better. It’s deplorable that he gave so much, and had to fight the army for treatment when they got him stateside. I hoped the things you told me about the hospital conditions weren’t true, but it’s been in the news for a while now, and it’s impossible to ignore. You can argue the semantics of it, but when budget increases fall below increases in the cost of care, it’s a cut; when you have to reduce staff and money for research, it’s a cut.
Sergeant Martin’s busy on the other side of the truck with the damned robot arm trying to disarm another IED. They’re probably built to go off in tandem; there’s no physical daisy chain, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t linked electronically. So if he screws up, I’m done, but if I screw up, it just messes up his stupid robot arm. The only effective render safe procedure I can see would have been to keep on driving. The design is sophisticated enough that there isn’t any hope of a low order detonation; it gives the full explosive yield or nothing. I stop, and take in a breath to keep from shaking.
I wish we could stop focusing on Abu Ghraib and the number of dead civilians. I know it sounds callous, but war is hell. And men in combat do terrible things; men changed by combat can do even worse. I don’t condone it- I couldn’t; but everything we do beyond acknowledging these things and apologizing- the way we try to hide it, and the way we try not to prosecute it once it comes out- it turns something tragic and heinous into something dangerous for every American in country.
I wish we could wait for the Andros, but the nearest one won’t be done for another twenty minutes, won’t arrive for ten after that. We’re using electronic countermeasures, but it isn’t likely they’re using anything so unsophisticated. Probably infrared or laser detonation. My stomach turns at the thought. The gunfire means the party’s starting. Whatever these IEDs were placed for, aside from fifty dollars American, they’re about to be used. Maybe the first one is just to lure a crowd, although these days Iraqis are pretty cautious about gathering.
And Goddamn George and Goddamn Condi; the British have been saying for years that the Iranians are supplying the insurgents with more and more sophisticated IED training, but because we disagree on Iran’s nuclear future, we refuse to even sit down with them. Goddamn them. People are dying because they think international political disagreements can be solved by giving them the silent treatment? Next time I may vote democrat; yeah, they’ll slash our benefits, but at least they won’t send us into a war and then cut the personnel that are supposed to be there to help us when we get back.
The whole thing is built around an Iraqi artillery shell, and the shit part about that is that we should have secured Iraqi munitions as part of the invasion. Instead, 250,000 tons, about a third of Saddam’s stockpiles, were stolen. The insurgency could wage war indefinitely with that, even without tapping the black markets out of Iran, Syria and Russia. Martin screams into the radio that his IED’s taken a ricochet. Thirty layers of Kevlar are all that stand between me and a wall of death, and I’m the only thing between that and the others in the truck. Thirty layers- enough to stop a 44 mag semi jacketed hollowpoint; it might as well be tissue paper. Without thinking I drop over the IED- between it and the truck- lowering myself the last few millimeters slowly. It hasn’t gone off, and maybe it won’t, and there’s no sense in forcing it to.
I love you. I do. And I’m sorry my letters so often take this kind of turn, but this damn war just gets to me. Being here, it isn’t good for anyone. But I am coming home. I promise. Tell the kids I love them, too.
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Something to Say
At exactly 02:13:04 in the morning she was seen on the security cameras pounding on the front door. Budget cuts last year meant that every other station house in the city was manned only 12 hours a day, so there was no one to let her in. After a couple of minutes banging on the steel shutters, she turned around. While crossing the street she was struck by a blue station wagon with wood paneling. The driver got out and put the woman in his trunk without getting more than a pair of cream slacks and brown loafers on camera.
Half a dozen officers spent the day combing the city for the car or the woman. Analysis of the tape showed her to be a Latina in her mid-thirties. An anonymous call after lunchtime led officers directly to the alley her body was left in. The victim had no identification, and beads from a rosary that had likely been taken from her were also found at the scene.
When the car struck her it shattered her femur. She rolled over the hood, striking the roof with her hip. She landed head first on the concrete, resulting in a concussion. This also dislocated her C-3 vertebrae, compressing her spine, causing paralysis. Scuff marks on the pavement from her shoes indicate she was dragged to the trunk, which may suggest that the driver believed her to be dead. The inside of her dress contained quantities of human urine and feces; I’m waiting on tests from the lab but my suspicion is that the victim lost control of her bowels and bladder. As neither fluid nor solid waste were found outside the station or in the alley, it is likely this occurred while her body was in transit inside the trunk of the station wagon. No underwear were discovered with her body.
Her face was largely swollen, and at some point prior to her death she received a blow to the face, although this injury could have occurred when she was struck by the vehicle. Her body core temperature indicates a time of death around six in the morning, meaning she temporarily survived her injuries. Deposits on her face hint at the strong likelihood that she was crying, and variations in the angle of the deposits may indicate that she became conscious at some point after being deposited in the alley and was able to move her head.
The rape kit found evidence of recent sexual activity. The level of inflammation of the genitals could indicate sexual assault. She lacked tell signs, bruises, or blood beneath her fingernails, but no foreign pubic hair was present; I’d say it’s inconclusive.
No one has responded to the flyers with her description, and she doesn’t match any reported missing persons. She has a cesarean scar on her abdomen, calluses on her palms and fingertips, and a hummingbird tattooed on her ankle.
I don’t know why she was at the police station, or if she knew the person who killed her. But this woman's got something to say, and it’s my job to give her a voice.
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Why There Are No More Dragons Or Unicorns
I remember I was only eight years old, still wide-eyed and full of wonder, rapt with stories of knights and magic. My father was a storyteller, not by trade, no, by trade he was a baker, but by firelight he was the most animated of men. And one night, as he lay me down in my bed, I asked him what had occurred to me over that night's tales: “Father, why are there no more dragons or unicorns?”
He smiled; my father's smile was warm and wide; you could nearly feel the warmth pulse from his rosie cheeks and fill you up. But this smile was deeper, as he thought back to earlier times. He sat at the foot of my bed, and began:
“No one knows where dragons came from, but they are likely very old. They lay eggs, and have children. Everyone who's heard the stories knows they drink fire, and exhale flame, but beneath their scales, beneath magics perhaps as old as time, they bleed.
Unicorns did not exist- not at first. And then they did. There are arguments over the who, whether they were created by a white wizard, by a god or gods, or simply the response of a living world to the plague of dragons. But as the legend went, there was exactly one unicorn for every dragon in existence, every dragon that ever was or would be.
Dragons seemed to thrive upon chaos and murder; their presence brought famine and plague. Only the fortunate burned by fire. But whenever a dragon reared its head, whenever one tried to raise a clutch of eggs, a unicorn appeared, and joined the beast in battle.
Sometimes the unicorns fought for sport, others for the love of beautiful maidens, and at times, simply because their blood lust demanded it. But a unicorn's triumph was a terrible thing to behold, for the creature's horn was the only thing th
at could pierce a dragon's breast, but in the doing, the horn was broken, and without its horn a unicorn bled to death. And as awful, and fearful, and ferocious as the mad screaming of a thrashing, dying dragon could be, it paled beside heart-rending and mournful the bleating of the unicorn in its throes.
But at last, thirty years ago, there were no more dragons or unicorns. At least, that was what we believed. Then came Malleum. Of all the dragons that had even been, he was the largest, and the blackest; his stench was the foulest, his breath the hottest. Dragons before took days to raze a town; Malleum overflew it, breathing his horrible fire as he passed, decimating entire city states in hours. He burned village after village, but no unicorn appeared.
Now man had not been a passive observer, but with all our tools and cleverness, we could not kill a dragon; unicorns fell swiftly enough to our blades and our bows. For a time their horns were a symbol of status worn by nobles. There was fear that they would be hunted to extinction, then the land overtaken by dragonspawn, and so the order of the unicorn was created.
The order of the unicorn; it doesn't sound impressive, because unicorns have become girlish things, as they are
Selected Short Stories Featuring Ghost Dust Page 5
