The Poppy Garden - Short Story

I can’t stop thinking about the fella on the stolen radio.

He was slurring his words. I hope he’s telling the truth, cause if he’s not, then that means help’s not gonna be here soon – that Cap’s gonna die – or, he might. I don’t know. The last I saw of Cap was after the Luftwaffe attacked the railway station in Rennes. Brave bastard pulled me out of the rubble and ran miles with me in his arms.

Whenever I try to think back, I hear him yelling at me: ‘Don’t you dare fall asleep on me now, Wren, you hear me? Ay, kid! Open your damn eyes!’

For a few days, I’ve been living off berries and running on hope. My eyes hurt – I wanna sleep so bad. I reckon my eyelids are pink too, the amount I’ve been running them; my fingers are stained. Doesn’t matter, though, I’ve got to keep my head about me – keep my eyes on the black haired bloke.

I think of the fella on the radio again: ‘You wait for us, and you don’t engage the threat alone, kid.’ Pfft, pity about him. And this bloke, a threat? Seriously? I guess I can’t judge him too much, though. He can’t see what I’m seeing right now.

The fella’s a hopeless romantic, I think, cause he’s picking petals off red flowers. They’re sitting in a pile on the kitchen table, he’s sitting at. Well, he might be more of a starved romantic, cause, after picking the petals, he’s eating them.

And he doesn’t even flinch.

I look at my watch, but the glass is cracked. The hands are trying to tell me it’s ten-thirty in the morning. But the sky is black, and the winds got a bite. It’s trying to trick me, whistling like Cap used to whenever moods in the platoon were low. I don’t think the cold’s helping my mood either, though, cause it’s getting past the hole in my shirt and burning the skin on my belly. It feels like I’ve got shrapnel in my gut again. It feels like when my Pop would press his lit ciggies against my arms when I was being naughty.

His chair squeals as he stands up to yawn. His teeth are red. My heart’s banging on my chest, it feels like it’s gonna break out of its cage and go on a runner. He grabs the candle in the centre of the table, and I watch him disappear down the corridor of the cabin.

Tonight’s the night. Please God, let him be here.

I feel a lump under my muddy boot as soon as I step inside the cabin. I pull the glove off my right hand. There’s something hairy poking through the floorboard.

I grab my lighter from my pocket and hold it to the thin lump. It looks like a flower stem, and I pull on it. I swear the house groans. I pull on it again, and I hear another sound, only this time, it’s closer to a moan, and it’s coming from below me.

Moving across the cabin on my hands and knees, I follow the stem as it weaves between the cracks of the floorboards. I come to a quick stop cause it curves down and under the gap between the floorboards and a door. Looking up, I realise it’s the one I’ve seen him open more times than the front one. I grab the handle and lean into it, guiding it until it hits the wall. There’s a cluster of greenery scaling the wall, like ivy on the outside of an old building.

‘Cap?’

There’s a gargle from across the room. I walk forward. There are cracks in the stone floor, and I follow them until I see a pile of dirt against the back wall. I’ve seen dig-jobs like this before, at Pop’s funeral; grave diggers piled the dirt so high it was nearly taller than me.

The only difference here is the small hole.

Crouching down, I scoop away a handful of dirt, and my hand catches what feels like hair. Holding my lighter to the hole, I freeze. The lighter falls out of my hand, and I start digging like a dog burying its bone.

‘D- Don’t worry, Cap, I’m gonna get you out of here!’

My fingers catch one of the flowers on the dirt above him. I yank it, he yelps out, ‘Stop!’

Immediately, I reach for my lighter while he’s crying. I grab it, holding it to the flowers. Out of his bare skin are tens – maybe hundreds – of stems. I pull away and look at his face. Something red is bulging out of his eye socket.

Clamping my hands over my mouth, I hear him say, ‘Kid?’

But I’m a coward cause I’m up on my feet and bounding up the stairs. My hands shake as I close the door to the basement behind me. My stomach aches, my throat burns, and my legs are carrying me out of the cabin and into the woods.

Away from my captain.

* 

I can’t stop thinking about the fella on the stolen radio.

He told me the same thing he’s said every morning for the last couple days; they’re coming.

It’s not good enough, though, and I told him that. ‘You need to hurry; he’s dying! T- That bastard, he’s using him to grow those flowers – where are you?’

I couldn’t eat my berries this morning, I washed my hands too and pink’s starting to come off my fingertips, but my eyes are still burning. Just like yesterday, I’m kneeling, watching the black-haired man chew on the red petals.

I think of the fella on the radio again: ‘Are they the magical flowers that the lady on the farm gave you, yeah? Y’know, the ones that brought you back from the dead – the ones that got that captain of yours captured for tryin’ to steal more of them?’

He’s not gonna call tomorrow. Earlier today, I threw the radio on the ground and stomped on it until it was in pieces. I can’t feel the cold; I don’t think I’m really in my body right now. Ever since last night, I’ve felt like I’m floating.

I still hear his chair squeal on the floor, see him standing up, see his blood red teeth. My heart’s still, like a dead man's, but my face is hot as I watch him disappearing into the cabin. Grabbing the window ledge, I yank myself up off the ground. I stand with a grunt, eyeing the front door.

Tonight’s the night. I’m going to kill him.

As I enter the cabin, I ignore the stem I followed last night. Instead, I walk into the darkness. His bedroom door’s at the end of the corridor; it’s the only door here. I push it open carefully, craning my neck, peering into the room. The duvet’s lying flat against the mattress, there’s no dent in the pillow, no body in the bed. My hand slips off the handle, and I step into the room.

The door squeals, and the lock nudges the doorframe.

‘I knew it.’

I’m staring straight ahead, but the voice is coming from behind me. My eyes move around the room, and the moonlight, peering through the laced curtains, shines on a metal lump sitting on the nightstand nearest the door. I turn away from it. From the corner of the room, he appears, thick, bushy brows knitted together, sneering at me.

‘I saw you last night.’

I straighten up and puff out my chest, but my voice just has to crack as soon as I open my mouth and say, ‘W- What have you done to my captain?’

He barks out a laugh, ‘What I do to all the soldier scum.’ His accent is thick, the type that’s been haunting me in my sleep since I first touched down in France.

I take a step back. ‘Is this some sick Nazi plot? Using living soldiers to grow flowers to bring your men back from the dead?’

‘Don’t,’ he says, stepping forward, pointing his finger at me, ‘You’re all the same; you fight with the same guns, drop the same bombs, kill civilians. You’re not better than the thing you’re trying to destroy.’

I take another step back. ‘You’re a monster.’

‘You want monsters? Look at your own men,’ he yells, jabbing a finger into his chest. ‘I left Germany when the Nazis turned violent, but it didn’t matter, cause you Brits’ll bomb anyone to prove a point.’ The moonlight catches his face, and he grits his teeth. ‘And the poppies save you, but never the real victims like me!’

He lunges forward, grabbing my shoulder, and with a grunt, my belly feels hot.

Hotter than the ciggies, hotter than the shrapnel.

I squeeze his forearm, my other arm knocking against the nightstand behind me as I look down. His hand holds the black handle of a knife, and blood is coating his hand as he pulls it out. He swings his arm backwards, yelling as he brings it down towards my chest.

But the knife hits the ground before it can hit me, and the stranger falls with it.

I land beside him, dropping the captain’s pistol beside me. Ripping open my shirt, my hands hover over the wound, but I don’t touch it. Grabbing my lighter, I lean forward, choking on a sob, staring at the wound in my stomach. Blood gushes out of it, pouring past the edges with every breath I take. Tears cling to my eyelashes and land in it.

For a second, I think I’ve died.

The ache in my chest fades, and the scorching heat and sickness in my stomach goes with it. Blinking, I look into the orange light of the flame. I press my hands against my stomach – it’s still gotta be there, the pain’s just making me delirious. I even dig my nails into my skin, but they don’t break through the skin.

It’s gone. I press my fingers into my belly again and still there’s nothing. It’s really gone. 

I can’t stop thinking about my captain as I grab his pistol and stand up. My head’s throbbing as I step over the stranger running to the basement. My fingers are pinching at my stomach and I’m still crying – I have to, he’ll need all the tears he can get!

I find him in his shallow grave, wasting no time as I scoop up lumps of dirt, snivelling like a baby. I let my tears fall onto his skin, but my eyes dry quickly as he grabs my wrist.

He’s eyes his pistol.

With the dirt pushed to the side, it exposes the growth of flowers. Like shingles, they're stuck together in angry red clusters, and where my tears have fallen, more have pushed through his skin. They’re not going away; they’re spreading. His chest rattles as he sucks up a breath, and he nods at me. But I don’t want to think about killing my captain.

Though, it’s too late, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. I felt his hand slip away from my wrist after I squeezed the trigger. He broke into pieces as his body was swallowed whole by the dirt he was covered in.

 I’m hunched over, swallowing dirt as I sob, grabbing fistfuls of it like I’m gonna bring him back – do what my tears couldn’t.

Something’s brushing against the side of my face. I open my eyes and turn my head to the side. 

A single red flower has bloomed, its black centre like a pupil, staring at me. 

It leans into me and swipes the tear rolling down my cheek. 

Above, I hear the floorboards creak and vibrate as voices fill the silent space. Could be the man on the radio, or the stranger – I don’t know. But I don’t care either as I cup my hand around the flower, pressing it against my cheek. 

Cause I’m back with my Captain now, and that’s right where a soldier should be.