No Alarms and No Surprises

These ideas always sounded plausible to begin with. Mickey let him think on it and quietness settled between them.

Digweed, a baby-faced 18-year-old with a soft West Country accent when Mickey had met him back in England at the Depot, walked past with the regular tread of an automaton. He had aged at least five years in the few months they'd been in-country. Mickey had noticed this effect with many of the kids after their first taste of real combat. They become thinner, like winter-skinny deer, and quiet with the dull stare of people who have been to a lot of very dark places in too short a period of time. Digweed didn't smile any more, or speak unless he had to. Mickey pulled his knees up in front of him, and watched him pass.

"Oi, Shitseed, how's it swingin'?" Dook called out in Digweed's direction.

Digweed stopped and looked over at them briefly. Despite the heat of the sun his face was pale as a ghost and he made no comment. He simply turned and moved off with his rifle slung over his shoulder, plodding down between the high dirty walls of the compounds towards the bridge.

"There goes one mad motherfucker."

Mickey said nothing in reply and once more they drifted off into their own thoughts.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)