Daylight comes like rust corroding night. It is cool from last night's rain and I stretch slowly, rested for the first time in months.

I roll out from under the truck and walk the perimeter of the old camp, peeing as I go, stopping only to scratch my balls. Returning to the truck I slept under, I fish out a can of beans, bayonet it open, and spoon it cold with the tip of my knife. I have to move on. If the voices I just heard are enemy soldiers, they will soon be here.
I search through the cabs and backs of the trucks for any kind of bag. It seems like a good idea to pack some food for the road, and maybe some loot that I can trade for favors. There is nothing. I leave the armored vehicles for last, afraid to jump into their dark bellies. I feel like the pygmy on the elephant hunt who has to cut into the beast and push past organs to cut out its heart, thereby declaring it an open feast.

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Last modified on September 19, 2011  | © Telegram 2005