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"They're our boys," said the radio man. "They're talking English."
From the next floor down, there were voices, and now Chinma tried to understand them. He had been expecting foreign babble before, and English was not his native language. But he knew the words now.
"We're too late, they got this floor."
"Only a few," said another. "They must have taken them up, everyone who could go."
Then silence, but a lot more boots coming up the stairs to the floor just below.
Suddenly the radio man started shouting. "Nobody but Americans up here, men!"
A voice came from below. "Who are you! State your name!"
"Rusty Humphries, dammit, don't you know my voice? What, is your radio broken? 'If I didn't say it, it's prob'ly a lie! Rusty! Heck yeah!'"
And a couple of men from below began to sing along. " 'Rusty! Heck yeah!'"
Humphries stopped their singing. "Okay, rock stars, that's enough. Two of 'em got up here, but they're dead now. Got a lot of sick soldiers up here, guys. Do you have masks? You really don't want to catch this thing."
"Doesn't sound like you're wearing a mask, Rusty!" shouted a man from below.
"Yeah, but I'm stupid," said Rusty. "So I probably caught it and I'm as contagious as anybody else. So when you come up, make sure you're wearing protection, just like they taught you in high school."
That got another laugh.
A couple of men appeared on the landing below. They were wearing face masks—not the white surgical masks that the caregivers used, but the larger green masks that Chinma had seen in the foot-lockers.
"Who's the boy?" asked a soldier. "You said nobody but Americans."
"His whole village was wiped out and President Torrent gave him asylum. I got his story from the folks back in the room where we were holed up, and I got to tell you, if he wasn't American before, when he dropped that enemy soldier he became an American as far as I'm concerned."
Chinma dropped his pistol. He didn't need it now. He ran back to the room. He wasn't sure why. Mark was dead. There was no more danger. But he needed to be there.
He came into the room and saw how frightened everyone still looked. Hadn't they heard the shouting and talking? "American soldiers here now," he said. "All safe."
Everyone began talking softly to one another and to Chinma.
"Do you think they could help us carry these men back down to their rooms?"
"What about the people we had to leave on the floor below?"
"Are you all right?"
But Chinma didn't know the answer to any of their questions. He walked toward Arty. The man's eyes were closed, so Chinma started past him, toward Mark's body.
Arty caught feebly at his leg, at his hand. Chinma stopped, knelt. Arty couldn't talk loudly enough for Chinma to make out what he was saying, above the noise of other people's talking. He leaned closer still, so his ear was just above Arty's mouth.
But instead of saying anything, Arty leaned up his head and twisted it so he could kiss Chinma on the cheek. Then Arty dropped his head back onto the pillow that Chinma himself had brought up the stairs with them when they fled up here only ten minutes before. Arty's eyes were open and filled with tears. "You did right," he whispered. Chinma didn't really hear him so much as read his lips.
"Mark is dead," Chinma said softly.
"I know," said Arty. Chinma leaned close to hear. "Very brave," added Arty.
"Very smart, too," said Chinma. "He knew what to do. I didn't know what to do, but he did."
"Son of a soldier," said Arty. Then he closed his eyes, worn out.
I am not the son of a soldier. That's why I didn't know what to do.
