He stood up and braced himself against a crate and unbuttoned his trousers. He had to relieve himself, and this was a good place. Even though it was cold in the bus, he could smell that other men had done the same thing here, and for the same reason. It was safe in the bus.
So he urinated on some smashed boards from one of the wooden rifle crates. He watched the yellow piss shoot from his body and darken the gray wood. And for a few seconds, the stream of hot piss steamed as it rushed out of him and hit the cold boards. It felt good to be urinating and not have to worry about being shot.
When he finished, he shook himself the way his father taught him, and then he buttoned up and slung his Musset bag over his shoulder and lifted his rifle and started moving toward the shattered window he had entered through last night.
A dead man lay there now, half in the bus and half outside. Shrapnel must have killed him; his torso was split and mangled like it was hit by a giant hammer. It must have happened a while ago. The blood was ice already; his dark, frozen intestines covered with snow.
Hans looked at the dead man’s face to see if it was anyone he knew. It wasn’t. He climbed over the body and made his way out of the bus.
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from my novel Road of Bones -- to be published in this year by Cervena Barva Press.
Other excerpts are available online: The German and Village of Cold Houses.
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