Turn 206 of 226

Sleep. Fighting the military is hard work

The 150,000 pounds settle. The settling is not a decision — the body does not ask the mind when the body is this large and this tired and this warm. The 960-times density muscle releases its tension the way a continent releases tension, slowly, in sections, the fibers unlocking from combat readiness into something deeper than rest. The fat layer over the muscle softens as the muscle beneath it softens, and the softening is the thing the 383-foot frame does not fight because fighting is the thing the body just finished doing and the finished is the thing the sleep starts with.

Diane's body is the ground. Not the actual ground — the actual ground is rubble and soil and shattered spruce, and the 150,000 pounds of Diane are on top of that ground and Lena's 150,000 pounds are on top of Diane. The layering is the thing the animal does without thinking. The 960-times density frames nest together the way they nested in the underground chamber, the way they nested on the warehouse floor, the way they nested in the foundry — the body finding the other body and the finding being the thing that does not require thought. The fat layers press together. The body hair meshes — Lena's dark coarse hair against Diane's dark coarse hair, the dried blood and soil and sweat forming a crust between them that the rain softened but did not remove. The not removing is the thing the animal does not do. The not doing is the thing the sleep allows.

The wish does not sleep. The wish is the warmth in her stomach and the warmth is the thing that does not stop when the body stops. The 960-times density bones are still compounding — the mineral layers still replicating in the slow accumulation that does not need consciousness to continue. The fat layer is still thickening. The 150,000 pounds are still becoming 150,001 and 150,002 and the becoming is the thing the wish does in the dark, in the quiet, in the body that is too large for the treeline and too warm for the rain and too tired for anything except the thing the sleep gives. The sleep gives the body to the wish. The wish takes the body and the taking is not theft. The taking is the thing Lena asked for in the bathroom mirror when she whispered the words that started everything. The everything is still starting. The starting is the thing the sleep does not interrupt.

Lena's breathing drops below ten breaths per minute. The 383-foot chest rises and falls in a rhythm that shakes the surviving trees at the treeline's edge, each exhale a warm wind that carries the smell of blood and sweat and the particular organic compound that 960-times density muscle produces when it is healing from the micro-tears that fighting creates. The healing is the thing the sleep gives. The giving is the thing the body needs. The needing is the thing the animal does not deny. The not denying is the thing the wish taught her — the first lesson, the lesson that started with the hand on the soft new curve of her belly in a bathroom in a city that is 200 miles south and 383 feet below and does not matter anymore. The not mattering is the thing the sleep holds. The holding is the thing that does not let go. The sleep is the thing that takes them both and the taking is gentle and the gentle is the only gentle thing the 150,000-pound body knows.

The state is quiet around them. The military is gone. The convoys reached Oregon three hours ago. The governor's helicopter is in Salem. The satellite feeds that Cal Medina can no longer access show two thermal signatures in a treeline, merged, motionless, the heat output steady and slow and enormous. No one is watching. No one is listening. No one is close enough to hear the heartbeats drop to twenty-eight per minute and stay there. The staying is the thing the sleep does. The sleep is the thing the wish fills. The wish is the thing the body gives itself to. The giving is the thing that does not stop. The not stopping is the thing the warmth is. The warmth is the thing that is still building. The building is the thing the sleep does not interrupt. The not interrupting is the thing the wish loves. The loving is the thing the body does in its sleep. The sleep holds them. The holding does not stop.