Beneath The Skin by David George Howard
The Voices
Ray had stayed awake as long as he could hoping to tire himself out. The previous two nights and days had been an awakened haze. His fear was that this evening would be like the last and the one before that, where he tossed and turned, feeling every lump in the mattress, every fold in the sheets, every imaginary scratch and itch. He would try to sleep, since certainly, exhaustion had its limits and rest had to come. Ray folded the top sheet back and stretched out on the bed, not bothering to cover up, instead laying still and listening to his bunkmate, Tripper, breathe loud and even, a sign he was fast asleep and unconcerned. Ray could barely see him in his bed across the room, and could not imagine how the man was able to sleep after what they had done. They had not talked since that night.
Ray closed his eyes and placed his hands across his stomach, listening to the air conditioner outside the hut make a deep relaxing drone in its struggle to pull the desert heat out of the room. A gust of wind blew sand against the wall outside, just feet from his head. Ray moved around to relax his shoulders and let his body sink into the mattress. Two weeks away from a long vacation, he began thinking of going home and fishing on the Apple River in Wisconsin, and then as he drifted off to sleep, he saw this thought turn into a dream. The line in the water and sound of the river were as real as he could remember, and he quickly began to flow away from the turmoil of the past few days. Then, he heard a voice he was not able to decipher. Arabic. Then more voices and soon they rose to a steady arguing mass, waking him and pulling him from the river. His eyes shot open, and he sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. Then the voices quieted. All he heard was the steady breathing of Tripper in his bunk and the air conditioner.
Ray held his head for a few moments, running his fingers through his matted hair, wishing he had taken a shower earlier. He knew where the voices came from, but the previous two nights he had only seen images of the people. The grimy faces of the people who kept coming. Three days before, Ray was leading a security squad that had been called to the north end of the refinery. Another routine disturbance, they thought, between the various Sunni and Kurdish Iraqis who lived in and around Bayji. These people were Scratchers, short for Sand Scratchers, a derogatory term used for uneducated Iraqis.
Everyone on the security detail knew there were centuries of fighting between them, but daily they wandered in from the small villages and city in an attempt to work together in the rebuilt refinery. The working arrangement was the result of a well-intended third party negotiation between Sunnis and Kurds to calm the Sunni triangle. Keep the population employed, have them process and sell their natural resources, establish control, and the trouble would end. However, they still clashed, using whatever they had - rocks, sticks, fists - to pound on each other. To keep order, the Iraqi government had contracted the company Ray worked for to help provide an enforcing presence. When called, they seldom fired shots, since the show of force and direct physical contact usually quelled the trouble.
Ray went into the bathroom, drank a glass of water, and then relieved himself before returning to bed. Scratchers. Tripper called them "bastard raggies" since they dressed in tattered clothes and often wore headscarves. They were always dirty and smelled of cooked onions and sweat. Tripper was right; the Scratchers knew nothing but violence. Ray saw that when he was in the Army. Ignorant, he thought, they were only good for manual labor, and even at that, they were only passable at the most menial jobs. Ray lay down again, rolled over on his side, and closed his eyes, trying to go back to the river and the clear running water. After a few moments he did, but he began to listen, and in one rush, the voices came back. He opened his eyes and they continued until he sat up and stomped his foot. Tripper rolled over, grunted, but continued to sleep. God, Ray thought, gritting his teeth, how could Tripper sleep this off?
They had been called to a section of the refinery at the end of a dirt road, and when they arrived, they saw no disturbance. Tripper was driving the truck, and had pulled into an area where a collection of large pipes came out of a building. He shut off the engine and all four - Ray, Tripper, Ozzie and Deke - stepped out.
"I don’t know what the hell’s going on," Ray said, looking at the darkened building and pipes running through the scruffy landscape. Other than the machinery of a running refinery, nothing else was making a sound.
"We’ll take a little look and see who’s here," Tripper said.
"No," Ray said. "It’s not right. Stay close." They stayed within a few paces of the driver’s side of the truck, with Tripper holding his gun up slowly scanning the area. Ray called back to the base to find out if they had been misdirected, but learned there was no report of trouble. He clicked off and was about to leave, when he heard the chanting. Ray, Tripper, Ozzie and Deke focused their attention down the road through the canyon of dull gray buildings and refinery towers that formed the complex. In an instant, Ray’s training came in and he knew what had happened. He recognized the signs of being walled in, and had been pinned down in similar locations as a soldier a few years before. Tonight, they had been directed to this location, not by the dispatcher, but by someone else, and he realized there was no avenue of escape except up the road they drove in on. A crowd began to gather from behind the buildings and pipelines.
"We got some shit going on," one of them said. The safeties came off the weapons.
The pillow under his head felt too soft. Ray did his best to flatten it out, but then set it on the floor and lay on the bed without it. This time, he did not even bother closing his eyes, but instead tried to pick apart every sound he could find. Any ticks of the wall, wind outside, anything. He knew they were alone in the room, but then he heard the voices again. The language was strange and the voices all ran together. He tried to figure it out, he spoke some basic Arabic, but he was not able to decipher what was being said. The voices started to rise and sound like arguing, all talking at once, to him, to others, to anyone. A collection of words that grew to a fever pitch screaming, yelling, at each other, at them, at him, at him.
The Scratchers kept coming down the street, chanting as one chorus. "Fire a shot over their heads," Ray said. A second later, their shots rang out, but the crowd did not change course.
"They’re not going to stop," Tripper said, pointing towards the growing mob. "What the hell. Let’s take them out."
"No," Ray said, concentrating to see if there was any change in the people approaching them.
"Damn it," Tripper said getting about a foot from Ray’s face.
"Settle. Now. That’s an order." Tripper backed off a few steps. Ozzie and Deke started to pace around by the side of the truck, while Tripper kept looking from Ray to the crowd.
A cloud of dust began to form over the crowd from the hundreds of feet pounding on the dirt road. Ray looked at the truck they had come in and realized this would be no protection from a crowd that size. They would be dead in a matter of minutes once the mob reached them. The Scratchers were at the low end of the social scale and only knew violence, having grown up with and been on the receiving end of it on a daily basis. Remaining insurgent groups used this pent up anger and still caused sporadic disturbances, though there was no organized resistance. This meant people like Ray were always able to defend against them. Tonight was different. This was planned, clearly the work of one of the remaining groups. Ray concluded that the only way to escape was to cut through the crowd.
"Put your weapons up and be ready to fire on my order," Ray said. "We’ll take out as many as we need to get out of here." All four raised their weapons and took aim when a smaller group of people walked to the front of the crowd.
Ray watched the ceiling fan over his bed spin. Those children, he remembered, they stepped in front of everyone. He sat up again and closed his eyes, still not able to believe that any class of people, no matter how degenerate, would do that. Anyone that would take their children and clutch them to their chests and advan
ce towards a security detail came from a place he could not comprehend. They were a completely different type of being. These people were animals, as Tripper often said. They knew nothing better than to behave like that, and should be treated accordingly. If this kind of behavior was acceptable to them, then what difference did it make. They were children though. Kids, maybe five or six years old, held up between the adults and a line of high-powered weapons. People like himself, Ray thought, were raised to treat the life of a child as sacred. That was what the Scratchers were counting on, that Ray and the other security officers would not harm anyone as long as the children were there as a shield
The crowd was within about 100 feet, when they started throwing objects at the four of them. At first, a few rocks landed around the men. Then a couple heavier can like objects hit and exploded. These were crude devices, with little power outside of a ten-foot circle, but if close enough and in sufficient numbers, a few could cause harm. Ray thought the crowd would reach them in about thirty seconds. The other three men around him stood with their guns pointed level, waiting for an order. "What’s it going to be?" Tripper said.
The crowd plodded forward, their speed unchanged. At any moment, they could break into a run and overtake the four of them. The choice was automatic. "Now!" Ray ordered and with an exploding burst, the four guns opened up and sent their message into the crowd. The first volley may have only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to drop everybody in the front row. They continued firing and the others behind started going down as well. Then the remainder turned and in a mad rush trampled over anyone behind them in an effort to escape the pressing death. This was the opening Ray needed. Without an order, the four of them jumped into the truck and with Tripper driving, turned towards the people laying on the ground or crawling out of the way and ran them over. The truck jumped up in the air and lurched from side to side as they sped through, but he did not slow down, nor did Ray tell him to take another path. At one point, a boy, maybe fourteen years old, stood and tried to run out of the way, but he was not fast enough. He looked over his shoulder as the headlights panned over him and the truck bore down. The boy’s head snapped back and hit the top of the grill before he disappeared under the front wheels. Once through, they tore up the road and out of the complex.
When they were clear, Tripper let out a wild yell. "Whoa! Hell yes, that was close," he said, slapping his hand of the steering wheel. "Those shiteaters’ll think twice about trying that again."
"Stop the truck," Ray said.
"What?"
"I said, stop the truck." Tripper slammed on the brakes and the truck skidded to a dusty grinding halt.
"What?" Tripper repeated.
Ray did his best to control his breathing before speaking. "I don’t want to hear it," Ray said. The light in the truck was dim, and the dirt from their sudden stop came rolling into the cab. One of the men in the back coughed three or four times. Ray felt the bitter sting of the dust going into his nostrils.
"We got out. Alive," Tripper said. "What?"
"I don’t, want, to hear it."
"Don’t want to hear what? We just escaped," Tripper said.
Tripper put the truck into neutral and took his foot off the brake. They rolled forward a few inches. "Don’t you know what we just did?" Ray said.
"I know can fire a gun and get the hell out of there," Tripper said, gesturing with his hand out the window. "I wouldn’t have waited. Shit I would’ve fired as soon as they came around the building."
"No," Ray said, turning sideways in the seat. "What I mean is, were you in the war?"
"What’s that got to do with it?" Tripper said.
"Answer me," Ray yelled.
"I was at Fort Bragg for a year," Tripper said, putting his hands back on the steering wheel.
"Were you in Baghdad, or some other dung hole around here breaking down doors and running people out of their houses? Not knowing if one of those piss-shits had a chest full of dynamite or was just scared."
Tripper swallowed a few times and looked out the side window. "Aw. No, what difference does it make."
"All the difference," Ray said. "Every bit of it. You have to make the right decision, and live with it forever."
"Ever shoot anybody?" Tripper asked.
"Sure, had no choice."
"If I was there, I would’ve shot every one of those smelly bastards. I wouldn’t give a shit," Tripper said. "Why are you starting to now? What do you care about these idiot camel jockeys. They can’t work, can’t read. They screw their sisters. They just want stick a post up your ass and set you on a flagpole. I say kill every one of them."
Ray had seen and served with men like Tripper for years. Men who would seemingly take a life and not think twice. Those who would see a situation in black and white with no thought of second-guessing. At one time, Ray had been like that, and certain circumstances called for that type of outlook. However, Ray was not sure why, but this was not the same as before during the war. Those past images came to him in a series of flashes. The images would not stop, and he was stunned by the sudden and vivid portrayal. He saw each of those families he burst in on, his gun straight and level looking for that one clue to start taking them out. If anyone made a break for a door, they were dead. Reaching into a pocket was sure sign. It was simple as that. Now, he just did not know. How many had fled in fear? How could he have taken a chance? He was alive today because of the training and knowledge that soldiers before him had died in hesitation. Ray realized the truck was running and then what was playing out in his mind came to a halt. The dust inside had settled. The other three were looking at him. Ray wiped his hand across his nose to clear the grime away. "Drive." Tripper threw the truck in gear and took off.
Sleep just was not going to happen. Ray got out of his bunk and quietly walked across the cabin to the side of Tripper's bed. Since that night, they had not talked other than a quick hello. Tripper was asleep on his left side, turned away from where Ray was standing, his mouth slightly open and breathing into the pillow. The man looked harmless, and helpless. Ray leaned over, watched the man sleep, and asked himself, "Does he know what fear is?" Sleeping put a person in the most vulnerable position possible. Unconscious, and if awakened, disoriented, he was at the mercy of whatever anyone wanted to do. Tripper had no idea what they were talking about that night. He had no concept of thinking your life could be over at the next step, or that you may have to take another’s in the same space of time. Other than what happened a few nights ago, Tripper had never been there, but he assumed he knew. Maybe he needed to learn. If he felt what they had done, maybe he would understand this was not a game or movie. Wake up, damn it. Wake up so I can scare the shit out of you. Ray leaned in closer, hoping Tripper’s eyes would open. He waited. If they opened, Ray was going to wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze. Tripper needed to find out what it meant to be living the last minute of his life. The man continued to sleep. Ray stood up and left the cabin.
Floodlights around the compound obscured the night sky, and Ray was glad, since darkness, along with the exhaustion, only made things worse. Ray was unsure why Tripper even mattered. He would not have really strangled Tripper, just teach him what he really needed to know. Most everyone that came through a war learned things about human behavior that previously seemed impossible. This was clear after the first day he was in a hot zone and pulled the trigger. Most importantly, he and most other soldiers learned what they were and were not capable of when pushed to an edge. Ray shoved his hands into his pockets and checked around to see if anyone else was about. He was too wrapped up in this. Damn it, he told himself, walking away from the cabin, Tripper was not worth it.
The grounds of the compound were well guarded, and wandering around was discouraged. "Why bother," he said aloud. "It’s not my problem." He went to a common building that housed the food service for the workers. The light in
side was bright, and as he sat at a table with a bottle of water, he thought maybe this would keep the voices away. Each one of those voices had a story, and a life behind it. Stories he was not interested in hearing. However, the longer he sat, the more he could almost feel the truck lurch from side to side again, and wondered if he would ever shake the knowledge that they had simply crushed the life out of them. He was not supposed to care, to think of these things, but there had been a change that night. Ray had doubts now that he did not have before, and wondered if he needed to give this up and go to where things made sense. He put his head down, realizing what this was. He had always assumed he would be immune, but now that boy looking over his shoulder seemed to be staring him in the face. Ray bit down on his lip.
Ray stayed and passed the time reading a magazine and watching the satellite CNN broadcast that was constantly running. When the sun began to come up, he went back to his cabin and as he was stepping through the door, Tripper was coming out. They bumped shoulders.
"Watch it," Tripper said.
For a moment, they stood there about arms length apart. Tripper was dressed to go out on patrol. "Or what?" Ray asked.
"What’s wrong with you? You’re not right?" Tripper said.
"And you know what right is?" Ray said. Tripper had a slight twist to his lips that became pronounced when he was being sarcastic. Ray hated that twist.
"I do. I know I’m going to my job, and you’ll be in your bunk all day," Tripper said.
Tripper’s lips curled up. Ray leapt at him, grabbed him by the lapels of his vest and slammed him against the wall. "Don’t you understand?" Ray said, as Tripper tried to push out of his grip.
The two men were about the same size, and they struggled against each other for a moment, before Ray managed to get his leg behind Tripper and crash him to the floor. Tripper stepped back as best as he could, and they crashed into a chair. "What the?" Tripper said. He tried to punch at Ray, but they were too close. He only managed to pummel him on the side of the head.
"You don’t understand," Ray yelled, spittle spraying from his mouth and falling on his chin. "You don’t understand what it means."
Tripper pushed and kicked, until he was able to position himself sideways to Ray and move his legs around to get some distance between them. Tripper managed to get in a quick blow to Ray’s solar plexus. Ray lost his grip as the air went out of his lungs.
Tripper jumped up from the floor. "What the hell was that?" He kicked Ray in the side. "Are you crazy? I’ll beat you to a greasy smear if you try that again." He kicked him, but Ray managed to slide out of the way so the blow landed on the back of his thighs.
Ray began standing up, but he was unable to straighten due to the pain in his midsection. He staggered back onto his bunk. "You don’t know what we did to those people, how we killed them."
"What people?" Tripper said stepping back. "You mean at the refinery? They wanted to kill us. A few seconds later, they would have. We’re alive and they’re dead, that’s what I understand."
"But they were kids, somebody's children," Ray said, the pain easing slightly. He looked up at Tripper, sideways.
"They were animals. Shit, not even that. Cockroaches. I ran over a bunch of sand roaches, and I’d do it again." Tripper straightened his shirt, and fastened a couple of the buttons that had come undone in the struggle. "I don’t know what happened to you, but you better get it together or get out, ‘cause this is what we do." Tripper left the cabin, not bothering to close the door.
Ray heard Tripper’s footsteps disappear as he walked away, before going over and shutting the door. The blinds were closed, and the room was dark. He went back to his bunk and began to stretch out as best as he could. Tripper really could have hurt him, but he did not. What Tripper said made sense, in that he had to live with this kind of violence around him, or leave. He had to leave. When Tripper reported what just happened, the supervisors would order Ray to take an early vacation. He would probably go to another assignment, hopefully domestic. Ray eased off the bunk and opened the blinds. After the scorching sun filled the room, he went into the bathroom to rinse his face. He did not bother toweling off, and instead went back to his bunk, lay down and closed his eyes letting the water run off his cheeks to the pillow.
Ray had stayed awake as long as he could hoping to tire himself out. The previous two nights and days had been an awakened haze. His fear was that this evening would be like the last and the one before that, where he tossed and turned, feeling every lump in the mattress, every fold in the sheets, every imaginary scratch and itch. He would try to sleep, since certainly, exhaustion had its limits and rest had to come. Ray folded the top sheet back and stretched out on the bed, not bothering to cover up, instead laying still and listening to his bunkmate, Tripper, breathe loud and even, a sign he was fast asleep and unconcerned. Ray could barely see him in his bed across the room, and could not imagine how the man was able to sleep after what they had done. They had not talked since that night.
Ray closed his eyes and placed his hands across his stomach, listening to the air conditioner outside the hut make a deep relaxing drone in its struggle to pull the desert heat out of the room. A gust of wind blew sand against the wall outside, just feet from his head. Ray moved around to relax his shoulders and let his body sink into the mattress. Two weeks away from a long vacation, he began thinking of going home and fishing on the Apple River in Wisconsin, and then as he drifted off to sleep, he saw this thought turn into a dream. The line in the water and sound of the river were as real as he could remember, and he quickly began to flow away from the turmoil of the past few days. Then, he heard a voice he was not able to decipher. Arabic. Then more voices and soon they rose to a steady arguing mass, waking him and pulling him from the river. His eyes shot open, and he sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the bed. Then the voices quieted. All he heard was the steady breathing of Tripper in his bunk and the air conditioner.
Ray held his head for a few moments, running his fingers through his matted hair, wishing he had taken a shower earlier. He knew where the voices came from, but the previous two nights he had only seen images of the people. The grimy faces of the people who kept coming. Three days before, Ray was leading a security squad that had been called to the north end of the refinery. Another routine disturbance, they thought, between the various Sunni and Kurdish Iraqis who lived in and around Bayji. These people were Scratchers, short for Sand Scratchers, a derogatory term used for uneducated Iraqis.
Everyone on the security detail knew there were centuries of fighting between them, but daily they wandered in from the small villages and city in an attempt to work together in the rebuilt refinery. The working arrangement was the result of a well-intended third party negotiation between Sunnis and Kurds to calm the Sunni triangle. Keep the population employed, have them process and sell their natural resources, establish control, and the trouble would end. However, they still clashed, using whatever they had - rocks, sticks, fists - to pound on each other. To keep order, the Iraqi government had contracted the company Ray worked for to help provide an enforcing presence. When called, they seldom fired shots, since the show of force and direct physical contact usually quelled the trouble.
Ray went into the bathroom, drank a glass of water, and then relieved himself before returning to bed. Scratchers. Tripper called them "bastard raggies" since they dressed in tattered clothes and often wore headscarves. They were always dirty and smelled of cooked onions and sweat. Tripper was right; the Scratchers knew nothing but violence. Ray saw that when he was in the Army. Ignorant, he thought, they were only good for manual labor, and even at that, they were only passable at the most menial jobs. Ray lay down again, rolled over on his side, and closed his eyes, trying to go back to the river and the clear running water. After a few moments he did, but he began to listen, and in one rush, the voices came back. He opened his eyes and they continued until he sat up and stomped his foot. Tripper rolled over, grunted, but continued to sleep. God, Ray thought, gritting his teeth, how could Tripper sleep this off?
They had been called to a section of the refinery at the end of a dirt road, and when they arrived, they saw no disturbance. Tripper was driving the truck, and had pulled into an area where a collection of large pipes came out of a building. He shut off the engine and all four - Ray, Tripper, Ozzie and Deke - stepped out.
"I don’t know what the hell’s going on," Ray said, looking at the darkened building and pipes running through the scruffy landscape. Other than the machinery of a running refinery, nothing else was making a sound.
"We’ll take a little look and see who’s here," Tripper said.
"No," Ray said. "It’s not right. Stay close." They stayed within a few paces of the driver’s side of the truck, with Tripper holding his gun up slowly scanning the area. Ray called back to the base to find out if they had been misdirected, but learned there was no report of trouble. He clicked off and was about to leave, when he heard the chanting. Ray, Tripper, Ozzie and Deke focused their attention down the road through the canyon of dull gray buildings and refinery towers that formed the complex. In an instant, Ray’s training came in and he knew what had happened. He recognized the signs of being walled in, and had been pinned down in similar locations as a soldier a few years before. Tonight, they had been directed to this location, not by the dispatcher, but by someone else, and he realized there was no avenue of escape except up the road they drove in on. A crowd began to gather from behind the buildings and pipelines.
"We got some shit going on," one of them said. The safeties came off the weapons.
The pillow under his head felt too soft. Ray did his best to flatten it out, but then set it on the floor and lay on the bed without it. This time, he did not even bother closing his eyes, but instead tried to pick apart every sound he could find. Any ticks of the wall, wind outside, anything. He knew they were alone in the room, but then he heard the voices again. The language was strange and the voices all ran together. He tried to figure it out, he spoke some basic Arabic, but he was not able to decipher what was being said. The voices started to rise and sound like arguing, all talking at once, to him, to others, to anyone. A collection of words that grew to a fever pitch screaming, yelling, at each other, at them, at him, at him.
The Scratchers kept coming down the street, chanting as one chorus. "Fire a shot over their heads," Ray said. A second later, their shots rang out, but the crowd did not change course.
"They’re not going to stop," Tripper said, pointing towards the growing mob. "What the hell. Let’s take them out."
"No," Ray said, concentrating to see if there was any change in the people approaching them.
"Damn it," Tripper said getting about a foot from Ray’s face.
"Settle. Now. That’s an order." Tripper backed off a few steps. Ozzie and Deke started to pace around by the side of the truck, while Tripper kept looking from Ray to the crowd.
A cloud of dust began to form over the crowd from the hundreds of feet pounding on the dirt road. Ray looked at the truck they had come in and realized this would be no protection from a crowd that size. They would be dead in a matter of minutes once the mob reached them. The Scratchers were at the low end of the social scale and only knew violence, having grown up with and been on the receiving end of it on a daily basis. Remaining insurgent groups used this pent up anger and still caused sporadic disturbances, though there was no organized resistance. This meant people like Ray were always able to defend against them. Tonight was different. This was planned, clearly the work of one of the remaining groups. Ray concluded that the only way to escape was to cut through the crowd.
"Put your weapons up and be ready to fire on my order," Ray said. "We’ll take out as many as we need to get out of here." All four raised their weapons and took aim when a smaller group of people walked to the front of the crowd.
Ray watched the ceiling fan over his bed spin. Those children, he remembered, they stepped in front of everyone. He sat up again and closed his eyes, still not able to believe that any class of people, no matter how degenerate, would do that. Anyone that would take their children and clutch them to their chests and advan
The crowd was within about 100 feet, when they started throwing objects at the four of them. At first, a few rocks landed around the men. Then a couple heavier can like objects hit and exploded. These were crude devices, with little power outside of a ten-foot circle, but if close enough and in sufficient numbers, a few could cause harm. Ray thought the crowd would reach them in about thirty seconds. The other three men around him stood with their guns pointed level, waiting for an order. "What’s it going to be?" Tripper said.
The crowd plodded forward, their speed unchanged. At any moment, they could break into a run and overtake the four of them. The choice was automatic. "Now!" Ray ordered and with an exploding burst, the four guns opened up and sent their message into the crowd. The first volley may have only lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to drop everybody in the front row. They continued firing and the others behind started going down as well. Then the remainder turned and in a mad rush trampled over anyone behind them in an effort to escape the pressing death. This was the opening Ray needed. Without an order, the four of them jumped into the truck and with Tripper driving, turned towards the people laying on the ground or crawling out of the way and ran them over. The truck jumped up in the air and lurched from side to side as they sped through, but he did not slow down, nor did Ray tell him to take another path. At one point, a boy, maybe fourteen years old, stood and tried to run out of the way, but he was not fast enough. He looked over his shoulder as the headlights panned over him and the truck bore down. The boy’s head snapped back and hit the top of the grill before he disappeared under the front wheels. Once through, they tore up the road and out of the complex.
When they were clear, Tripper let out a wild yell. "Whoa! Hell yes, that was close," he said, slapping his hand of the steering wheel. "Those shiteaters’ll think twice about trying that again."
"Stop the truck," Ray said.
"What?"
"I said, stop the truck." Tripper slammed on the brakes and the truck skidded to a dusty grinding halt.
"What?" Tripper repeated.
Ray did his best to control his breathing before speaking. "I don’t want to hear it," Ray said. The light in the truck was dim, and the dirt from their sudden stop came rolling into the cab. One of the men in the back coughed three or four times. Ray felt the bitter sting of the dust going into his nostrils.
"We got out. Alive," Tripper said. "What?"
"I don’t, want, to hear it."
"Don’t want to hear what? We just escaped," Tripper said.
Tripper put the truck into neutral and took his foot off the brake. They rolled forward a few inches. "Don’t you know what we just did?" Ray said.
"I know can fire a gun and get the hell out of there," Tripper said, gesturing with his hand out the window. "I wouldn’t have waited. Shit I would’ve fired as soon as they came around the building."
"No," Ray said, turning sideways in the seat. "What I mean is, were you in the war?"
"What’s that got to do with it?" Tripper said.
"Answer me," Ray yelled.
"I was at Fort Bragg for a year," Tripper said, putting his hands back on the steering wheel.
"Were you in Baghdad, or some other dung hole around here breaking down doors and running people out of their houses? Not knowing if one of those piss-shits had a chest full of dynamite or was just scared."
Tripper swallowed a few times and looked out the side window. "Aw. No, what difference does it make."
"All the difference," Ray said. "Every bit of it. You have to make the right decision, and live with it forever."
"Ever shoot anybody?" Tripper asked.
"Sure, had no choice."
"If I was there, I would’ve shot every one of those smelly bastards. I wouldn’t give a shit," Tripper said. "Why are you starting to now? What do you care about these idiot camel jockeys. They can’t work, can’t read. They screw their sisters. They just want stick a post up your ass and set you on a flagpole. I say kill every one of them."
Ray had seen and served with men like Tripper for years. Men who would seemingly take a life and not think twice. Those who would see a situation in black and white with no thought of second-guessing. At one time, Ray had been like that, and certain circumstances called for that type of outlook. However, Ray was not sure why, but this was not the same as before during the war. Those past images came to him in a series of flashes. The images would not stop, and he was stunned by the sudden and vivid portrayal. He saw each of those families he burst in on, his gun straight and level looking for that one clue to start taking them out. If anyone made a break for a door, they were dead. Reaching into a pocket was sure sign. It was simple as that. Now, he just did not know. How many had fled in fear? How could he have taken a chance? He was alive today because of the training and knowledge that soldiers before him had died in hesitation. Ray realized the truck was running and then what was playing out in his mind came to a halt. The dust inside had settled. The other three were looking at him. Ray wiped his hand across his nose to clear the grime away. "Drive." Tripper threw the truck in gear and took off.
Sleep just was not going to happen. Ray got out of his bunk and quietly walked across the cabin to the side of Tripper's bed. Since that night, they had not talked other than a quick hello. Tripper was asleep on his left side, turned away from where Ray was standing, his mouth slightly open and breathing into the pillow. The man looked harmless, and helpless. Ray leaned over, watched the man sleep, and asked himself, "Does he know what fear is?" Sleeping put a person in the most vulnerable position possible. Unconscious, and if awakened, disoriented, he was at the mercy of whatever anyone wanted to do. Tripper had no idea what they were talking about that night. He had no concept of thinking your life could be over at the next step, or that you may have to take another’s in the same space of time. Other than what happened a few nights ago, Tripper had never been there, but he assumed he knew. Maybe he needed to learn. If he felt what they had done, maybe he would understand this was not a game or movie. Wake up, damn it. Wake up so I can scare the shit out of you. Ray leaned in closer, hoping Tripper’s eyes would open. He waited. If they opened, Ray was going to wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze. Tripper needed to find out what it meant to be living the last minute of his life. The man continued to sleep. Ray stood up and left the cabin.
Floodlights around the compound obscured the night sky, and Ray was glad, since darkness, along with the exhaustion, only made things worse. Ray was unsure why Tripper even mattered. He would not have really strangled Tripper, just teach him what he really needed to know. Most everyone that came through a war learned things about human behavior that previously seemed impossible. This was clear after the first day he was in a hot zone and pulled the trigger. Most importantly, he and most other soldiers learned what they were and were not capable of when pushed to an edge. Ray shoved his hands into his pockets and checked around to see if anyone else was about. He was too wrapped up in this. Damn it, he told himself, walking away from the cabin, Tripper was not worth it.
The grounds of the compound were well guarded, and wandering around was discouraged. "Why bother," he said aloud. "It’s not my problem." He went to a common building that housed the food service for the workers. The light in
Ray stayed and passed the time reading a magazine and watching the satellite CNN broadcast that was constantly running. When the sun began to come up, he went back to his cabin and as he was stepping through the door, Tripper was coming out. They bumped shoulders.
"Watch it," Tripper said.
For a moment, they stood there about arms length apart. Tripper was dressed to go out on patrol. "Or what?" Ray asked.
"What’s wrong with you? You’re not right?" Tripper said.
"And you know what right is?" Ray said. Tripper had a slight twist to his lips that became pronounced when he was being sarcastic. Ray hated that twist.
"I do. I know I’m going to my job, and you’ll be in your bunk all day," Tripper said.
Tripper’s lips curled up. Ray leapt at him, grabbed him by the lapels of his vest and slammed him against the wall. "Don’t you understand?" Ray said, as Tripper tried to push out of his grip.
The two men were about the same size, and they struggled against each other for a moment, before Ray managed to get his leg behind Tripper and crash him to the floor. Tripper stepped back as best as he could, and they crashed into a chair. "What the?" Tripper said. He tried to punch at Ray, but they were too close. He only managed to pummel him on the side of the head.
"You don’t understand," Ray yelled, spittle spraying from his mouth and falling on his chin. "You don’t understand what it means."
Tripper pushed and kicked, until he was able to position himself sideways to Ray and move his legs around to get some distance between them. Tripper managed to get in a quick blow to Ray’s solar plexus. Ray lost his grip as the air went out of his lungs.
Tripper jumped up from the floor. "What the hell was that?" He kicked Ray in the side. "Are you crazy? I’ll beat you to a greasy smear if you try that again." He kicked him, but Ray managed to slide out of the way so the blow landed on the back of his thighs.
Ray began standing up, but he was unable to straighten due to the pain in his midsection. He staggered back onto his bunk. "You don’t know what we did to those people, how we killed them."
"What people?" Tripper said stepping back. "You mean at the refinery? They wanted to kill us. A few seconds later, they would have. We’re alive and they’re dead, that’s what I understand."
"But they were kids, somebody's children," Ray said, the pain easing slightly. He looked up at Tripper, sideways.
"They were animals. Shit, not even that. Cockroaches. I ran over a bunch of sand roaches, and I’d do it again." Tripper straightened his shirt, and fastened a couple of the buttons that had come undone in the struggle. "I don’t know what happened to you, but you better get it together or get out, ‘cause this is what we do." Tripper left the cabin, not bothering to close the door.
Ray heard Tripper’s footsteps disappear as he walked away, before going over and shutting the door. The blinds were closed, and the room was dark. He went back to his bunk and began to stretch out as best as he could. Tripper really could have hurt him, but he did not. What Tripper said made sense, in that he had to live with this kind of violence around him, or leave. He had to leave. When Tripper reported what just happened, the supervisors would order Ray to take an early vacation. He would probably go to another assignment, hopefully domestic. Ray eased off the bunk and opened the blinds. After the scorching sun filled the room, he went into the bathroom to rinse his face. He did not bother toweling off, and instead went back to his bunk, lay down and closed his eyes letting the water run off his cheeks to the pillow.