the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt ten)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and he bellows, top of his lungs, can’t hear it over the barraging drums of a new round of Jerry’s shells but sure the fuck feels it, larynx shredding in the force of his war cry, holy shit, Cyril Bagger’s got a war cry, same as the other boys, it expels from his guts with the same skyward explosion as the missiled earth, he’s bloodthirsty, he’ll do anything he needs to protect she who needs protecting,

and a piece of him, a tiny, Arno-sized splinter, knows there’s something awry with all this, something awry with him as he fuses into the bloodlust funnel, the precise act he’s always avoided, individuality swapped for the exhilarating namelessness of being a ball bearing inside a mechanism, he’s succumbed, but lord, don’t it feel good, ain’t it the easiest way to bash past regret and shame, feels so much better to lose himself to a mass, to dilute into a flood of fury,

the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt nine)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and the monster cocks its head in apparent interest at Bagger’s latest physical change, and there’s a pause during which Bagger believes the circular orifice of its trunk distorts into a smile, before the monster brings a malformed hand to its face, pinches its own baggy cheek, and copies Bagger again by tearing its own face off,

the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt eight)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and he manages, “You bury him?,” and Veck licks lips glossed with pigeon fat, as if debating whether Bagger is capable of understanding, before shaking his head, to which Bagger hastens to nod, he wants Veck to know he doesn’t blame him, no Yank out here has buried more men than Bagger, and he knows it’s pointless theater, one day when the Argonne grows back, it’ll grow back through doughboy skeletons as capably as from them,

and Bagger realizes Veck has quit shuddering, absolutely quit, he’s as steady as, well, the only steady thing out here, which is the dead, either something’s cured Veck’s shell shock or the opposite, something has pushed him to a place where madness has burned into vacancy,

the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt seven)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and Veck licks cracked lips and says, “She’s granting wishes,” and Bagger flips the bird, thinking of those porterhouse steaks she didn’t deliver, but Veck says, “You’re telling me you didn’t wish to be saved when that minnie dropped, you and the boy?,” to which Bagger only stares because he can’t remember, and Veck says, “And Goodspeed. She took care of Goodspeed, right? You saying none of us didn’t wish Goodspeed gone?,” and Bagger keeps staring, for as little as he cares about unity, it still feels dicey to admit you wished a fellow soldier dead,

the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt six)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and the dream is punctured by Popkin, “What are we supposed to do with her?,” Bagger’s back to the distasteful present, where he’s unable to cloak his hatred for Popkin, forget French, conflict’s the only language the lummox ever mastered, but Popkin answers his own question, “Reis said take care of her,” and the rain goes twice as cold as Bagger feels the need for a long, heavy axe to plant in the bastard’s face, he could warm his palms in the hot, spurting blood,

and before he can find an axe-like object, Veck drops to his knees, the P3 slugging noisily on his back, a pose of prayer, and whispers, “You all know what this is,” audible despite the shrill of German arms, and Bagger feels that he does know, yet still wants to be told, and Veck grimaces, pained by their ignorance, and says, “Hasn’t any of you heard of the Angel of Mons?,”

the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt five)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and it’s a household he didn’t need anymore, after the Lusitania came the best part of Private Bagger Goes to War, all obligations to his father released, allowing him to barnstorm the Mississippi with impunity, imbibing wine, check, women, check, and song, check, and once President Wilson, reelected on the slogan of He Kept Us Out of the War, declared war, Bagger made paper airplanes of the loyalty leaflets that littered the streets, and enjoyed many a hearty guffaw at the suckers who rushed to enlist,

the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt four)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and her eyes are brown, no surprise, because he knows her, and while he’s transfixed, the whole pile of wire rollicks, it’s Arno blundering into the thorny mesh, wire cutters abandoned, and the kid grabs the woman’s ankles, the light from her skin so intense it functions like Röntgen’s X-ray machine, Arno’s hand flesh bright pink, each finger bone defined,

and the kid’s weeping, which makes Bagger realize his eyes are leaking, too, and it’s not like getting gassed or getting soot in his eyes, it’s like the tears of the devout he used to see at his father’s church, moved by some vision incomprehensible yet gorgeous,