The Cold Moon

two weeks away from the land of the bitter fog—and she was going to enjoy every minute of it.
    Bitter fog . . .
    This was an expression she’d heard from a local policeman outside Baghdad, referring to fumes and smoke following the detonation of an IED—improvised explosive device.
    Explosions in movies were just big flares of flaming gasoline. And thenwere gone, nothing left, except the reaction shot on the characters’ faces. In reality what remained after an IED was a thick bluish haze that stank and stung your eyes and burned your lungs. Part dust, part chemical smoke, part vaporized hair and skin, it remained at the scene for hours.
    The bitter fog was a symbol of the horror of this new type of war. There were no trusted allies except your fellow soldiers. There were no battle lines. There were no fronts. And you had no clue who the enemy was. It might be your interpreter, a cook, a passerby, a local businessman, a teenager, an old man. Or somebody five klicks away. And the weapons? Not howitzers and tanks but the tiny parcels that produced the bitter fog, the packet of TNT or C4 or C3 or the shaped charge stolen from your own armory, hidden so inconspicuously that you never saw it until . . . well, the fact was you never saw it.
    Lucy now rummaged in a cabinet for the tea.
    Bitter fog . . .
    Then she paused. What was that sound?
    Lucy cocked her head and listened.
    What was that?
    A ticking. She felt her stomach twist at the sound. She and Bob had no wind-up clocks. But that’s what it sounded like.
    What the hell is it?
    She stepped into the small bedroom, which they used mostly as a closet. The light was out. She flicked it on. No, the sound wasn’t coming from there.
    Her palms sweating, breath coming fast, heart pounding.
    I’m imagining the sound. . . . I’m going crazy. IED’s don’t tick. Even timed devices have electronic detonators.
    Besides, was she actually thinking that somebody had left a bomb in her co-op in New York City?
    Girl, you need some serious help.
    Lucy walked to the master bedroom doorway. The closet door was open, blocking her view of the dresser. Maybe it was . . . She stepped forward. But then paused. The ticking was coming from someplace else, not in here. She went up the hall to the dining room and looked inside. Nothing.
    She then continued on to the bathroom. She gave a laugh.
    Sitting on the vanity, next to the tub, was a clock. It looked like an old one. It was black and on the face was a window with a full moon staring at her. Where had it come from? Had her aunt been cleaning out her basementagain? Had Bob bought it when she was away and set it out this morning after she’d left for the health club?
    But why the bathroom?
    The freaky moon face looked at her with its curious gaze, almost malevolent. It reminded her of the faces of the children along the roadside, their mouths curved into an expression that wasn’t quite a smile; you had no idea what was going on in their heads. When they looked at you, were they seeing their saviors? Their enemy? Or creatures from another planet?
    Lucy decided she’d call Bob or her mother and ask about the clock. She went into the kitchen. She made the tea and carried the mug into the bathroom, the phone too, and ran water into the tub.
    Wondering if her first bubble bath in months would do anything to wash away the bitter fog.

    On the street in front of Lucy’s apartment Vincent Reynolds watched two schoolgirls walk past.
    He glanced at them but felt no deepening of the hunger already ravaging his body. They were high school kids and too young for him. (Sally Anne had been a teenager, true, but so had he, which made it okay.)
    Through his cell phone, Vincent heard Duncan’s whispered voice. “I’m in her bedroom. She’s in the bathroom, running a bath. . . . That’s helpful.”
    Water boarding . . .
    Because the building had a lot of tenants, and he could easily be spotted picking the lock, Duncan had climbed to the top of a building several doors down and made his way over the roofs to Lucy’s, then down the fire escape and into her bedroom. He was real athletic (another difference between the friends).
    “Okay, I’m going to do it now.”
    Thank you . . .
    But then he heard, “Hold on.”
    “What?” Vincent asked. “Is something wrong?”
    “She’s on the phone. We’ll have to wait.”
    Hungry Vincent was sitting forward. Waiting was not something he did well.
    A minute passed, two,