Fifty-eight: Counting

"What's wrong with her?" Mr Raring asked, his dry voice taut and dangerous.

"She got really sick a few months back after helping dig a grave in the rain," Wobbly Nose cleared his throat, repetitively flicking his eyes to look at his CO and speaking in a halting voice. "She hasn't been quite right in the - since then."

"Oh?" Mr Raring said, his voice sounding somewhat sibilant. "And why would she have been digging a grave in the rain?"

"Dead people have to be buried, of course," the Scumbag said, injecting a good amount of his usual scorn into his voice. "Bad for the health of everyone in the Compound otherwise. Also, she was being punished for slacking off."

"Slacking off? The Miss Wallace I know has never had any problems with her work ethic. She doesn't slack off and I've watched her since the war began," Mr Raring said. "You wouldn't happen to want to revise that statement, would you?"

"No," the Scumbag said, sounding a bit affronted. "Why would I? It's in the records."

"In the records," Mr Raring smiled. "Very good. I'm sure you'll give the inspector a copy of all the real records when he arrives, won't you?"

"What are you getting at?" the Scumbag demanded, silencing his persistently ringing phone again. "I refuse to stand here and be insulted in my own office in this way."

"For one," Mr Raring smiled the smile a snake - or vulture - might give its prey before it was devoured. Except vultures ate carrion and Mr Raring was not looking like an opportunist at the moment. He was a hunter. For some reason he didn't look quite like a vulture anymore. His smile was kind of mesmerising in a dangerous way, "you are still sitting. Two, I'm sure the evidence will either vindicate or condemn you either way. Three, I believe you really should have picked up that phone."

"Sir," a soldier ran panting into the office, wide eyed, "there's a whole lot of government inspectors waiting at the gate. Why didn't you pick up your phone? Do we let them in?"

"Oh," Mr Raring picked up the ringing phone for the Scumbag. "Hello, yes, yes, your CO just got the news. Please, do let them in and prepare some rooms for them. I believe they're going to be here for quite some time. By the way, tell the boys in records that if they burn a single sheet of paper down there, their careers will burn as well. And not just theirs mind you. The rest of their families may as well. Now be good boys and show the inspectors around."

"We might get going now," Mr Cooper said, he wagged a finger at the Scumbag. "I can't believe the tip off the Boskies gave us was really true. It might be that we have a lesson to learn from them in integrity."

I walked out with Wobbly Nose first, being closest to the door and headed toward the field.

"No, no, Jean," said Mr Cooper, while Mr Raring somehow appeared on my other side to take my other arm. "Where are you going? You're coming with us."

I didn't think so. Last time I had gone with them, I had nearly gotten killed. My plants needed me more than they needed me.

"What's got into you?" Wobbly Nose hauled me back and took me by the shoulders, looking into my face. "Do you really not like these guys that much?"

I stared back.

"Do you?" I whispered.

"Actually," Wobbly Nose let go of me to scratch his back, "I think they're pretty cool. Didn't you see Scumbag's face?"

I looked away.

"Jean," Wobbly Nose sighed. "Come back. Don't drift off now. It's not like you have a choice and it's probably a good idea for you to get away from here for a while. Honestly, you look like the walking dead."

"And whose fault is that?" I whispered and it was his turn to look away.

"The Compound sure has changed since the early days of the war," Mr Cooper said looking out into the park. "Nice looking farm. What are those smooth patches over that side?"

This was important information I could impart. I tugged on his sleeve and pointed.

"Five, twelve, seven…"

"What? What are you talking about, Jean?"

"Look," I pointed, realising he wasn't understanding what I was trying to tell him. "Three hundred and sixty-seven in all. Three hundred and sixty-seven."

There was silence and Wobbly Nose looked down and away.

"I'm-I'm going to leave Jean with you guys," he said, edging away. "It gets a bit scary when she does start talking, otherwise she don't normally talk much. I'd better go help the boys, you know, show those inspectors around and watch the Scumbag get antsy. See ya."

He gave my arm to Mr Cooper and scooted.

"Jean," Mr Raring looked out at where I was pointing. "Are those graves? Are you talking about the graves?"

"Yes. Eighty-four. Three hundred and sixty-seven in eighty-four. Twenty-six alive. One hundred and ninety-three murders. One hundred and two executions. Seventy-seven POWs. Eleven pregnant," my head was beginning to spin again and dark blue crept across my vision. I sniffed back watery mucous and wiped my strangely wet cheeks, but I persisted. I had to get them out. The numbers had to come out. It was a relief to get it out at last. "Three hundred and four innocents," I gasped. "Two babies…"

"Jean. Jean!"