Outlanders Page #5

A short story I intend to build into something bigger. It details my experiences, as well as the experiences of others I served with, during our tours in Iraq.

• Science fiction

								


In her feeble looking hands she held a little black box.  It was small.  It fit in her palm.  On one side was an orange button.  It looked like an old handheld radio.  Griff had wanted to scream.  He wanted to ask Dobner how he had missed that in his frantic searching.  He wanted to yell, grab Dobner with his fists, and beat the brakes off him.  He had wanted to say so much in this moment, but there simply wasn’t enough time.  

A gurgling bubbling breath wheezed through her chest cavity, and a pale sickly finger pressed the orange button.  The flash was blinding.  There was no delay between it and the deafening roar of the concussive blast that followed.  The force flung bodies back in all directions, lifting grown men from their feet and flinging them effortlessly into the concrete walls that made up the room.  Bits of shrapnel blasted outward, bouncing like pinballs off of the concrete, the force of the blast chipping bits of the walls and sending it outward, multiplying the amount of shrapnel contained in the tiny area.  Bones cracked and skin rent from the destructive forces unleashed in the room.  Bits of the girl, and some of the soldiers, scattered in all directions.  The front half of the building folded in on itself from the sheer power of the explosion.  Dust formed a dense cloud, and the remnants of the building were filled with air and smoke.

Am I dead? Griff thought.  

He couldn’t move.  He couldn’t see.  And once again he couldn’t hear.  The concussive force wreaked havoc on his equilibrium, and he couldn’t tell where he was.  He looked all around him, nausea bubbling in him, like a volcano ready to erupt. The fog that the bomb had created was impenetrable, though Griff couldn’t see right now anyway.  His vision was blurry swirls of those purple and green lines.  It was his smell that came back first, and as soon as his brain was able process them, he was assaulted by a thick stew of smells.  The air burned with the smells of smoke and dust, but the worst parts were the burning flesh and hair.  It stunk so bad.  He hated the smell, and hoped he would never endure it again.  The volcano erupted, and Griff turned his head instinctively, puking out of the side of his mouth.  

Slowly his hearing was restored.  Maybe it wasn’t so slow.  Time was meaningless at this moment.  The high-pitched whining calmed a little, and soon he could hear some background noises, though they weren’t what he expected.  As the whining made way for the ambient sounds of the world around him, he realized that there were no ambient sounds.  It was just his heartbeat, the constant whine in his ears, and nothing.  No movement, no walking footsteps, no angry yelling.  Just.  Silence.

“Sarge?” Griff Yelled.  There was no reply.  The vomit stuck to his lips and dragged in strings through the Martian mud.  As he yelled for his squad leader he realized that he was lying on his back, his cheek resting on the dirt.

“Sarge?  Gamble?” He called again.  Again there was no answer.  Even the high pitched whining was beginning to leave, and soon the world would be in silence.  Terror replaced the nausea, and a different volcano was ready to erupt.  He frantically tossed his head to either side, but his eyes wouldn’t focus, the swirling colors wouldn’t stop.  He tried to move, but found he couldn’t.  The world  felt so heavy.

Greens and Purples swirled together slowly until they formed a solid cohesive picture.  Finally Griff’s vision had returned, though he almost immediately wished it hadn’t.  The air was heavy, dust and smoke still hung in a thick cloud all around him, and he found he could only see a few feet in any direction.  
“Sarge?  Dobner?!” He called again.  Desperation was setting in.  Every time he called out and received no answer, the fear slowly changed to reality.

He couldn’t move his left side.  It didn’t occur to him immediately, but slowly as he got his bearings and called out he had tried to shift and change positions.  Over the brief period of time he had been there he realized that his whole left side was immobile.  He pulled his right hand to his face.  The gloved hand stared back at him, and all of his digits were there.  Nearby his rifle lay, just within reach, though he doubted he would need it.  

Deep breath in.  Deep breath out.  

Griff told himself this as he did just that.  He was preparing himself for the worst possible scenario.  He shut his eyes briefly and slowly counted to ten as he breathed.  He turned his head to the left and opened his eyes.

“OH GOD!”  He immediately shut them again.  He swallowed a massive lump of panic.

“Sarge!”  He cried out again, fighting back the terror and panic that was clawing at him.

“Doc?  F*ck!  Someone!  Help!  Help me!”  Tears of desperation formed in his eyes.  His mind was racing as fast as his heart.

“I’m okay. I’m.  Okay.”  He said out loud.  Breaking the silence seemed to help.  “I’m going to open my eyes and assess the situation.”

His words had brought a level of calm to him.  And with a deep breath he opened his eyes to better assess what had happened.  

Large chunks of the wall had blown out and fallen.  Massive slabs of concrete had pinned his left side, smashing his arm and leg.  He attempted to move it, but quickly realized that he was unable to.  It was far too heavy, and he couldn’t feel those extremities anyway.  He would need at least two arms to move any of this, but he only had one.

“Dobner,” He said.  Tears flowed freely at this point.  The fear of reality had completely set in.  Griff was alone, and he realized that there would be no one there to help.  No one there to rescue him.  The most gut-wrenching part of it was realizing that Dobner was right all along.

“I’m so sorry!  Sergeant!”  Pain and solitude flowed from his eyes, though the panic had largely gone.  Griff had accepted his fate, and let the flood of emotions wash over him.  He took a deep breath in, and accepted the inevitable. 

My radio! He thought.  

He began to frantically search the portions of his body that he could.  He allowed himself to hope briefly while he patted the myriad pouches that clung to his vest.  If he could find his radio he could maybe live.  Maybe not.  But at least if he died he wouldn’t be alone.  His fingers found his radio pouch, flipped it open and reached in.  He felt for the hard plastic that was the antenna and wrapped his fingertips around it, and yanked it out as soon as he could.  Bits of shattered plastic came out with the antenna, and Griff held a string of circuit board bits in his hand.

“F*CK!” He yelled.  He cursed himself for allowing hope to creep into his brain.

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