
A hand swept suddenly from behind him and covered his mouth. His heart leaped into his throat. He fought, dropping his field-glasses into the wheat. He kicked out behind him, but couldn't connect with his attacker. He heard the hateful laugh of his captor, and knew he wouldn't be able to get away.
"Did I scare you, Wimp?" the sergeant teased, just as the private recognized him. A sudden rage blinded the younger soldier. Instead of answering, the private shoved his head into the belly of his sergeant, who fell solidly to the ground, gasping in astonishment; gasping for air.
"Cut it out, you two!" the lieutenant whispered, crawling toward them on his belly. "This is no time to be horsing around. You mess up now and we're all dead." The private hung his head. The sergeant gave him a withering look that said, "I'll get you for this." Both of them turned to their lieutenant as he hissed at them.
"Look," breathed the lieutenant. "By the tree." The two soldiers looked. They saw. "We don't want him to get away again," the lieutenant whispered. The sergeant tried to push the private down into the wheat, but the private pulled away from him and stood beside the lieutenant, rubbing his smartly stinging arms. Dumb bugs, he thought.
The lieutenant pulled something shiny from the waist of his sweat-laden pants, shielding it so it wouldn't catch a reflection of sunlight.
"A gun!" the private exclaimed, backing away. "You aren't ..."
"Shut..." the lieutenant thrust the gun into his face. "...up!" The private gulped hard, swallowing the rest of his sentence. The sergeant grinned. The lieutenant glared over the up of the gun.
The private tried again. "But we aren't supposed to ..."
Leaning over, the sergeant pushed him roughly, laughing.
"What's the matter, Wimp," he sneered. "Afraid of a stupid gun?"
The lieutenant waved the gun toward the field. "Shut up, you guys," he whispered. "There he is!"
"I can't stand this," the private suddenly cried out. "You're always getting..."
"I said SHUT UP!" Whirling, the lieutenant slammed the cold barrel of his weapon down, but not too hard, on the private's nose. Tears sprang unbidden to the young soldier's eyes. The private shut up, stealthily feeling the bridge of his nose to see if it were broken. He was determined not to let either the sergeant or the lieutenant see him cry. He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat wouldn't go away. The tears evaporated in the sun, leaving salty crystals on his lashes.
The lieutenant glared at him for a moment, daring him to defy his authority just one more time. Then he turned again toward the center of the wheat field. The soldiers were momentarily startled by a movement among the wheat stalks, as the fugitive dashed from behind the tree and slid onto his belly in the grass at the edge of the field.
"We've got him now, fellas!" the lieutenant gloated gleefully. He aimed his pistol at the recumbent body of the fugitive, squinting as the glare of the sun distorted his vision.
"No!" cried the private, leaping to throw himself in front of the lieutenant. "You can't just..."
"Don't worry, Beanbrain, it isn't loaded," the lieutenant murmured, absently shoving the private to one side. He concentrated on his target, one eye shut, the other squinted; his face scrunched up on one side, his lips parted and glistening.
"Please don't," the private pleaded, tugging on the lieutenant's arm. The sergeant grinned, enjoying the private's distress.
"Want me to hold him down, Lieutenant?" he asked, moving toward the younger soldier menacingly.
"Naw. Don't bother." The lieutenant thrust the private's hand from his arm. He raised his hand again, holding the gun at arm's length in front of him. He sighted along the barrel of the gun. He tensed. Across the field, the fugitive lifted his head from the cool earth, warily looking around.
<"Pow!" cried the lieutenant. "Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!" "You're out of bullets, Sir!" cried the sergeant. "Here!" He fumbled deep in a pocket on the thigh of his cammies, then shoved a closed fist into the lieutenant's hand.
"Stop it!" the private bellowed. He leaped to the lieutenant's side and slapped at the outstretched arm, but the sergeant caught him before his swing could connect.
"You stop it!" yelled the sergeant, punching the younger soldier solidly on the arm. "You're always spoiling everything!" He pushed the private hard, shoving him up against the lieutenant.
The sound of the shot shocked them into stillness and silence. The unexpected recoil knocked the lieutenant onto his backside in the wheat. The planet stopped spinning and its creatures stopped breathing.
Blue eyes wide and terrified, the private caught his breath, looking up first at the lieutenant's suddenly pale and stricken face, then at the startled face of his sergeant. Slowly, the sergeant's grin faded. The private turned his head to look across the field, and saw the fugitive's body jerk as if it had been stung. The sergeant's mouth gaped. The lieutenant dropped the gun as if it had burned him.
<"Omigawd," he whispered.
The private leaped to his feet, moving toward the immobile fugitive, with the sergeant and the lieutenant close behind him. He couldn't run fast enough. He was running in slow motion. His feet wouldn't go any faster. First the sergeant and then the lieutenant sped by him, mere blurs, running for all they were worth.
The fugitive lay on his stomach, his dirty face turned to one side, his eyes open and glazed and staring. A black ant crawled swiftly across his nose, and he didn't brush it away. A small, star-shaped splotch of crimson decorated the center of his sweat-dampened shirt. Beneath the body, a glistening pool of ruby liquid spread silently through the golden, whispering wheat.
The sergeant and the lieutenant moved their bare feet away from the slowly widening puddle. Insects buzzed around them, outraged. The sun stared down at them hotly: accusing. A lark trilled a single note from a tree at the edge of the field.
"Blood." The word was little more than a wisp of air from the lieutenant's mouth. The private backed away from the killer, his accomplice, and their victim; kept backing away, shaking his head slowly from side to side, unable to banish the sight of the viscous vermilion pool.
"I tried to tell you, Tony," he whimpered. He was going to be sick. He just knew it.
"Is he dead?" the sergeant whispered, wide-eyed. The lieutenant just looked at him, horrified. They both looked down at their unmoving prey. Another ant appeared on the still face, crawling from one ear towards the opened, silent mouth.
<"Ma-a-a-a-a-me-e-e-e!" the private suddenly screamed. He turned and raced toward a building beyond the wheatfield; a house almost hidden in the trees, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"Mommy! Tony and Billy shot the baby! Ma-a-a-a-a-me-e-e-e!"
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