Blood on the Page: The Complete Short Fiction of Brian Keene, Volume 1

by Brian Keene

  “One thing’s for sure. The Iraqi’s ain’t gonna be putting up a fight tonight.”

  Bloom fumbled in his pocket and produced a squashed pack of gum. “Want some?”

  “No thanks. What I want is a smoke.”

  “Can’t help you there.” He unwrapped the stick of gum and chewed it happily, his parched mouth relishing the burst of flavor. He turned his attention back to the desert. He couldn’t see anything. Blackness had swallowed up the entire column. He shivered. “It’s cold in here.”

  “You shouldn’t be cold. You’ve got five layers of dirt on you to keep you warm.”

  Bloom didn’t reply. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders as another chill passed through him.

  “Bloom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’ll be okay. You’ll be back in Trench-ton before you know it.”

  That was when the desert disappeared from beneath their wheels.

  • • •

  Bloom couldn’t see anything other than darkness. It wasn’t just black—it was the absolute absence of light. His face felt sticky. Wetness ran into his eyes. He placed a hand to his forehead and gingerly felt the edges of the wound. Myers moaned from somewhere to his left. Outside, the wind howled, rocking the M-88 back and forth.

  “Myers? You okay?”

  “Can’t see...”

  Bloom sighed in relief. At least he wasn’t blind.

  “I can’t either,” he whispered. “Must be the storm. Where are you?

  “Over here.”

  Carefully feeling his way, Bloom crawled towards the voice. His palm flattened down on what felt like glass—the window.

  “We’re on our side. What the hell happened?”

  “Don’t know,” Myers coughed. “The ground just disappeared. Maybe the storm blew us over.”

  “Somebody must have seen us wreck. Help’s probably on the way.”

  His hand closed around Myers’s leg.

  “Quit feeling me up, or I’ll make you my bitch.”

  “Fuck you, Myers. You okay?”

  “Yeah, nothing’s broken at least. Must’ve banged my head when we rolled. Got one hell of a headache.”

  “Me, too. My forehead’s bleeding.” Bloom wiped more blood from his eyes.

  “How bad?”

  “I can’t tell. Not too bad, I don’t think. I’m still conscious.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, letting their eyes adjust to the darkness. After a few minutes, they still saw nothing. Bloom had the uncomfortable impression that the blackness was pressing in on them, wrapping them in an embrace.

  “This is no good,” Myers said, finally. “Where’s the night vision goggles?”

  “I don’t know. Everything got tossed around when we crashed. I told you we should have stowed everything like O’Malley said.”

  “Hang on.”

  There was a rustling sound. Then, Myers’s lighter flared to life, illuminating them in its tiny circle of light. Bloom gasped. The darkness seemed to surround the flame, as if it wanted to extinguish it.

  “Let me see.” Myers’s fingers probed his head, appraising the damage. “You’re okay. It’s not deep. Scalp wounds bleed like crazy though.”

  “Think we should put that out?” Bloom nodded at the lighter. “What if there are hostiles in the perimeter?”

  “Fuck ‘em. I need a smoke.” He shook a cigarette out of the crumpled pack. “Besides, something just doesn’t feel right...”

  “The darkness?”

  “Yeah. You feel it, too?”

  Bloom nodded.

  Outside, the wind shrieked in response, pounding the vehicle.

  “I don’t think help’s coming,” Myers said. “Not tonight, at least.”

  “Try the radio.”

  “Already did. It’s dead.”

  “We are so fucked.”

  “Would you please quit saying that?”

  “I can’t help it!”

  They crawled through the wreckage, salvaging what they could. When they were outfitted, Myers extinguished the lighter.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “Let’s do it.”

  They crawled outside into Hell. As they plunged again into the darkness, stinging sand lashed at their exposed skin, chipping the lenses of their goggles. The wind roared in their ears, and it was impossible to breathe, let alone speak. They communicated in sign language.

  In the distance, they saw Sanchez and Riser struggling against the storm. Bloom and Myers found it hard to identify the two men at first, and had to watch carefully before they were sure. Bloom tried shouting, but the gale tore his voice away. He raised his arms over his head and waved. Barely visible, even from only a few yards away, the two soldiers made their way toward them. Wading through the sand, the four reached each other.

  “What happened?” Myers shouted above the winds.

  “We wrecked,” Riser yelled. “One minute the road was there, and the next—fucking gone!”

  Myers nodded. “Does anybody else know where we are?”

  “Our radio’s busted,” Sanchez hollered. “How about yours?”

  Myers slid his finger across his throat in a slashing motion.

  Sanchez frowned. “Shit!”

  “Well, what the hell do we do now?” Bloom coughed. “I don’t see the rest of the convoy!”

  “You can’t see anything out here,” Riser answered. “Our truck is toast! Let’s head back to yours, and take cover till this blows over!”

  They waded back to the M-88 and slipped inside. Myers pulled the door shut behind him, partially muting the wind. They sat clustered together in the feeble glow of a chem light, shaking the dirt out of their ears, nostrils, helmets, and boots. Riser removed his Kevlar vest, and sand poured from it.

  “Shit,” Sanchez muttered, banging his handheld GPS against his leg. “This thing’s on the fritz too. Can’t get any readings that make sense.”

  “It’s this storm,” Bloom said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Riser dumped the dust from his boots. “I don’t think anybody has. This shit is Biblical, man.”

  They all stared at him.

  “Think about it,” he said. “We’re in the cradle of civilization! It may be Iraq now, but this was Sumeria, wasn’t it? This was fucking Babylon! This is where it all started.”

  “If that’s the case,” Myers said, “then I sure do wish God would send us a burning bush right about now.”

  “Fuck that,” Sanchez replied. “I want him to send a couple Chinooks to fly our asses out of here.”

  “I just want to go home,” Bloom said quietly. “I miss Jill.”

  “She your girlfriend?” Sanchez asked.

  He nodded.

  Riser yawned. “Me, too. All I want to do is go to Camden Yards, catch the O’s, and drink a few cold ones. God damn, a cold beer would taste good right about now!”

  Sanchez fumbled with his wedding band. “I miss my wife.”

  “I need a smoke.” Myers searched his empty pockets again.

  They sat in the darkness. All four men were disoriented, dirty, and exhausted. Outside, the storm continued, showing no signs of abating.

  It was a long time before any of them slept.

  • • •

  When Bloom awoke, his tongue felt like beef jerky. His lips were cracked and raw. His puffy eyes itched, and he dug at them with balled fists. Then, he slowly opened them and looked around.

  “Jesus!”

  His shout woke the others. The entire bottom of the M-88 was covered in a layer of sand. They had fallen asleep sitting up, and while they slept, it had had piled up to their waists, obscuring everything. It was like sitting in cement, and they struggled to get free.

  “Hey!” Sanchez glanced around. “Where’s Riser?”

  Frantically, they began digging with their hands, calling his name. Riser didn’t answer. They found him seven inches down. His mouth, nose, eyes, and ears were filled with sand.

  �
��Oh shit...” Sanchez ran his hand over his crew cut. “Riser.”

  Myers knelt, checking his pulse. “He’s dead.”

  “You think so?” Bloom choked. “Sorry. This just sucks. Fucking Riser.”

  “He was short,” Sanchez said. “Thirty-nine days and a wake up and he would have been out of here. He said when I got out, I could come to Baltimore and he’d show me around. They’ve got crabs there, supposed to be good—”

  His sobs cut off the rest.

  Bloom turned away, tears streaking through the dust on his face, as well.

  Solemnly, Myers closed the dead soldier’s eyes. “Rest easy, brother.”

  • • •

  Later, Bloom and Myers ventured outside, while Sanchez stayed behind to guard the vehicle—and their fallen comrade.

  The sky was clear. The piercing blue was broken only by a few wispy clouds. The wind had vanished, and the temperature was beginning to soar. No trace of the storm remained, except for the sand. Large dunes covered everything, obscuring their surroundings. The M-88 lay half buried on its side.

  “No way we’re getting that thing out of there.” Bloom kicked at the desert in frustration.

  “At least we got out. If that storm had kept up a few hours longer, we’d have been shit out of luck.”

  “Myers,” Bloom began, hesitant. “Did you notice something last night?”

  “You mean other than the weather?”

  “Remember that old man, the one along the roadside? The storm didn’t get really bad until after we passed him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said something—something in their language, and then he drew some funny symbols in the sand. Like he was doing magic or something.”

  Myers snorted, and spat a wad of mucous and dirt.

  “Bloom, what the hell have you been smoking? Man, if your number comes up for a random piss test, you’re looking at a dishonorable on your DD-214.”

  “I’m serious. That storm wasn’t natural. And what about all that shit with the radios? That blue light? The darkness?”

  “It was nighttime. Of course it was fucking dark. That don’t make it magic. We’ve got enough trouble without inventing more.”

  “Forget it.”

  They explored the terrain in a steadily broadening circle, looking for anything that seemed familiar.

  “Where the fuck is the road?” Bloom sat down on a dune. “Shouldn’t there at least be tracks from the rest of the convoy?”

  Myers shrugged. “Got covered up, I imagine. I don’t see nothing that looks familiar. No buildings. Not even a tree.”

  “What’s that over there?”

  The sun glinted off a flat piece of metal. They approached it curiously.

  “That’s the roof of a truck,” Myers said. “How the—”

  “Shhh,” Bloom silenced him. “Listen!”

  Dim, muffled pounding came from somewhere beneath their feet. A voice called out from beneath the desert.

  “Somebody’s alive in there!” Myers began digging at the sand with his hands. “Go back to the truck! See if you can find the shovels, and bring Sanchez!”

  “On it,” Bloom said, dashing away.

  “Hang on,” Myers shouted at the ground. “We’ll get you out!”

  Bloom and Sanchez returned with a compact shovel and an empty coffee can. The three men dug in frantic silence, their bodies drenched with sweat.

  Bloom knocked on the roof of the vehicle. “Hey down there! If you can hear me, we’re digging you out!”

  They kept at it, but their determined efforts quickly turned to frustration. For each scoop of sand they hauled away, more poured into its place.

  “This ain’t working,” Myers moaned.

  Sanchez stood up. “Hang on.”

  He ran back to the M-88 and disappeared inside.

  “What’s he doing?” Bloom asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he got heat stroke.”

  The burly Texan reappeared a second later, holding a fire axe over his head.

  “Stand back,” Sanchez warned, then swung the axe downward. There was a shriek of metal, and sparks danced over the sand. The trapped voice grew silent. He brought the axe down again, ripping a hole in the roof. He swung a third time. A fourth.

  Five minutes later, Sharp stared up at them through the hole. His expression was a mixture of relief and sadness. Relief that he was saved. Sadness that Rendell, lying next to him, had met a fate similar to Riser’s. During the night, when the air inside the buried truck grew thin, Rendell had fallen asleep and never woke up.

  Having rescued Sharp, they grieved for their fellow soldiers. Exhausted and hot, each gulped greedily from their canteens, until Myers advised them to conserve their water. Since the others were Privates, and he was a Specialist, and there were no Sergeants or Corporals to be found, command of the rag-tag squad fell to him.

  “I think we need to face facts,” he said as they huddled around him. “Either they don’t know we’re lost, or there’s nobody left to find us. Either way, I don’t reckon we’ll get rescued anytime soon. We’ve got to make our own way out.”

  “Shouldn’t we just wait here?” Bloom asked. “Dig some trenches and defend our position?”

  “We could,” Myers said. “But the way I see it, we’re better off trying to find civilization—or at least a road. Even if they are looking for us, that storm messed everything up. They don’t know our location, and neither do we. The radios are busted, so we can’t call anybody, and we’ve only got enough rations for a day or two. I say we hoof it. Head due east and eventually we’ve got to come across a road or a village. Maybe even another convoy or platoon.”

  “What about Riser and Rendell?” Sanchez asked. “We just gonna leave them out here?”

  “Yeah, unless you feel like carrying them over those dunes. Look, I know it sucks. They were my friends, too. Hell, Rendell and I went through basic together. But be realistic. We can’t carry them. And we ain’t doing them no good if we die out here, too.”

  They moved Riser’s body to the medical truck, and then kicked sand over the roof to camouflage it better.

  “We’ll be back,” Sanchez said to the ground.

  “Count on it,” Sharp added, quietly.

  As they crossed the first dune, and stared out across the vast desert plateau, the opening chords of “Kashmir” ran through Bloom’s head. He hummed along, until he found that it was smarter to save his breath.

  They began to walk.

  • • •

  By midday, the desert gave way to palm trees and mud.

  Bloom cheered, celebrating the change in landscape. “This is more like it!”

  “What—this?” Sanchez scowled. “It’s a fucking swamp, Bloom.”

  “Yeah, but at least there’s no sand. The mud’s hard packed.

  Sharp paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. “This looks like Nassiriyah.”

  “Can’t be,” Myers replied. “I thought so too, at first, but we’re too far west.”

  Trudging onward, they came across a rugged, narrow path winding through the mud.

  “Anybody recognize this?” Myers asked.

  Sharp and Sanchez shook their heads.

  “Yeah.” Bloom rubbed his calves. “It’s a goat track.”

  “That’s very helpful,” Myers said. “Wherever we are, this path has been used recently. Look at the tracks.”

  He pointed at a pair of tire treads, baked into the ground.

  “Not one of ours,” Sharp said. “Too small.”

  There was a scuffling sound behind them. They whirled, raising their weapons in unison. A lone Iraqi man, barefoot and dressed in tatters, faced them. Two women in black robes, carrying bundles on their heads, and a boy and a girl in brightly colored rags, rounded the hilltop behind him. They all gasped in surprise.

  “Are they civilians or militia?” Sharp asked.

  Myers grunted. “Hard to say. The women and kids are civilians, but the guy c
ould be wearing civvies to throw us off.”

  The man smiled a toothless grin, and mimed drinking from a bottle. Slowly, Bloom shook his canteen to show that it was empty.

  “Speak English?” Myers asked.

  The man stared blankly, still smiling. Then he held out his hands, and gave them the thumbs-up sign. The women and children joined him.

  The man spoke. “Good... America.”

  Myers laughed, and after a moment, the others joined him, lowering their weapons. The young boy looked at the soldiers and said something barely understandable— “chocolate.” It broke Bloom’s heart not to have any to give him.

  Myers walked forward and shook hands with the man.

  “Thank for liberate us,” the man said in halting English. “You great army.”

  “You’re welcome.” Myers paused, then rummaged in his pack and brought out two packs of MRE’s. He handed them to the man, who looked at the gifts with puzzlement.

  “Food,” Sharp said, and then mimed eating. “Meal Ready to Eat.”

  “I thought we were here to make friends,” Sanchez said. “Ain’t gonna do it giving them those things.”

  The man turned and said something to the others. Then they all bowed in gratitude. The little girl ran up and hugged Myers around the legs. He shooed her away in gentle embarrassment, then spoke again.

  “Can you tell us where we are? Is there a town nearby? Town?”

  The man thought for a moment, then nodded.

  “Al-Qurna,” he said, pointing down the road. “Eden.”

  “How far?” Myers asked.

  “Eden,” the man repeated, “Al-Qurna.”

  “Al-Qurna,” Sharp mused. “I remember seeing that on the map.”

  One of the women whispered something in the man’s ear. He seemed to consider her request for a moment, and then nodded. She stepped forward to Myers.

  “We thank you for your help,” she said in English. “My husband, his American is not so good. Mine is better.”

  “We’re glad we could help,” Myers said, smiling. “But why didn’t you just tell us you spoke English to begin with?”

  “Is not my place. That is my husband’s choice.”

  Myers laughed. “If I tried that on my wife back in Nacogdoches, she’d likely whip me.”