The War After Armageddon

“You,” Garcia told her. “You understand me, right? You tell your mother that all of you got to stay in that one room. Understand? Nobody comes out, unless they ask permission. And it’s okay now. We’re done searching in there.”

The girl stared at him. Absolutely no emotion on her face. Like some hard little high-school bitch back home.

“You tell your mother,” Garcia continued, “that nobody’s going to hurt anybody. You’re safe. But you all got to stay in that room until we leave.”

He hoped they’d be safe. He understood how his Marines felt when they looked at the girl. He felt more than he wanted to feel himself. Skinny, yeah. But the good kind of skinny. The bend-me-every-which-way kind. She could’ve been from some high-class Latino family back home.

And that little mustache. Like a smudge of ashes.

“Go in there now,” Garcia said. “Tell your mother what I said.”

After an insolent few seconds, the girl turned toward the room where her mother and little brother waited. But first she let Garica and the other Marines watch her expression turn from a blank to sheer snottiness.

Garcia read the air in the hallway. “I don’t want anybody hassling her,” he said. “Everybody got that? No conversations, nothing. That’s jailbait. And I mean it.”

“They get married when they’re, like, six years old,” Cropsey said.

“Yeah, well you want to marry her, you come back when all this is over. All right. Corporal Gallotti, your squad has the roof and the first guard rotation. Make sure you got visual with Third Platoon and no dead space you don’t know about. Corporal Banks, your squad’s in the shacks out in the courtyard. Suck it up. Every-body else is in here. Max four to a room. In case any shit goes down. And get some sleep. There’s orders coming down, and we’ll probably be moving out at zero-dark-thirty.” He paused. Examining the tired, dirty faces. “And one more thing: No souvenirs. No breaking shit, either. Show some respect.”

Some murmurs. But nothing to worry about. For the moment. They were tired. Crashing. Like meth-heads at the end of a long run. The Marines began to disperse, guided by the surviving NCOs.

“Cropsey, Larsen. Polanski,” Garcia called. “You’re in here. With me.”

He wanted to keep an eye on Cropsey. Garcia still wasn’t sure how to handle him. Best fighter in the platoon. Natural-born killer. But he needed to be kept on a tight leash.

Sergeant Ricky Garcia didn’t want any more trouble. Just a little sleep. The past twenty-four hours had sucked, from the second the clock started ticking. First the new lieutenant. Next, the new lieutenant getting himself killed. Then two more firefights with stay-behinds and a death march, followed by the company commander reaming him because the dead lieutenant, who Garica had pegged as right off the block, had been the nephew of some general. Even after Garcia explained what happened, backed up by Corporal Gal-lotti and Corporal Banks, Captain Cunningham had left him with a line that burned his ears like battery acid:

“As platoon sergeant, it was your job to look out for him.”

How could you look out for an asshole the size of the Central Valley? Garcia asked himself. But the words still ate at him. Because he wanted to be a good platoon sergeant. The best. To show them all.

And he wasn’t sure he could do it.

He dropped his gear on the floor. When he slipped off his body armor, his uniform was sealed against his chest and back with old sweat. He wanted to take off his boots and leave them off but decided it wasn’t a good idea. He settled for changing his socks and dusting some powder between his toes.

The room smelled of piss and insecticide. Low couches lined three walls. Other than that, there was only a crap rug, some Mr. Raghead portraits hanging a few inches from the ceiling, and a table with a tinwork top that reminded him of border-town Mex crap. Could’ve been some junkie’s room, he decided. After he sold off everything anybody would buy.

“Where you going, Polanksi?”

“To the shitter. It’s outside, Sergeant.”

“Take your weapon. And put your body armor on. You think you’re at the swimming pool at Lejeune?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

The lance corporal slung his weapon over his shoulder, then stumbled over a fold in the rug. Clumsiest Marine in the platoon. And maybe the dumbest.

Cropsey flopped down on the cushions in one corner. Cradling his weapon. Larsen had his trousers down to his knees, inspecting the prickly heat on the inside of his thighs. Garcia broke out the chili he’d saved from his last ration pack. It didn’t need heating. His pocket had warmed it just fine.

Suck-ass, rat-hole country. Who’d want it? He wondered if he should tell the old lady who owned the house to lock her door. Just in case.

Did the Mussies even have locks on their inside doors?

“Yo, Sergeant Garcia,” Larsen said. Messing with a pimple on his thigh. “I ask you something?”

“What?”

“You ever think… that maybe those MOBIC guys have it right? That we can’t really live with these people? That it’s us or them?”