Outlanders Page #6

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

								


The dust was settling at this point, and his visibility increased.  He wished it hadn’t.  Being trapped was so much easier when he thought he was alone.  Off to one side Gamble sat, much as he did before the explosion.  Shrapnel had torn chunks of his face away, and a piece of iron bar that was used to reinforce the concrete and found itself lodged into his neck.  Blood pooled from his face down into streams that flowed from his neck until it formed a lake of blood in his lap.  

He looked around to find the other soldiers littered about the room.  Some of them in more pieces than others.  

Dead.  They’re all dead.

He reached for his rifle, his outstretched arm grabbing it by the sling.  He pulled it to him slowly.  He couldn’t stop crying.  Why couldn’t he stop crying?  The fear and sadness wouldn’t leave no matter how many tears came out.  He looked around as best he could, trapped beneath the slabs of concrete.  He turned his head back to the rifle and stared at it.  It felt like eternity.

I could do this.  He thought

He kept staring down the barrel.  It would be quick.  Painless. Easy.  There wouldn’t be any prolonged suffering.  He stared at the gun and thought about how easily he could end the solitude and torment by simply pulling the trigger.  He could end it all.  Like Cockner, and so many others.

Oh f*ck.  He thought,  Cockner.  What if it doesn’t kill me?  At least not the first time.  What if it just passes through, and takes half of my fucking face off?  What if I’m left here with permanent brain damage and pain?  Jesus!  

The thought process brought up memories he had been trying to suppress.  He had buried them deeply, but his brain decided now was the best time to process it.  He immediately thought back to how Cockner was Failure to Report for three straight days.  It wasn’t until the third day that the unit decided to finally go check on him.  When they got there they arrived to see the aftermath of a seventy-two hour bender.  Alcohol bottles were littered about his room, empty pill bottles scattered between them.  He remembered Sergeant Lars opening the door, Griff right behind him, and the two stepping into the filth.  In the center of it all sat Cockner, .45 in hand, barrel in mouth.  Before anything could be said or done the flash-bang of the trigger pull registered, and blood sprayed up towards the ceiling.  

Why was his brain bringing this up right now?

A rustling noise broke the unsettling silence that had swallowed the area and pulled Griff from his memory.  He immediately rolled as much of his body as he could so that he could prop himself up on his elbow.

“Sarge?” he asked, he knew better, but he allowed hope to crawl back into his brain.

The only answer was heavy lumbering footsteps.  Griff’s hope didn’t crawl away, it ran.  Heavy blue-skinned legs stepped towards him, back-bending strides moved easily past Griff, its head constantly moving back and forth.  It was also assessing the situation.  It stopped moving and turned to face Griff, bending down and looking at him. 

The large circular eyes shone white, even in the dust and haze.  Pupiless plates of white that peered into Griff.  It had stopped with one foot resting on the slab that pinned Griff to the ground, though it didn’t shift much weight onto it.  Griff clumsily tried to raise his rifle, and shouted as he did it.  The creature simply batted the rifle down, scattering it away with its massive forearms.  Its weight began to shift to the slab and a stabbing pain shot through Griff’s entire body.  

Griff screamed, pain searing into his body.  He swung wildly with his free arm, not with any real purpose or intent, just blind flailing.  The creature shifted more weight to the slab, leaning closer and pinning the flailing arm down with one of its.  Its head was inches from Griff’s, its blue skin glowed in the hazy light of the Orbisun.  Its upper jaw hinged open revealing endless rows of sharp rigid teeth and strings of spittle that dangled from its upper jaw.  The air now stunk of decaying flesh.  God damned death eaters.

“I’m not fucking dead yet,”  Griff snarled, unable to move.

Suddenly the creature leapt from him, and with amazing grace darted to one of the corpses.

“Don’t you fucking do it!  Don’t you eat him!” Griff shouted.

The creature ignored him, picking up the corpse and rummaging through the pouches.  It tossed contents aside until it came across a radio.  It eyed the radio briefly, then moved back towards Griff, the radio in one hand, corpse in the other.

A whole new wave of hope flooded into Griff as he watched the creature stand over him.

“Please…  Please,”  He stammered, staring at the radio. Griff needed it.  It was the only thing that could keep him alive.

The Death Eater stared down at him, those record-shaped eyes burning white against its blue skin.  It held the small radio up, eyeing it curiously.

“I know you can hear me.  I know you understand me!  You.  You Bastard!”  Griff yelled.

Is it fucking with me? Griff thought.

It didn’t respond.  It simply stood there staring at the small radio, its gaze occasionally jumping to Griff, then back to the radio.  Suddenly a noise pierced Griff’s head.  It was at this moment that Griff learned to hate the way they communicated.  His head was already swimming, waves of adrenaline and pain had already washed over his brain, but this creature had pierced all of that and a hoarse whisper drowned it out briefly.

“Thank you.” It whispered, tossing the radio down.  

“What?” Was Griff’s initial response, but he shrugged the question off as soon as his brain realized the radio was on the ground next to him.

“You convinced capture instead of kill.  Had you not, I’d be dead.” It responded.

It erected its posture, pulling the corpse up as it stood.  Its upper jaw unhinged again, and this time it sank down into the corpse.  The rows of tiny teeth tore flesh from the body, and it swallowed down bits of Griff’s friend.  After a few quick bites the alien bound off, leaving Griff by himself with the radio.  He used it.  He called his platoon to his location, and called in his own medivac.  He frantically radioed everyone he could think of that would get him out of this situation, but the one thing he never mentioned was the Death Eater.  

The fog around Griff cleared, and he found himself in the dingy filth-stained bar once again.  Micky stood nearby, simply holding the glass, not even pretending to wipe it.  Griff’s eyes focused on the blue skin of the palm that held his head and a scowl formed on his face.  He went to squeeze the trigger on his revolver, but found that at some point during the memory the creature had seized it with its other hand.  

It pushed Griff back gently, keeping the revolver in its hand as he slumped into the stool behind him.

“Water, Mickey.” Was all he could say, and Mickey obliged, filling the half-washed glass in his hand and setting it down on the bar behind Griff.

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