The Troop

Ephraim gave him a dismissive shove. “A fucking granny walk, eh? Bozo.”

Kent hated the sudden shameful fear that rose in his throat, choking him—hated himself for feeling it. The sheepdog had behaved weakly—he himself had become a sheep.

Baaaah. His father’s mocking voice kicked up inside his skull. Baaaah, baaaah, Kenty-sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir! Three bags full…

Kent bit down on his tongue. His father’s voice switched off like a radio as his mouth filled with the tinfoil-y taste of blood.

They stood on a stony promontory. The salt-heavy wind riffled and snapped at the boys’ clothing. At their backs lay the darkness of the forest. Kent screwed his eyes against the shivering water. Perhaps a mile away the white surf crested on the rusted bones of a sunken freighter. The sky met the sea at the horizon. Kent found it impossible to separate one from the other: sea and sky welded together without a joint.

Sudden thunder arose. A helicopter breasted the latticework of trees. Black and muscular looking: not a traffic or sightseeing helicopter.

The boys’ faces broke into delighted grins. They waved. The chopper climbed into the sky and rotated around with its nose tilted down, then dropped abruptly. The pulse of its blades burred painfully inside the boys’ skulls. Kent could smell the frictionless grease the mechanics used to lubricate its rotors: a little like cherry Certs.

The helicopter lifted up with predatory grace, swung round, and fled into the open sea. Squinting, Kent could just make out a series of squat dark shapes strung across its flight path.

“Ships out there,” Newton said. “Looks like they’re anchored. The military does maneuvers out here sometimes… but I mean, that’s an awful lot of ships.”

“Maybe they’re whaling ships,” said Kent. “You better watch out, Newt—they’re coming to harpoon your fat ass.”

As the boys’ riotous laughter washed over him, Newt’s eyes returned to the water. Kent felt better; the equilibrium reestablished and he was in control again—Newt was always good for that—but still, a bitter alkaline taste slimed his tongue, as if he were sucking on an old battery.

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