Vagabonds: Anthology of the Mad Ones Vagabonds Vol. 3 | Page 40

didn't want to think about that. “Okay, match the number. Plot 4221. Urn 4221.
Witness.”
“Witnessed.” Dave said. He didn't bother double checking the numbers
anymore. I moved onto the next space and he began tamping plot 4221.
A rifle report echoed over the hills. I straightened, ignoring the kink in
my back. My hand jerked by reflex to my brow in a sharp salute and I sensed
rather than saw Dave doing the same. We remained at attention through the
following volleys and until the last notes of Taps faded.
The rows of headstones stretched out in front of us, the precision of the
markers an aberration in the tranquility of the otherwise natural landscape. When
I'd first seen it, I'd been humbled by the sheer multitudes. There was both horror
and comfort in seeing so many of my fallen brethren in one place. Some had died
in the line of duty while others had come back years later to rest here in honor.
After a while I numbed to the sight of the dress whites folding the flag and
hearing the bugle's mournful call. Soon I only saw the headstones, one after
another, stretching into eternity. Mine would line the path one day, too, but the
thought didn't bring the shiver it once had. I was dulled to anything but my
unending labor.
The flick of the lighter broke my reverie and a prickle of annoyance
crawled under my skin as I watched Dave light another cigarette. “C'mon. We're
behind schedule. You don't have time for that,” I said.
“Who cares?” Dave asked and sucked in a lungful of smoke. “Benny
used to say—”
“Benny's dead.” I said. “Someone like us buried him, right over there in
row three. We're burying someone just like him right now. We might be
invisible, but there's work to do. So pick up that shovel, shut up and haul dirt
until fucking Taps again, will you?”
We worked in silence then, adding rows together into forever.
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