𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞; eugene roe ✔

PART TWENTY

Word count; 2,166

Valentina

By the fence of the front veranda sat Spiers, sprawled over a wooden bench, head leaning uncomfortably back over the arm rest.

"Look what we found."

"What I found." Welsh corrected Lewis. "A very vintage bourbon, made in Poland."

I watched both officers step down from the front door and drift towards us. I was sat on a small stool, a table full of sandwiches and boxes of pretzels to my left. In the time it had taken us to complete such a task, the temperature had only risen, increasing by almost three times than its original state. Bereft of clouds, the canopy of the veranda was one of the only things left to shield us from the heat. Sun beetles buzzed in delight.

"Do not mind if I do." Spiers whispered to himself, raising his head to take a sip and then allowing it back to his original position in pleasure.

"It's good?" Welsh had a sip himself, then passed it to Lewis.

Nixon had a few swigs, the bottle snatched off of him before he could have anymore.

"Want some?"

I regarded Welsh, "Do you have a glass?"

"You heard her, Capt. Nix, go find a glass." The Irishman beamed.

"I don't have any diseases. Take a sip, it's all right."

I scoffed faintly, grabbing the bottle by its neck, "I'm only afraid of catching that attitude you Americans fall into when things don't go your way."

All three men burst into laughter and criticism, arguing to each other on who I was referring to. Eugene returned from upstairs, furrowing his brows at the uproar. 

"How do you enjoy this?" I grimaced at the taste of the whiskey, rendering only more eruption.

"More for us, then." Welsh retrieved the bottle from my hands.

"I found this." The medic stood nearby the table of food, talking quietly despite the attention being on the bourbon. "It's a painkiller. Not opium. It will help with the hand. Very mild but for a throb - it'll do fine. Take one whenever it hits. No more than one a day, okay?"

"Thank you." I smiled warmly, taking it from him and stuffing it into one of my pockets. "Do you know when these men will arrive? I fear the bread will go stale. More stale than it is."

"They'll eat it, don't you worry."

"Oh, Valentina." Nixon called from his place not far down the veranda. "I found one of your papers the other day. Welsh just made some shitty joke about salt and it reminded me."

"Hey!" The Irishman pushed playfully on Lewis' shoulder.

A pang shot through my heart and, evidently, Eugene noticed, "All right?"

"Yes." I simpered. "Very fine."

Through the streets in front of us, the faint bellowing of some chant bashed between the walls of houses, swirling up into the sky. I couldn't recognise the song yet the men around me did, all turning to the noise with grins. Slowly, the collective stomp of feet followed.

"Here we go." Spiers mumbled.

The chant became louder. Soon, ranks of men appeared down the street, all jogging in sync, each step a part of the pulse for their song. As the melody closed, each man was told to halt collectively. In this time, Spiers had stood and hobbled down the stairs of the veranda. He had expected to see Winters but even he was vacant from the lines of men. I had expected to see Liebgott - another vacancy in the ranks. However, seeing Luz happily in one of the front rows, I looked to Eugene who disapprovingly shook his head with a smile.