No. Definitely.
“Charlie!”
Silence.
“Charlie, wake up, you're crying, Charlie!”
“I'm not, I'm okay, what, what's that…uh?”
“You were crying in your sleep.”
“It was the coffee.”
“Who is Quintana, Charlie?”
“Nobody. A guy. Nobody.”
“Charlie, something awful is happening to you.”
“Shut up, Brenda. Let me sleep.”
Silence.
“Oh God.”
“Come, Charlie. Lie over here.”
“Hold me.”
“Don’t cry.”
Silence.
They stood outside the little kike’s store, waiting till the woman had looked at all the rotisseries and decided against any of them. They waited until she left, then Knox and Ernie Buscher went in.
“Mr. Kapp,” Ernie said, “I’ve come for my sofa and easy chair suite. My friend and I got a truck outside.”
Kapp was in his sixties. When he looked confused, his face became a cartographer’s delight. “Suite, you say? What was the name, do you mind?”
“Buscher,” said Ernie. Then he spelled it. “You said you’d have it ready today.”
“Today? Saturday? I got no deliveries on Saturday. Are you sure it was a Saturday, you’re sure?”
“C’mon, Kapp,” Ernie said, his voice getting deeper, “don’t play jewdown with me. I paid you, you said today, now gimme my furniture.” Ernie’s eyes narrowed down, his jaw muscles tensed, he made a fist, let it relax, made it again. Ernie was unreliable, moved too fast.
The sheenie was nervous. “If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll check my order book. When was it you said you bought this merchandise?”
“Don’t give me any shit, kike, get my stuff out here on the double before I kick your guts out!”
Kapp started to say something about the language being used, but Ernie needed no further provocation. He had enough for the investigation by the Party, right there on his recorder-tip. As Kapp raised his right had to wave a finger in Ernie’s face, Ernie grabbed the hand and broke it. It was too fast for Knox, but it was on, so he went with it.
“Try to slug my friend, you kike sonofabitch,” he said, very loud and very clear so the tip would pick it up, “how about this!” He whipped the link-chain belt off his waist with a smooth movement and brought it down across Kapp's thin shoulders with a crack. The sharpened links ripped cloth and broke skin. Kapp screamed, and Ernie fell back to let Knox work.
Knox felt a sudden, blossoming joy in his mission, and using a chain was too impersonal, too removed. He went at the little mockie with his fists.
Ernie Buscher threw a table through the front window, into the street. Knox held Kapp with his left hand around the sheenie's throat, the drumming heels an inch off the floor, the trembling body against the wall. Steadily and smoothly, as though gauging the rebound of the big bag down in the gym, Knox jacked one punch after another into Kapp's face; right cheekbone, nose, left cheekbone, nose, jaw, nose-and it broke-left cheek, right cheek, nose, nose, nose. The sound of the table shattering the front window, and its impact in the street, brought the others on the run.
They poured the kerosene over the breakfronts and dinette sets and ottomans and recliners. They tossed chairs into a pile in the center of the store, and yelled for Watson to bring the jellybomb.
“C'mon, Knox!” Ernie yelled. Knox put two final blows into Kapp's ruined face, then slung the little kike over his shoulder and carried him to the mound of shattered furniture in the center of the store. He flipped him over, and Kapp fell across the edge of a broken table. His spine cracked with a sound like borax furniture.
Then Knox followed the others outside, Watson handed him the jellybomb, because it was Knox's mission, and Knox pulled the tab, and slung the pill underhand, through the broken window.
They stood on the opposite side of the street, and when the first rush of heat came at them, they turned away to avoid getting their eyeballs singed. It was like a sirocco, then a whump of pressure and bits of what was inside the store, including Kapp, came slicing out through the broken front window. Flames slashed after the shrapnel, and erupted into the street. Then the entire building went up.
“Damn!” Knox said. A piece of glass had cut him across the back of his left hand. “Damn!”
Charlie Knox is a man who.
Refuses to ask the necessary questions.
And even if he could, he wouldn't. But he can't. That's been made sure of. He can't. Doesn't even know. They exist.
Those questions. And other things.
Training is very important for Charlie Knox. For Knox, training is important. To stay fit. To stay tough. Because.
That means.
Survival. And survival sometimes means getting a little cruel. Weakness kills.
And then the persons in black garments come and.
No.
There are no such things. Those are dreams. Those are delusions. Those are guilt. Those are fantasies. Those don't happen. Those persons in black garments, when the sky opens and they come in.
No.
Think about it. No.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“You know like what!”
“It's your imagination.”
“You keep doing that to me now, all the time.”
“I'm not doing anything, shut up.”
“You never talked to me like that.”
“I always talk the same.”
“You don't. You're different. You've changed, you're changing.”
“Shut up.”
“You're like an animal now, Charlie. You scare me.”
“Maybe that's what you need. To be scared. Maybe that'd shape you up.”
“What are you talking about!?!”
“Don't yell at me, I'll clip you one.”
“Charlie, honey, what're you doing? You scare me.”
“Stop crying…I'm sorry. Honest to God, I'm sorry. It's just, oh, you know. There's another purge coming on at the ward.”
“But what's that got to do with me?”
Silence.
“Charlie?”
“Nothing. Stop crying.”
“Do you love me?”
Ted Beckwith was Knox's best friend. They joined the Party together, their wives exchanged secrets regularly, their kids went on camping trips out near the perimeter. Beckwith hated this life of endless and senseless assembly line drudgery, mindless holovision game shows, patch-on-the-sleeve heroism and provincial hatred. Ted Beckwith was a member of the underground. Beckwith tried not to let it show: that he despised everything Knox had become. He thought, at one time, that Knox might come in with him and the others. That he would take a walk out near the perimeter, and he would reveal all of it to Knox.
“There has to be more to life than this,” he thought he would say, on that day. “There has to be more than the rallies and the fitness sessions and the prayer meetings for the President's health. There has to be. The world has to be wider than what we have here, Charlie.” That was what he would say to Knox, on that day. But Knox had begun to change. It had started long before the night Knox killed his poor black nobody. It had been long before that. But on the night of the raid, the change had begun to accelerate. And then that business with Quint. Poor deviclass="underline" he hadn't been involved with anyone. Just too inept to keep up his beat on the line. But Knox was forming anew, even then. And it had gone on.
Now Ted Beckwith knew Knox was one of them, one of the heroes with a patch on his sleeve. Now he could never tell him. Ted Beckwith had to go on being Knox's best friend, and he despised him.
Ted Beckwith did not think Knox knew about his secret involvement with the underground.
Beckwith was wrong.
Ted Beckwith came home. Knox watched from cover. As he walked up the front steps of his little house, Beckwith saw a terrible thing, a thing he could not believe. He had a dog, a beautiful dog, a golden retriever. As he walked up the steps of his house, he stopped and stared, because he could not believe what he saw. Tears came into his eyes and filled them; he slumped down on the top step, crying without being able to stop. Someone had held his beautiful dog by the throat, up against the wooden wall of the house, and had driven a long, thick nail through the throat and into the wood. The nail had been driven in, hammered in, all the way to the head. The nail head gleamed brightly through the fur, reflecting in the porch light. Knox could see it all the way across the street. The dog's four paws had been nailed to the wall. The dog had voided itself as it died, and the wall was smeared.