2goodarms | [flashback] uneasy sleep

[flashback] uneasy sleep

Edgar outgrew his oil drum crib a while ago. Long enough that he's spent more time sleeping in Curtis's bed than he did in the crib; long enough that Curtis is used to squishing awkwardly to one side to make room for the warm weight on his other. It's not like anybody can get real breathing room back here anyway. What's losing a little more of it?

Because consensus moved through the Tail a while ago, unspoken but clear, that the full-sized cots and hammocks would only be given to people who couldn't fit anywhere else. That doesn't include Edgar yet -- and Edgar is Curtis's responsibility.

He drifted off to the usual sounds of the train rattling and Edgar breathing. The kid's not wheezing, he thought just before succumbing to sleep. Good. Don't want him catching whatever's going around the Tail lately.

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Edgar knows he's getting bigger; Tanya measured him against the wall yesterday, and showed him the mark she made right by the top of his head last New Year's, now level with his eyebrows. Next New Year's he'll be nine, and maybe even taller.

Most of the time he likes the idea of getting bigger, but lately it's been getting harder to squish down small enough to fit into bed with Curtis at night, and he feels ... uncomfortable about that. Guilty, even though he didn't do anything wrong; scared, even though there's nothing to be scared of.

He's at least big enough to go by himself when he wakes up in the middle of the night and needs to pee. Slowly, silently, he inches out from under the blanket and onto the ladder. He's even more careful as he climbs down past old Harry's bunk -- if he wakes him, he'll start coughing again, and they'll none of them get any more sleep tonight.

He makes it to the floor level without any mishaps, and pads in his sock feet toward the latrines.

He becomes distantly aware of more space, less heat; all he can think in response is oh, good, as he rolls over to claim it.

Several minutes after that, the same awareness nudges him in the side, pointing out what would've caused his bed to double in size.

Curtis opens his eyes and blinks, blearily.

It always smells bad by the latrines, but at least at night there usually isn't a line to use them. Edgar finishes as fast as he can and starts making his way back, through the rows and rows of sleeping people.

Mostly sleeping. He hears a whispered argument somewhere, and a baby crying, and what might be a grownup crying or might be two grownups doing the nevermind-thing; it's hard to tell just from the sound of it.

Edgar's not there.

Okay. No big deal. He's probably just taking a leak. Nothing serious.

(He doesn't want to think about if it is something serious. He can't let the kid get hurt. He can't.)

Curtis shifts again, squeezing back into his side of the bed, and starts a slow count. If he gets to three hundred with no sign of Edgar, it's time to go look for him.

He ducks around the last corner and pads over to the ladder, finding his own stack of bunks unerringly in the darkness without thinking about it much.

Two rungs up the ladder and he freezes: he's jostled Harry's thin mattress. He waits motionless for the old man to wake, for the querulous scolding to start.

Nothing happens.

Curtis hears the creak of the latter, twice, and the abrupt silence that follows. No thumps that might point to Edgar falling off, but --

After a count to five, he peers over the edge of the bed.

Edgar's clinging to the ladder, quite still, looking in at Harry.

At the movement above he looks up, his small face a pale gleam in the dimness, and starts climbing again.

Curtis scoots back again to make room.

"Hey," he whispers once Edgar's made it to their bunk. "What's going on?"

He shakes his head.

"I thought I bumped Harry," he whispers back, "but he din't wake up."

"Huh."

He chews the inside of his cheek, resists the urge to peer down at Harry's bunk. Harry's a reasonably light sleeper. If Edgar really did bump him...

Whatever. Curtis stifles a yawn with the back of his hand.

Yawning in turn, Edgar burrows under the blanket next to Curtis and lays his head down.

He's asleep again in moments.

So's Curtis.

Until, several hours later, a shout -- followed by several curses and an imploring, someone get Gilliam! -- floats up from the bunk beneath theirs.

Curtis jerks awake.

As does Edgar, at almost the same moment; it's impossible to tell whether it was Curtis's sharp movement or the shouting that woke him.

He sits up, pushing aside the blanket to lean over the edge of the bed. Four or five grownups are clustering near, and heads are popping up all around from the surrounding bunks to see what's going on.

"Edgar, move back -- "

Curtis hauls himself to a free spot on the side of the bed, gesturing for Edgar to get behind him. He peers down, trying to suss out what's going on.

Several of those people are reaching into Harry's bunk, shaking him, their voices getting louder.

He finds a perch behind Curtis, and leans on his shoulder to peer over.

Low and worried: "Is he dead?"

"I don't know."

Seems pretty damn likely, though. Especially when one of the women yanks Harry's pillows and blanket out of his bunk, muttering something about disposing of them. Further down the way, the distinctive creak of Gilliam's wheelchair comes closer.

It's not like he's never seen anyone dead before. But the idea that he went right past Harry, twice, and maybe he was dead already and he didn't even know it ... that sends prickles right up his neck, makes him want to hide under the blanket again.

So he shoves away from Curtis and wriggles over to the head of the ladder, hooking one arm around it to keep himself in place and leaning way out to get a better look.

Gilliam's coming through the thickening crowd, with David pushing his chair.

"Edgar -- "

This time, Curtis grabs his arm to try and haul him back.

He knows better than to struggle; even if Curtis weren't so much stronger, he could end up pulling free only to fall off. His only protest is a muffled "Aww," as he's dragged back onto the bunk.

Curtis sprawls out the full length of the bed to completely block Edgar from the edge. After a second's hesitation, he grips the ladder and cranes his neck so he can stare all the way into Harry's bunk.

Not for long; in an echo of what he did to Edgar, one of the older men shoves him back with a hissed, move it!

Before he does, he catches a glimpse of Harry: eyes closed, mouth open, dried spittle at the corners of his lips.

Gilliam's asking if Harry had any close friends. They all know he didn't have any family.

(He sounds so sad. Edgar squirms a little, biting his lip, because Gilliam sounding sad always makes him feel awful; he feels worse for Gilliam than for Harry.)

The blankets are gone; the thin sheet beneath Harry, worn threadbare and ground in with years of filth, isn't.

Not until two of the adults reach in, rummage for several minutes, and -- with extra help from a third person -- ease out a large bundle consisting of far more than the sheet. Harry's body has already gone rigid, like one of the guards stuck it out in the cold.

That's one of the last sheets we've got, Curtis hears himself think with a disproportionate flare of annoyance. You're using it for a fucking funeral shroud?

Edgar looks at Curtis's face, and doesn't say anything. They're taking the body away now, toward the front end of the tail section, where the guards will take it when they come for head count.

Harry didn't have much in the way of personal possessions, even for the tail. One of the older women is collecting them now, to bring to Gilliam's tent: a pair of shoes, a ratty sweater, a little star that somebody twisted out of scrap wire and hung from a string, a handful of dog-eared postcards.

The immediate drama of the moment has ended; people start to retreat back into their beds, faces disappearing one by one. From the bunk across the aisle, Curtis hears Allison murmur what sounds like a prayer.

He pulls back, settles into bed, shoves one hand under the thin pillow to prop it up a bit further.

Edgar feels a bit too keyed up to go back to sleep, but ...

"How long till it's morning?" he asks Curtis, in a whisper.

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