Chapter 197
HUNTER.
Operation Iraqi Freedom; Iraq, 2003 Routine CP. Clearing houses, crouching in doorways, and following the APCs and Hummers. Rifle at the ready, ears tuned, eyes peeled. Derek is beside me, joking about something. A s.e.x joke. I laugh, but I'm not hearing him.
I've got the jitters. My stomach is uneasy. This is my last patrol. I'm s.h.i.+pping home soon. My tour is done, and my four years are over. I'm not re-upping. I've seen too much death and blood for a lifetime. All I have to do is get through this patrol without anything going FUBAR, and I'm home free.
Of course, I don't have a home to go to, but I can figure that s.h.i.+t out when I get home. For now, I just have to focus on this house, this room, this street. Then the next one and so on through this sector, and then we ride the seven-ton back to the MEK and I'm back Stateside within a week.
And of course, I've got the jitters. My hands shake, my spine tingles. This is my gut telling me s.h.i.+t's about to go down, because of course, nothing is ever easy.
Derek acts oblivious, keeps joking. I want to tell him to shut the f.u.c.k up and pay attention, but I know better. He runs his mouth because he's nervous. He feels it, too. He chatters like a G.o.dd.a.m.n blue jay when he's scared. I can see his eyes scanning, see the tension in his shoulders, in the way his rifle is almost at his shoulder, ready to fire.
We round a corner, and my gut clenches. I slow, scan the rooftops. Derek is doing the same.
"Feel it?" I ask.
"f.u.c.k yeah. s.h.i.+t's about to hit the fan."
The others are piled up behind us. I see nothing, so I continue, even though my instincts are telling me to stop, go back, stay, get the f.u.c.k down. I creep forward a few more feet, and then my gut is screaming too loud to ignore. I shove Derek to the side and drop to the ground for no reason whatsoever. As I taste dirt, an AK barks from a rooftop. Bullets snap through the air where we had been.
f.u.c.king knew it.
Someone behind us shoots back-Barrett, I'm pretty sure. Only Barrett fires like that, three-three, pause, three.
Then all h.e.l.l breaks loose. AK fire erupts from all directions, and suddenly we're split, half our unit cut off from the other half. Derek has a bead on an insurgent on the roof opposite us, so I wait until a muzzle-burst gives away a location and pour fire at it. I see a head and shoulder pop up, black metal and tan wood and black-spot eyes. I squeeze the trigger, and a burst of pink mist tells me I dropped him.
There's a pause, and Derek and I lurch into a run, breaking for a better position. I hear boots pound behind us. We're nearly there when I hear a hackhackhack and then fire and pain gouts through me, centered on my left shoulder and thigh. I'm spun around, fall. I'm dragged by the hand through the dust, bleeding. The strain on my wounded shoulder as I'm pulled is agonizing. I see Derek beside me, firing at a doorway. I see a shape, a muzzle-burst, bullets peppering the dirt and the wall near us.
Derek hits his target. I watch, the world sideways, as the muzzle-burst goes silent mid-bark. Derek s.h.i.+fts, prepares to drag me farther into cover. Then a figure, thin and young, stumbles from the doorway, bleeding. He throws a grenade, and I try to move, but Derek is already on top of me, rolling away with me, and the seconds until detonation tick in my head like thundering drums, each one a heartbeat.
Heat and fire and pressure erupt, the sound so deafening it becomes silence, and we're thrown. I feel wetness spread, feel pins of pain stab me. The silence continues and I wonder if I've gone deaf, but then ringing fills my ears, and I know my hearing will return eventually.
Derek is too still. Too wet. I find my feet, bullet-pierced leg screaming, refusing to support me, but I don't care. Can't afford to care. Adrenaline powers me. I grip Derek's red-slick hand and pull him, needing him to be okay. Rifle fire is a distant roar, and I see puffs of dirt marking Death's walk toward me.
My side hurts, low, near the hip. Shrapnel, I think. I push my hand against it, trying vainly to dull the pain with pressure. I get Derek a few feet away, closer to the doorway that would provide some cover, but then I'm struck again in the shoulder. I fall to my knees, find my rifle, fire blindly. Find a target, fire. Dropped him. Another-crackcrack-dropped him.
f.u.c.k, I hurt.
A slug of agony hits my thigh, right near the original wound. I can't stay upright any longer. I hear more rifles firing, M-16s, an AK, and then a detonation. Someone shouts my name, Derek's name. Barrett. I want to answer but have no breath in my lungs. It's been stolen by pain, by shrapnel and bullet holes.
I succ.u.mb to the pain, let it wash over me. I drift and float, and then I feel something push me. Pain breaks over me like a wave when I crash to my back, and I force my eyes open.
G.o.dd.a.m.n, she's beautiful.
It's a stupid, random thought, out of place on this battlefield, but I can't shake it. She's kneeling above me, her head-scarf thing, a hidab, or...my pain-fogged brain won't spit out the right word. Hijab. That's the word. It's coming loose around her face, tendrils of bottle-blonde hair escaping to drift across her delicate-featured face. I want to touch her finely sculpted cheeks, but my hand won't work.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
She looks at me in confusion. She doesn't understand.
I my head and see Derek. He's a f.u.c.king mess. Panicked horror is a thick, hot knot in my throat. NO! Not Derek....
We've been buddies forever. Second grade. He called me a sissy and I beat his a.s.s and we've been buddies ever since. Joined up together, got lucky, and managed to get through Basic in the same unit, a.s.signed to the same grunt squad. Impossible luck, to stay together like this for so long, through war, through death.
Now he's dead.
"Derek?" I claw toward him. Poke him; he hates being poked. "Derek?"
I look at the girl, bright brown eyes like sun-bathed earth fixed on me. She touches two fingers to Derek's neck, looks back at me, shakes her head. Her meaning is clear.
"DEREK!" I can't help the scream.
I know I'm crying, feel the salt burning down my cheek, but I can't stop it. I don't care if I'm crying in front of this gorgeous Iraqi girl like some kind of G.o.dd.a.m.n sissy. Derek is dead.
Dead.
f.u.c.k.
Darkness swallows me.
I wake up in the darkness. Shadows have eaten me. Silence sits on my chest like a wet, heavy blanket. I look around me, see shapes in the shadows. A chair, a table. A mirror reflecting shards of starlight. A square of lighter black with a swatch of pinp.r.i.c.k stars: a window. Hard earth beneath me.
I want to get up. Need to get up. Can't stay here. Gotta get back to the guys. I manage an inch upward before pure agony bolts through me and I cry out, a soft grunt, high-pitched and girly. G.o.dd.a.m.n sissy whimpers. I grit my teeth to silence myself.
Scratching, motion, rustling cloth. Then a face appears above me, blocking my view of the stars. Blonde hair hangs loose in long waves around her bare shoulders. I'm struck again by how stunningly beautiful she is, even in the dark of
She says something in Arabic and touches the center of my chest to push me down, a feather-light touch between bullet holes in each shoulder. I stare at her, unable to look away. I wish it was light so I could see her better.
She tugs a thin blanket farther up my body, and I realize I'm clad only in my skivvies. Clumsy bandages are held on by tape, not medical tape. Regular tape. I laugh, which hurts. The girl tilts her head in confusion.
I point at the bandage, the tape. "Did you do this?"
I know she can't answer me, or understand me, but I ask anyway. I don't know why. I just want to talk to her.
She says something back, her voice sharp. I think she caught on to my criticism.
I hold up my hands to stop the accusing sound of her voice. "Thank you." I know I've been told how to say it Arabic, but I have to think about it. "Chokran."
She nods once and turns away, lies down, facing away. Her shoulders look tense, and I can tell she doesn't trust herself to really sleep with me here, even wounded.
"You can sleep, you know," I say. "I couldn't hurt a fly right now."
She rolls over and looks at me, dusky skin starlit silver. She whispers something, shaking her head, shrugging.
"I know you don't understand me. It doesn't matter." I smile at her, but she stares at me, impa.s.sive. "Sleep."
I mime sleeping, hands folded under my face, an exaggerated snore, then point at her. I point at myself with a thumb. I try to move and a groan escapes. I look at her and shrug, then mime sleeping again. She frowns in thought, then gives me a tiny smile. She gets it. She closes her eyes slowly, her eyelids flutter, then close again. Her breathing slows, and then she's asleep. I watch her sleep.
Why did she bring me here? Why did she help me? I would have bled out, died. I'm a burden. I won't be able to do s.h.i.+t for myself for weeks. I'll need to eat. I'll need help s.h.i.+tting. How can she help me? This house is tiny. She can't have much. I'll need antibiotics, probably. I'd wish for morphine, but I know I won't get it. Probably won't even get aspirin.
Now that she's asleep, I let the pain wash over me and let it show. It hurts so G.o.dd.a.m.n bad it's hard to breathe.
I fall asleep again.
When I wake, bright sunlight streams through the square, uncovered window. I'm on the floor in a corner. There's another bed opposite me, a mattress on the dirt covered by neatly folded blankets. There's an old, battered stove in one corner, older than me. A single bare lightbulb dangling from the ceiling, a large hunk of mirror with taped edges leaning against the wall. The girl is nowhere to be seen.
I close my eyes again, and that's when I hear it: the unmistakable sounds of s.e.x. Male grunts, female moans. The moans sound forced, too loud, too exuberant. It lasts for a moment, then stops. I hear boots scritching in the dirt and a male voice muttering under his breath in Arabic. Another moment, and then the girl appears in the doorway, smoothing her hair with her fingers. She doesn't glance at me, as if not seeing me. She goes into the tiny bathroom with the rusted stainless steel sink, slips out of her skirt, cleans herself with damp rag. I watch, embarra.s.sed, but unable to look away.
She is lithe, slim, long-legged, with flawless dark skin. I make myself look away to give her privacy. I hear her say something, a curse if the tone of her voice is any indication. I look at her. She is staring at me, almost expectantly. She is still naked from the waist down. I avert my eyes, roll away, groaning in pain.
I hear clothing rustle and she's clothed again, standing over me. She has money in her hand, and that's when I put two and two together. Understanding must be visible on my face, because her features harden. Her fist clenches around the wad of bills.
"Hey, it's none of my business," I say.
She responds, but of course I don't understand what she's saying. She sounds angry. She gestures at herself, at the door, which I take to be a gesture at the world at large. She's explaining herself, I think. She touches her stomach, hunching over it, groaning.
"You don't owe me any explanations," I say, as if we're having a conversation.
Hunger. I realize what she was trying to say with her charade. She sold herself for food. Pity must have registered on my face, and she must have recognized it. Her eyes blaze with anger, and she tosses the money at me and stomps away, although she only goes to the other side of the little house, arms folded, back bowing out and shoulder heaving as she breathes through her emotions.
"I'm sorry," I say.
She turns to look at me over her shoulder and says something. My imagination fills in the gap: I don't want your pity. She turns away and opens a cabinet, finds a box, produces a pill, and dry-swallows it. Birth control, I imagine. I wonder if it's difficult to get a hold of, out here.
She brings me flat bread and a bottle of water, a packet of foil containing ground beef or lamb. I struggle to sit up, gritting my teeth against the pulsating pain. She motions at me to stay down, mimes feeding me. h.e.l.l, no. I ignore her and get my shoulder blades propped against the wall, panting and sweating. I think I have broken ribs. I hurt so bad I could cry, but I refuse to let myself.
She watches me, frowning, shakes her head and mutters something. Stubborn a.s.s, I imagine she says. She sets the packet of foil on my stomach, which hurts from the effort of moving. I reach for it, but my arm is weak. I manage a few bites while she watches. She clearly wants to help, but doesn't. I'm glad. I refuse to be fed like a G.o.dd.a.m.n baby. It's exhausting and painful, but I manage to eat it all, and drink the water. I feel better.
She glances at me, then pulls the blanket off me. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was blus.h.i.+ng. It's a ridiculous idea, though, given what she does for a living. She doesn't look at me as she gently peels at the tape around the bandage on my leg.
"Do it fast," I tell her. She looks at me quizzically. "Fast."
I show her, ripping the bandage off quickly. It hurts like a b.i.t.c.h, and I have to stifle a groan. She picks at the bandage on one of my shoulders, going slowly again.
"No, do it fast." I mime ripping quickly. She looks at me incredulously and says something. I shrug. "It's better to just get it over with."
She peels slowly. I curse, put my hand on hers, and rip it away, hissing through my teeth. She jerks her hand away and scrambles backward, chattering angrily, jabbing her finger at me.
She doesn't like to be touched, I guess. I lift my hands up. "I'm sorry. I won't do it again."
I put my hands on my lap, covering myself, fingers threaded. She moves toward me again and pulls the last bandage off, quickly this time. I nod and she shakes her head in disbelief.
Stupid a.s.s, I imagine her saying again.
She takes a roll of gauze and rips a long, ragged piece off. I frown, wanting to show her how to do it right. I glance at the foot of my blankets and see my clothes, some of my gear. My combat knife. I tap her shoulder, point at the knife. She shakes her head, but I point again. She gives it to me and scrambles away, leaving the gauze near me. I pick it up, eyes locked on hers, and cut a neat square, show it to her, then a second and third. I sheathe the knife and toss it out of reach.
She creeps back toward me like a skittish kitten, takes the gauze squares from me and gingerly places them on one of the wounds. There's an aged bottle of peroxide on the counter and I point at it. The wounds need to stay clean. She frowns at me, but gets the bottle and hands it to me. I dump a small amount on my wound, and my teeth almost crack from the strain of containing my scream of pain.
f.u.c.k, it hurts.
She takes it from me and does the same to the rest of my wounds, and by the end I pa.s.s out from the pain. I come to, and she's clumsily taping the gauze on, loose and off-center.
"No, no. Not like that," I say.
She starts and drops the tape. I rip off the bandage she did and re-tape it, centered and tight. She watches carefully, and then does the same. Her fingers on my skin are gentle, careful, feather brushes. She looks to me and I nod.
"Good job. Much better. Thanks. Chokran."
She responds, and I shrug. She points at me, says "Chokran," and then points at herself and repeats what she'd said, which I understand to mean "You're welcome." I repeat it, and she corrects my p.r.o.nunciation.
She touches my chest, and this time I lay back down, slowly moving to the floor, each inch agony. I lay panting, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. I open my eyes to see her watching me, her expression inscrutable.
I examine her in the light of day. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. About my age, twenty-three or twenty-four, a narrow face with high cheekbones, small, delicate ears, full red lips framing a wide mouth. Her eyes are like chocolate, dark and liquid, watching me watch her. Her body is svelte. I remember that word from high school English cla.s.s. Her waist is narrow, turning her slim hips into tantalizing curves, making her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s even more p.r.o.nounced. I remember her mimed comment about hunger being the impetus for becoming a prost.i.tute, and realize her thin figure is the result of true hunger rather than any desire to be thin for the sake of appearance.
She shrinks back under my gaze, realizing I'm looking at her appreciatively, like a man looks at a woman. Her eyes harden and her lip curls. Her fists clench.
I drop my gaze, but I feel her eyes on me a moment longer. She goes to the doorway, peers out, and ducks back in. Her face is shuttered closed, hard, ice-cold. She reapplies lipstick, retouches her blush, too much.
She has a trick, I realize. She's totally different, now. Her body is loose, her hips swaying as she moves to the door; before, each motion was tightly controlled, precise. Now, she's like liquid, exuding sultry confidence that I realize is totally faked. She glances at me once as she moves out of sight, and I see a flash of some inscrutable emotion, there and gone.
I hear a man's voice, hers answering, low and sweet. Fake. The air is still today, and I can hear everything. A jingle of a belt, faintly. Her voice, moaning, fake, too loud. His voice, grunting, porcine.
Vomit roils in my belly, anger pulses in my chest. Hate. Jealousy. Disgust.
Where is this coming from?
I don't know her. Don't even know her name. So why am I reacting this strongly? There's no answer, but each moment increases the tempo of my rage, beating with my frantic heartbeat. Each sound makes my gut clench. Her voice, so falsely enthusiastic, shreds my nerves.
I recognize the emotions now. All together, they form a single feeling: helplessness. I want to stop this, but I can't. Physically, I can't even move. It's her choice, her life, not mine. And I'm completely dependent on her.
f.u.c.k.
After far too long, a span of maybe ten minutes, she reappears, repeating the process of cleaning herself in the tiny doorless bathroom. She fixes her hair and lipstick and blush and clothes. I don't watch this time.
She glances at me once she's done fixing herself. I try valiantly to keep my face neutral. I don't know what she sees, but she turns away from me and goes outside, leaning against the outside of her house near the window, just within view. I can see her back, a strip of skin visible between skirt and s.h.i.+rt.
I shouldn't want to touch that stripe of skin, but I do.
The desire is overwhelming.
I lever myself up off the ground, holding my breath against the pain, and then let myself fall back down. Lightning bolts of excruciating pain shoot through me, blinding white, subsuming me until I pa.s.s out.
Darkness floats over me, welcome relief from desires I shouldn't have and don't understand.