going.
"What we got?" Spider asked.
Tommy pointed at the door. "You tell me."
Spider walked over and looked in. She took one look around and almost chucked. The smell, the look, the dark.
"Incoming! Oh God! It's gonna hit us!" she yelled as she ran. The others ran, too, but most of them weren't fast enough. The blast knocked her to the ground and sent her flying into the wall of the trench. Something soft and wet and sticky hit her in the side of the head. There was a glimmer of realization as the smoke and flames filled the air. That something that hit her was part of Becky. The rest of Becky was lying at her feet. She didn't have time for it to sink in; didn't have time to deal with it because then the bastards were in the trench with them . . . and it was shooting and stabbing and blood, so much blood—her blood, Becky's blood, the rag heads' blood. James came up beside her, trying to hold the bastards off. A bullet hit him, two, three. She hit the ground and rolled, finding a safe place behind a piece of a car.
"Spider, help!" He held a hand out to her. She reached for him, and something hard and hot hit her shoulder, throwing her back. She tore a piece of her shirt off and packed her own wound as she watched a bullet splinter James' skull. She grabbed her gun, got up and ran towards the enemy. It wasn't courage; it was rage that empowered her. Rage, and fear. Sarge screamed, "No Webb!" But she ran in, firing, and now he was dead and she was still alive. Another bomb hit. This time it hit behind the Iraqis line. The cavalry had come. Seven of her unit joined her, only four lived to see morning. Only the five of them waded through the blood and carnage and survived. It was idiotic. They gave them a medal for living, but then they gave everyone else a medal for dying, and how much more stupid was that?
"Spider!" Tommy screamed again. "Spider!"
She turned away from the scene towards Tommy. She must have looked as shaken as she felt.
"You OK, Spider? You're looking a little green."
"I'm . . . OK."
"You hear my question?"
She shook her head no.
"I asked if you thought it was the Fry Guy."
She didn't have to think about that one. It was a no-brainer. "Yes."
"Why so sloppy? Why such a mess?"
Spider thought about the mess he was talking about. Thought about what had happened to her in Baghdad.
"Killing Rage. This time he was mad. He didn't really think; he just struck out. Apparently—at least in his mind—they did something personal to him."
"He left five witnesses," Tommy told her.
She looked at him in disbelief.
"And this is what they all said." He punched up the data and showed it to her. She watched all five interviews, and then Tommy repeated the description. "A man of unknown ethnic origin wearing a purple ski hat, a red cape and leather work gloves."
"He knew there was a chance that not everyone here would be truly bad, evil if you will. The five he left alive he must consider redeemable. See if they had any previous records."
Spider seemed disconnected. Maybe she was just tired, but somehow Tommy didn't think so; there was something wrong. It was cold and she was sweating. He looked for the files anyway.
"You're right. None of those five have a record that includes anything harsher than shoplifting. Three of them have no record at all."
"And what do you want to bet that all those corpses do. Or if they don't, that they were deeply into the gang—totally corrupted. We should interview some of the families of both the victims and the survivors see if there are any similarities . . . "
Bodies, so many bodies, and somebody had to move them. No one ever thought about that.
The flies. That's what she remembered—the flies. Like black air they were so thick, and the smell—sweetly putrid. They sent them in on what was supposed to be a routine relief. They were to go
"What we got?" Spider asked.
Tommy pointed at the door. "You tell me."
Spider walked over and looked in. She took one look around and almost chucked. The smell, the look, the dark.
"Incoming! Oh God! It's gonna hit us!" she yelled as she ran. The others ran, too, but most of them weren't fast enough. The blast knocked her to the ground and sent her flying into the wall of the trench. Something soft and wet and sticky hit her in the side of the head. There was a glimmer of realization as the smoke and flames filled the air. That something that hit her was part of Becky. The rest of Becky was lying at her feet. She didn't have time for it to sink in; didn't have time to deal with it because then the bastards were in the trench with them . . . and it was shooting and stabbing and blood, so much blood—her blood, Becky's blood, the rag heads' blood. James came up beside her, trying to hold the bastards off. A bullet hit him, two, three. She hit the ground and rolled, finding a safe place behind a piece of a car.
"Spider, help!" He held a hand out to her. She reached for him, and something hard and hot hit her shoulder, throwing her back. She tore a piece of her shirt off and packed her own wound as she watched a bullet splinter James' skull. She grabbed her gun, got up and ran towards the enemy. It wasn't courage; it was rage that empowered her. Rage, and fear. Sarge screamed, "No Webb!" But she ran in, firing, and now he was dead and she was still alive. Another bomb hit. This time it hit behind the Iraqis line. The cavalry had come. Seven of her unit joined her, only four lived to see morning. Only the five of them waded through the blood and carnage and survived. It was idiotic. They gave them a medal for living, but then they gave everyone else a medal for dying, and how much more stupid was that?
"Spider!" Tommy screamed again. "Spider!"
She turned away from the scene towards Tommy. She must have looked as shaken as she felt.
"You OK, Spider? You're looking a little green."
"I'm . . . OK."
"You hear my question?"
She shook her head no.
"I asked if you thought it was the Fry Guy."
She didn't have to think about that one. It was a no-brainer. "Yes."
"Why so sloppy? Why such a mess?"
Spider thought about the mess he was talking about. Thought about what had happened to her in Baghdad.
"Killing Rage. This time he was mad. He didn't really think; he just struck out. Apparently—at least in his mind—they did something personal to him."
"He left five witnesses," Tommy told her.
She looked at him in disbelief.
"And this is what they all said." He punched up the data and showed it to her. She watched all five interviews, and then Tommy repeated the description. "A man of unknown ethnic origin wearing a purple ski hat, a red cape and leather work gloves."
"He knew there was a chance that not everyone here would be truly bad, evil if you will. The five he left alive he must consider redeemable. See if they had any previous records."
Spider seemed disconnected. Maybe she was just tired, but somehow Tommy didn't think so; there was something wrong. It was cold and she was sweating. He looked for the files anyway.
"You're right. None of those five have a record that includes anything harsher than shoplifting. Three of them have no record at all."
"And what do you want to bet that all those corpses do. Or if they don't, that they were deeply into the gang—totally corrupted. We should interview some of the families of both the victims and the survivors see if there are any similarities . . . "
Bodies, so many bodies, and somebody had to move them. No one ever thought about that.
The flies. That's what she remembered—the flies. Like black air they were so thick, and the smell—sweetly putrid. They sent them in on what was supposed to be a routine relief. They were to go
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