SYTYCW - DRFAUSTUS' entries

III - The Dog, The Watch, and the Bible

AN: For week three! Very possibly late, but that's my own stupid fault.

Soldier returning from war, and mystery.

---

The Dog, the Watch and the Bible

Like anyone around these parts under the age of twenty will remember the war. There have been so many scraps, so many small conflicts, that Russell is sure nobody will know which he's talking about if he mentions it to a kid. He remembers it all like it was yesterday. His calloused fingers close around the watch sitting on his mantelpiece, flanked by empty beer bottles and a bible. The second hand ticks relentlessly, staying in place. It struggles. The numbers are illegible under the scratched and scored glass.

He thinks back to his little squadron - himself, Trent and Big Brenda Sarton, Jay Cope, Vince Mercer, and Nicky Berry.

In this shithole, Russ is the only one to level with the Sarton family in terms of theft, scandal, and rage. He might not have a whole gang of wonky-eyed hicks behind him, but he's committed his fair share of crimes in the past and has escaped the local militia by a whisker's width. It's not like the trailer park was glad to have him home after the war.

--

16:21, 23rd May - Recruitment.

Men are milling around, clipboards in hand. A helicopter thrums overhead. Drab olive trucks are filled with jerrycans of gasoline or shells covered in old tarp. Russ glares at the woman sat behind the desk in the small tent, the same drab olive as everything else, in a drab olive uniform, hair buzzed short. He's surprised she hasn't dyed it that dreadful colour.

"Name?"

"Russ."

She peers over the top of her glasses at him, face settling into a stern frown. "Your whole name."

"Aw, right. Russell Murray."

The woman flicks through a stack of papers, licking her fingers to separate them. Paperclips click against one another as she files rapidly.

"Murray, Murray... Fran Murray, John Murray... Russell. Here you go. You can read and write... right?"

Russ, aged twenty, is used to this question. The wonky teeth which peek over his lip and his thick drawl don't do him any favours. As much as he's used to hearing it, his fists still clench. His knuckles are scarred, having scraped against many teeth in brawls.

"Yes," he hisses.

She hands him a pen and waves him off.

The form is simple, and contains all the details he gave when he was forcibly drafted by a couple of soldiers banging at his door in the middle of the night a couple months back. He corrects his birthdate, and flicks through to see he's been drafted into an armoured division. Confined spaces, his favourite. Wonderful. Once he's filled out a few areas, he gives his form in to a similarly stone-faced man with glasses. Some more waiting and umming and ahhing, and he's sent off with directions to find his unit.

The hodgepodge of people from his trailer park doesn't surprise him. He knows Jay and Vince personally, and everyone knows Big Brenda, her broad shoulders and thick forearms. So this little group will be his family for now. He is okay with that, until he spots Trent Sarton sitting on the back of a truck and finishing a can of beer.

Great, The war is getting off to a fantastic start, and there hasn't even been any fighting yet.

--

21:13, 12th June. The dog.

The whole world is shaking. Shells whistle through the air, and a death-rattle of machine gun fire cackles between the empty buildings. Russ pulls at his helmet and hunkers down, studying the map. Nicky is beside him, grimly clinging to her assault rifle like a child to a favourite toy. She is shivering, barely, and so is Russ. The two sit there, backed against a wall, tracing the map with unsteady fingers, their teeth chattering.