The war would start any minute now, and Handel couldn't wait. It was the day the Mauve clan had threatened to invade, and everyone was ready for the end of the world. Civilians had closed up shop, police were scattered around town, and now the militia was being called out. Every gun in the town was locked and loaded. The government sent emergency broadcasts to everyone rich enough to own a projector. In the alleys, migrant women whispered the news to each other.
The other men were squirreled away inside their homes, waiting helplessly for women to fight over their ownership. But not Handel. Handel was armed with his trusty rifle, protected by a bulletproof vest and ready to fight for his right to exist.
Near the middle of town, he walked past sandbag barriers, where sharpshooters, medics and riflewomen huddled together, reassuring each other with whispers and nods. They were the rearguard. Past them, more women were scattered in ditches, staring out over no-man's-land through the scopes of long-range rifles. Beyond them, in no-man's-land, Handel climbed down a newly placed ladder into the trench, where the cool, musty walls enveloped him like another suit of armor. Here, he was alone. Since Bonde Wakulima was low on warriors, guards in the trench were placed as far apart as the government thought they could get away with. When the invasion came, wherever it came from, defenders would be brought to the battlefield by utility trucks. That was the plan, anyway. Handel had problems with it, but nobody had asked him.
Handel always had an easy time waiting as long as there was a purpose to it, and now he put that skill to good use. Imagining the fight to come, he laughed out loud. His tyrannical sisters would have been horrified to see him, a man, armed and ready to fight. And that was what made it so delicious.
Noon approached, and he hungered for something to do besides fan away mosquitoes. He started scratching patterns in the dirt, looking up a few times and seeing nothing. Then the ever-present tightness in his stomach grew painful, and he wondered when lunch would show up. He had been promised meals, but so far none had come.
A woman came down the trench. Handel prepared himself. If this woman was anything like the ones in the jungle, she would see him as a prize to be won-- as a chance to prove her adulthood. Maybe she would make passes at him or try to fondle him, or just menace him to make herself feel powerful. As she approached, he hunched his back and prepared to shove her away.
She passed without acknowledging him.
Handel put her out of his mind and kept watching the jungle. The bandits would come today. Tongana had been sure of it. But one hour lumbered by after another, and still nothing happened. Handel clawed at the soil and stamped his feet. He needed to talk to someone, or run, or fight or do something. He was good at waiting, but this was running long, even for him.
Behind him, footsteps hissed on ash, and he turned to see a woman carrying a lunchbox. "Got something for you," she said, kneeling at the precipice. "Lunch, courtesy of Morgan Senitiki."
Opening the box, Handel saw a plastic container full of salad with fresh-looking bread chunks. Beside it, a few dumplings rolled around in the bottom of the box, and there was even some kind of sugar candy on a stick. "Wow," said Handel. "A full meal. Morgan's good for something after all."
"What do you mean by that?" asked the woman.
"What I mean is, he should be out here, fighting."
"It wasn't his choice. And that's a mean thing to say, anyway."
Handel rolled his eyes. "Fine. But you women are just hurting yourselves when you keep us locked up like that."
The woman made a flustered noise and left.
