The War After Armageddon

the first bloody stripe above his wrist, across the Virgin’s feet. He started to worry that he’d picked up scabies or some shit like that while mixing it up with the rags.

The thought of it creeped him out.

Then Lieutenant Niedrig came by again, doing his checks but really just killing time. Garcia didn’t think much of the lieutenant, who didn’t seem crisp enough to be a Marine. He wasn’t sure that Niedrig would be able to control what remained of the company if things got bad again. Garcia figured he was on his own.

“There’s a GO in town,” Lieutenant Niedrig told him. “I heard it’s the corps commander. God only knows what he’s doing here. You need to get your Marines looking sharp, Sergeant Garcia.”

Yeah, with what? With all their rucks missing in the back of some truck that took off when the shooting started up on the hill. Probably gone forever. And every man left in the platoon filthy and bloody and stinking like a Guatemalan’s asshole.

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”

“We don’t want the general to think Marines can’t keep themselves looking as sharp as those Army Rangers out there.”

“No, sir. Sir, you were saying something about nuke use this morning. Any more details?”

“The Jihadis hit the MOBIC attack pretty hard. So I’m told. I did see a couple of them headed through town the wrong way. No question about the nukes, though. I can’t believe you slept through it. They weren’t just firecrackers. The buildings were shaking.”

“I guess I was pretty tired, sir.”

“Well, don’t worry. I don’t think the Jihadis will nuke Nazareth, their own people.”

“I wasn’t worried, sir.”

The lieutenant went off to bother somebody else. When he was gone, one of the Marines mimicked him, but Garcia told him to knock it off.

“Hey, you think there’s any chance of us getting out of this shit-hole anytime soon, Sergeant Garcia?”

“You hear the lieutenant say anything about that? You heard everything I heard. Now, keep your eyes out that window like I told you. Scan for snipers. Anybody suspicious.”

“They all look suspicious.”

“You clean that rifle this morning?”

“Yes, Sergeant Garcia.”

“Well, clean it again when Pacheco gets back.”

Garcia moved on to the adjoining building, passing through a hot, still slice of the day and fending off two kids, lazy as dying flies, begging for candy like they really didn’t give a shit.

The next building’s construction was better, the walls thicker, and it was nice and cool up on the second deck.

“You don’t know how lucky you are,” he told the members of the fire team. “It sucks out there. This is the lap of luxury.”

“Heard anything about chow, Sergeant Garcia?”

“Probably later. After the Army gets the rags squared away.”

“I bet they’re eating right now. The Army takes care of its own.”

“Yeah? Look out that window. Like you’re supposed to. And tell me how many of those grunts you see chowing down. They’re sucking it up. And you can suck it up. And I’ll be sure to let you know when the burrito special of the day’s posted. You clean that weapon this morning?”

The building had a good diagonal view across the plaza, better than the one next door. Before moving on to inspect Gallotti’s squad, Garcia sidled up to a window that hadn’t been claimed and looked out over the crowd. The rags looked pathetic. Dirty and whipped. He could get angry enough to kill them, but he’d found, to his surprise, that he couldn’t keep up a steady hatred toward them. They were born losers. And you could waste only so much wattage on losers.

As he watched the crowd, a break in the long, curving line showed him that the pallets of water dropped off that morning were gone. The Army grunts on distro were pulling the last bottles from nowhere.

Garcia wondered if the scene was going to get ugly when the rags figured out that there wasn’t no more where that came from.

He thought he spotted the general the lieutenant had warned him about. Across the plaza, up past the head of the line, talking to a soldier with the posture of a drill instructor. As Garcia watched, the soldier who was not a general took off his helmet, wiped down his face and the webbing inside the headgear, then put the helmet back on. Crisp as a saltine cracker. Yeah, the guy had been a hat. Officers never got it that perfect. Garcia wanted, badly, to be a DI. Next tour, if possible.

Right now, though, he pictured little bugs drilling into his arm and roaming around. You’re imagining shit, man, he told himself. But he pushed up his left sleeve and started scratching at the tattoo again. Once he started, it was hard to stop. He decided that, after checking up on Gallotti’s squad, he’d walk over and talk to the company’s last surviving corpsman. See if he had some lotion or something.

Suddenly furious at himself, Garcia stopped scratching. He looked up from the inflamed Virgin and yanked his sleeve back down. Then he picked up his carbine and scanned the scene down in the plaza. To make sure he was good to go to the next location, that everything was straight.

He spotted the general and the had-to-be-an NCO making their way along the line of rags waiting for water. As he watched, a man stepped from the crowd and threw himself at the general.

The explosion that chased the flash seemed huge, its noise trapped between the buildings crowding the plaza. Next came the screams. And burning freaks running out of the smoke. Followed by shots. Not the sound of friendly weapons.

Another bomb exploded on the other side of the road, near the water point. His own kind were shooting back now. In the next room, a machine gun opened up, sweeping the crowd.

“Cease fire!” Garcia yelled. “Cease fire!” He ran into the room, yelling, “What the fuck are you shooting at? Cease fire!”

He had to wrench the weapon, its barrel already hot, from the private wielding it. His buddy watched. With murder in his eyes.

“What do you think you’re doing? Who told you to open fire?”

“They started it.”

“You ever heard of fire discipline, Keogh? You see any clear targets out there? They’re fucking civilians, man.”

“Like that bitch who got Larsen and Cropsey?”

Garcia shook his head. Furious at the insolence. On the verge of throwing a punch. Holding himself back only by using the kind of discipline that had saved his ass on the streets of East L.A.

Firing erupted from another room.

“You,” he told the private. He shifted his attention briefly to the man’s buddy. “And you. Just stay here. Stay at your posts. And you don’t shoot again unless you have a clear, no-bullshit target with a weapon in his hand. Do you understand me?”

The machine gunner looked at him sullenly and said nothing. The other Marine looked away.

Garcia still wanted to throw a punch. Instead, he ran to the next room and repeated the scene. With a screaming, crying world in the background. Pierced with gunfire.

“We don’t shoot women and children,” Garcia yelled. “You understand me?”

They stopped firing. But it just felt like a pause. They didn’t understand anymore. Garcia got it. In his guts. It had all gone too far. Too many Marines had gone down ugly.

No excuse, sir. Leaders didn’t quit. Ricky Garcia didn’t quit.

He poked his head back into the room where the machine gunner and his buddy stood at the windows. Vigilant. And mean. Just waiting for an excuse. Garcia didn’t say anything this time. He just wanted to let them know he was paying attention. And he took off to see if Corporal Gallotti was doing okay. Pounding down the steps, beating his anger into the dirty concrete.

The odd thing was that his mother was with him now, looking out for him. He realized what the dream had been about. His mother didn’t want him to kill kids and shit. Or people like her. That wasn’t what she wanted at all. She had come to let him know it was all right.