Edge of Survival Box Set 1

by William Oday

The gunship powered up and lifted higher into the air. It dipped its nose and disappeared over the roofs.

  The screaming in the street grew louder. Or felt louder now that it no longer competed with the gunship’s rotors.

  A lot of people needed help here. Mason was no doctor. And yet that didn’t absolve him from trying. But what if Theresa got hurt because he delayed here? What if those precious seconds spent here ended up being the very same ones that meant life or death for her?

  He’d never forgive himself. He wouldn’t want to live with that hanging over his head. He knew baggage. He knew that aching weight more than anyone. And he knew with absolute certainty that losing his daughter would be the end of everything he cared about.

  It was the fog of war. The uncertainty of knowing the right answer. The predicament of having no right answer. Only the one you went with and made work. He prayed he was making the right decision.

  “My daughter needs me. I have to go.”

  57

  November 2004

  Fallujah, Iraq

  MASON packed yet another oversized pinch of Copenhagen into his lower lip. The zing of nicotine couldn’t arrive fast enough. He winced in pain. The bite wound below his right eye oozed creamy pus. The whole area was swollen, to the point where he couldn’t see more than a slit through that eye.

  Lopes slapped his shoulder.

  “Like a little girl, bro!”

  “Shut up,” Mason replied.

  The whole squad hadn’t let it go for two days now. In their version of the event, he screamed like a little girl swatting the camel spider off his face. That wasn’t how he remembered it.

  He was fighting for his life! That monster had nearly chewed his head off!

  He’d succeeded in batting it away, but not before the loathsome creature had gouged a chunk out of his cheek. The whole squad chased the monstrous arachnid around the room for two minutes until Miro finally got a boot on it.

  Big as your hand. Mandibles like a wood chipper. Eight long, jointed legs. Hairy. Repulsive.

  Not venomous, though, so Mason figured he got away with minimal injury. And now two days later, the wound had half his face puffed up like a balloon. Touching anywhere near the area shot daggers into his brain. It had to be drained every few hours. The crud that spurted out was so revolting it was almost fascinating.

  Lopes laughed. “I’m not saying I would’ve done it any different.”

  “I didn’t scream.”

  “Sounded like a scream.”

  “I yelled. Roared. Howled. Bellowed. Manly stuff.”

  Not that he chose to get bit, but he was glad that it gave the men something to joke about. Some light humor while they moved through such a dark place.

  So much of the last week had been filled with misery and heartache. He’d lost four Marines. Two killed in action, and two critically wounded that had been flown to Germany for further treatment. Down to nine men, they were a weaker unit for the losses.

  However, they were also harder for it. More determined. More resolved. More certain than ever that every last terrorist would surrender or pay for what happened to their brothers.

  The mental toughness juxtaposed with their physical condition. Every man had lost enough weight that their eyes looked sunk in and their cheekbones protruded in a grotesque way. They hadn’t bathed in a week. Scrubbing moist towelettes over the filthiest regions was the best they could muster.

  It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot.

  They’d devolved into base animals—comfortable, or at least resigned, with their caked filth. Their dreams had boiled down to three simple comforts. A good night’s sleep, hot chow, and a hot shower. Things all the Rear Echelon Motherfuckers took for granted. REMFs lived comfortable lives behind the wire, inside the safety of the base. This gulf of experience created an invisible line that separated infantry from everyone else.

  A grunt’s life was sometimes torture, but Mason wouldn’t have it any other way. He was here for his men. To see that the rest of his squad got back in one piece. There was no place in the world he’d rather be.

  The nicotine buzz tickled his system, putting a little more gas in the tank.

  They’d been reclearing backfilled neighborhoods for days. The enemy had an uncanny ability to melt away, only to reappear in neighborhoods that were supposed to be cleared. Going over old ground sucked big time.

  Mason eyed the last house on the block. The surprise always seemed to wait until the last house. Like the muj knew that after a hundred empty rooms, it was impossible not to get sloppy. Impossible to keep your edge after so many dull hours.

  This one-story house didn’t feel right.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood on end. A tingle teased t he edges of his awareness. He and a few of the other men were starting to develop a sense for when things were about to go sideways. Call it mind powers or maybe their brains picking out minute details that didn’t register at a conscious level.

  Whatever it was, it seemed to work.

  This house had every alarm in his head going off. The courtyard gate lay in the street. Probably dragged off by a humvee at some point. The place didn’t appear occupied. Four large windows were boarded up. It was much larger than your average house. Maybe a minor member of Saddam’s Baathist party.

  The front door yawned open. A pitch black interior gave no further clues.

  “Lopes, what do you think?”

  “Gives me the creepers, Sarge.”

  “Me too.”

  “Wish we had a tank to flatten it.”

  “Yep.”

  They both stared at the ominous dwelling.

  “Sarge?”

  “What?”

  “If something ever happened to me, you’d look after my boy, right?”

  “Nothing’s gonna happen to you.”

  “I know. I know. I’m just saying. If it did, you’d keep an eye on him, right?”

  “First off, you’ll be there for him. And second, you know I’d look out for him if it came to that.”

  Lopes stared into the infinite distance.

  “A boy needs a father figure.”

  “Lopes, you’re getting me all weepy.”

  “You promise you’d keep him safe, if I wasn’t there?”

  Mason could tell Lopes wasn’t going to let it go so he turned and locked eyes with him.

  “I promise you, bro. Now stop acting crazy.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mason rolled his eyes.

  Lopes smacked his shoulder and Mason’s face jolted with pain.

  “Ow!”

  “Pull your nuts out, Sarge.”

  “Very funny.”

  Mason waved to gather the squad at the courtyard wall. A violent shiver raced down his back. With the sun below the horizon, the temperature had begun to plummet. The sweat-soaked cammies leached away body heat.

  “It’s been a long day.”

  All the men nodded like they’d never heard a deeper, more profound truth.

  “The longest,” Lopes said.

  “Longer than the longest,” Miro said with a grin. “Lopes has been crying all day about not getting to shoot anything.”

  “I’ll shoot you if you don’t shut up,” Lopes replied.

  “It’d take every round in that box because your aim is awful.”

  “How about I aim it up your butt?”

  “Why are you always talking about my butt?”

  “Enough!” Mason shouted, though he couldn’t help but laugh. “This is the last structure in this sector. Don’t go to sleep on me. Stay switched on and let’s do it by the numbers.”

  “Ooh Rah!” the squad barked in unison.

  “Hydrate and check your NVGs.”

  The men gulped down water and then lowered their night vision goggles and looked around to verify operation.

  “Good to go?”

  “Ooh Rah!”

  Mason motioned to move out.

  Lucky took point and the
rest of the squad got in the stack behind. They filtered into the courtyard, searching for targets in their fields of fire. Mason covered the two boarded windows to the right of the front door as they approached.

  No bad guys popped out.

  They stacked up to the right of the open front door.

  “It’s way dark in there, Sarge,” Lucky whispered as he dropped his NVGs into place. The rest of the squad followed suit.

  The inky night bloomed to life in green and black hues. The Marines filed through the front door, into the shadows.

  Into the black unknown.

  58

  It was so dark inside, the NVGs weren’t much better than unassisted vision. They cleared a large foyer. Cracked and pried out tiles marred an otherwise colorful mosaic floor. Mason didn’t get what it depicted at first. Maybe that was because he was only seeing it out of one eye. He stepped back and it came into focus.

  A portrait of Saddam Hussein in cammies wearing a black beret. His trademark bushy mustache faithfully reproduced in small tiles. He wore a toothy smile that promised salvation for all the suffering in the world. A smile could hide a monster.

  “Hey, Sarge,” Lopes said. “Look at those perfect chompers. I need to get on his dental plan.”

  “Lopes, I’ve never seen such sweet manlove,” Miro said.

  “Cut it out,” Mason said with a growl.

  The foyer had three closed doors, one to the left, front, and right. The middle one had the hairs on the back of his neck ramrod straight. What about it felt so wrong?

  He pulled up his NVGs and flicked on a flashlight. The door in front was painted solid black. But that wasn’t the most messed up part. A dark crimson hand print streaked into trails down the pale wall next to the door. Like a bloody hand fought to stay out of that hallway.

  “That’s messed up.” Lucky said what everybody was thinking.

  “Let’s do that one last,” Mason said.

  Three doors. Three options. All or none could hold drugged up jihadis foaming at the mouth for American blood.

  “Stack up on this one,” Mason said, pointing to the door on the left. Waiting around wasn’t going to make the choice easier. Besides, it was like a reverse lottery. The winner was the least lucky person in the world. You never knew when your number was up.

  Lucky posted up next to the door and the rest of the squad got into position behind. Channing came around and tried the door knob. He’d only rejoined third squad that morning after receiving medical treatment for a face full of shrapnel. The doctors wanted to send him home. He refused. He wanted to be back with his brothers.

  The strength of that loyalty was a bond they all shared. They’d fought through so much. Mason would rather he take a bullet than one of his men. He was sure each and every one of them felt the same way.

  The door was locked.

  Channing reared back and kicked it in. The frame splintered and the door swung open. Lucky moved in with the rest of the stack following. They swept in with a hard-earned, fluid grace. Not rushing. Slow was smooth, and smooth was fast. They worked like perfectly meshed gears. Each turning to support the one in front, while at the same time getting the same support from the man behind.

  Mason entered and noticed a small table along the far wall. A single candle burned in a bowl on the table. It illuminated a half-eaten plate of food. His goggles made the flame glow white tinged with green. An AK-47 leaned against the wall by the empty chair next to the table. An open doorway led to another room beyond.

  Someone was here. They’d just missed him.

  Mason waved Lucky forward. The kid jumped to his duty without a second thought. He shouldered up next to the open doorway.

  “Allahu—“

  The tallest muj Mason had ever seen appeared in the doorway. His lanky arm wielded a wicked-looking curved sword. He swung it at Lucky as he ran into the room. The blade struck the Private’s chest body armor and stuck. The attacker didn’t get a chance at another swing as every rifle in the room shattered the silence. Two feet from Lucky, his body jerked with every impact. The volume of fire slammed him backwards into the wall. Bullets ripped his flesh apart.

  Blood spewed from his mouth, down his black garments. He slumped to the floor, leaving a brushed stroke of blood on the wall.

  “Cease fire!” Mason shouted.

  Their rifles went silent. The sharp stink of spent rounds filled the air. Wisps of smoke curled out of the ends of rifle barrels.

  The insurgent raised a hand, reaching for them, his fingers curled into claws.

  SHUCK-SHUCK.

  Channing racked the Mossberg and stepped in front of the dying man. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t call for last rites or forgiveness. He pointed the muzzle at the haji’s head and fired. It was like a melon getting hit with a sledgehammer. Like that old comedian used to do. People would laugh when the wet bits sprayed over them.

  No one laughed. No one smiled.

  They all stared at the body as the legs shuddered and went still. He’d never kill another Marine. That was enough.

  Lucky turned and the sword stuck to his front rotated with him, the handle bouncing in the air. Miro grabbed it and yanked the blade free. He swung it through the air a few times.

  “Nice balance.”

  He felt the edge with his gloved thumb.

  “Razor sharp,” he fingered a spot near the tip, “except for this bit that got stuck in your chest plate.”

  He swung it at Lopes.

  “Get that thing away from me!”

  “You scared of a little pigsticker?”

  Lopes eyed the three-foot-long blade. “Texas pigs must be huge.”

  “Everything’s bigger in the Lone Star state.”

  “Yeah, even the liars.”

  Miro poked it at Lopes. “You smell like a pig. Worse.”

  He turned before Lopes could respond and handed it to Lucky.

  “A souvenir for your great grandkids.”

  Lucky held it in wonder. He touched the chink in the blade and then the tear in his vest.

  “That was crazy, man! That could’ve been my neck.”

  He showed the weapon to Mason.

  “What do you say, Sarge? Can I bring it along?”

  Mason knew some REMF back at Camp Fallujah was sure to give them hell for carrying a giant sword around base. But whatever. The kid deserved to keep it.

  “Sure. Leave it here for now. We’ll come back for it after we get this place locked down.”

  Lucky stepped over the still corpse on the ground and laid it reverently on the table.

  Lopes shook his head. “Don’t you know stepping over a dead man is bad luck?”

  59

  The Last Day

  Los Angeles, California

  ELIO watched as they entered downtown Los Angeles. Skyscrapers rose like canyon walls, blocking out everything but the night sky above. He’d only visited a few times in his seventeen years. He didn’t know if it was normal or not, but the lack of people driving or walking around didn’t feel right.

  One thing did feel right. Theresa’s hand in his. Her delicate fingers. The soft curves of her palm. He didn’t want it to end. And he didn’t want to think about what he’d soon be forced to do.

  He’d have to kill somebody.

  Trouble was no stranger, but he’d never come close to killing anyone. He fingered the gun in his lap. Much like the gun, he would be Cesar’s. But a gun had no sense of right and wrong. No ability to discern targets.

  A gun didn’t have to face Theresa after shooting someone.

  What he was about to do was wrong. But what choice did he have? He’d opted in. Blood in. Somebody was going to die tonight. It was kill or be killed. And if he died, what would happen to Theresa?

  Elio knew only one thing for certain. He’d do anything to save her. Even if that meant also losing her. She’d never give her heart to a cold-blooded killer.

  And he wouldn’t blame her.

  Had the tracker app thing wo
rked?

  Maybe Mason would show up. As much as Elio didn’t want her father meddling in his life, in his business, he had to admit that Mason would know what to do.

  Theresa squeezed his hand. The gentle, warm pressure brought him back. He looked at their tightly interwoven fingers.

  She was so beautiful. So everything he could ever want. Was her desire an act? It didn’t feel fake. His longing seemed mirrored in her lips. If it was acting, she deserved one of those fancy awards Hollywood people were constantly giving each other.

  The blue car ahead slowed down and turned left on Fifth. Their car followed. The one way street opened into five lanes and still Elio felt hemmed in.

  A tall, brown brick building on the left stretched halfway down the block. A grid of hundreds of little windows dotted the plain exterior. Some held dim illumination. It stood out amongst all the surrounding glass and metal. It was what you’d expect to see in the Bronx. At least from what he’d seen on TV.

  A family appeared out of a dark archway. A father and mother with two young children clinging to the woman’s legs. What clothes they had were filthy rags. The man saw the cars and charged forward a few feet, beating his naked chest and waving his arms wildly.

  The woman cowered down, wrapping her arms around the children. The man dropped to all fours and pounded the pavement with his hands. He screamed and hooted.

  Elio noticed his eyes as they passed. The eyes were wild. Uncomprehending. Primal.

  Small trees stood every hundred feet, each coming up through a hole cut in the sidewalk. Their faded green leaves almost an apology for trying to grow in such a place.

  Cesar’s walkie-talkie chirped and squealed.

  “Coming up, Jefe.”

  “Good. We’re looking for her crew boss, Frank. Met him once. Tall, skinny bald guy. Anybody tries to stop us, they’re gonna die first.”

  “Understood.”

  Cesar smacked Elio in the back of the head.

  “See that building up on the right? The white one with all the windows?”

  Cylindrical glass pillars ringed the entrance. Lights in the lobby shined through enormous sheets of glass held in place by elaborate metal framework. The main cylindrical structure climbed higher than all the surrounding buildings. The top seemed to pierce the clouds above.