LiAM ‎ lATz

“I don’t have time for this, private. This isn’t the first time a soldier’s floated in from upstream.”
Daisy Parker trod down the communication trench towards the front line, the boy shadowed her.
“I understand that, corporal, but this is different,” he pleaded.
“And why’s that?” Daisy said.
“I believe this might have been a murder.”
Daisy glared at the boy, and kept walking. Her face said it all: that’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.
His cheeks flushed red, “I mean, obviously it was a murder,” he said, with an uncomfortable breath of what could be called laughter, “but, I think she was killed by one of ours, a digger.”
The pair squeezed to the side of the trench to allow a group of soldiers carrying a stretcher to pass.
“You got any proof of this… what’d you say your name was again?”
“Private Hickit, sir,” the boy said, straightening his stance, “and yes, I technically do.”

“So they killed him?” the boy asked, entirely too invested in Hickit’s story.
“But what about Lucy?” asked the girl beside him, “What happened to her? They didn’t force her to marry that dick Drebber did they?”
“For five days he trunched back to the town,” Hickit continued, lowering his voice, “not knowing his true loves fate.” He paused for effect, the two soldiers were at the edge of their seats. A bump in the road caused the truck to jump a little, they both almost fell forward into Hickit.
“When he was almost back in town, he ran into a familiar face, a Mormon named Cowper.
“‘I am Jefferson Hope,’ he said to him, ‘you remember me. What has become of Lucy Ferrier?’
“‘She was married yesterday… To Enoch Drebber.’”
“Shit!” the girl cried, “What happened next? He rescued her, right?”