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“I get that,” John said, “but you can’t leave the British behind.”
“Tell that to George Washington,” the Marinesaid. “Dude didn’t fight no Revolutionary War for nothing.”
As the driveropened the van door, the tech pulled a face. “Man,” he said to John, “you were talking about shaking dust from our sandals? I’d settle for anything that might get rid of the stink. Getting so I can’t even eat anything anymore without it tasting like it got marinated in a sewer.”
A soldier to their right grunted. “I bet we all stink, just like we’re all baking under this damned sun. Know what I’m gonna do when I get back? I’m gonna find me a big ol’ metal barrel and then I’m gonna stuff in all my gear, throw on some gasoline the way they do with burn pits. Then I’m gonna light a match and toss it in and watch that stuff burn. I bet the smoke’s gonna be black. I’m gonna do it in daylight, too, so’s for just one minute, I don’t have to look at the sun.”
“Just like Mick Jagger,” the tech said. “That song about the sun getting blotted out of the sky?”
“Yeah,” John said. “Paint it black, baby. Paint it black.”
Following the tech through the alley between hangars, he made sure to put the tech on his right so when they walked from the drop-off to the med tent, he would have to look to his right and awayfrom Driver’s hangar on his left. Just didn’t need that temptation.
The day was already hot. The air was thick, and the tech was right. The reek was so heavy, foul, and oily, no amount of spitting cleared the taste from the back of his throat.
He heard the crowd, too, as a sort of background music, a kind of constant clamor.
“Lot of people,” the tech said, stating the obvious. “What you want to bet they’re all good and panicked on account of Abbey closing last night? They got to know the end’s right around the corner.” The tech paused. “Sounds like a big crowd at a football game you know?”
“Uh-huh,” John said, but that’s not what came to his mind. The sound of all those people made his skin prickle. The sound reminded him of the way the waters of Lake Superior ebbed and flowed, swelled and then retreated only to return and crash against the shore as the wind picked up each successive wave and churned the water into something larger and faster and more powerful.
This was, he thought, the sound of a gathering storm.