The War After Armageddon

“Those MOBIC fucks don’t have anything right.” Garcia leaned back and closed his eyes.

“But what if it really is us or them?”

“Larsen, you need to get some sleep. You want to talk philosophy, go to college.”

“I just meant… Maybe they have a point. You know?”

Garcia sat up. Tired and short-fused. “You want to know what I think of those MOBIC shitheads? First, they aren’t Marines. That’s strike one. Second, they’re just loco gangbangers. I grew up around fucks like that. ‘Hey, you’re either in our gang, or you must be in some other gang, and you’re the enemy, and we’re going to mess you up.’ I had enough of that shit back home.”

“But there’s a difference,” Larsen pressed on. “They’re defending our Christian faith.”

“Who says?” Garica was getting angrier than Larsen, who was fascinated by his own reddened skin, realized. “Just who the fuck says? Where does Jesus say, ‘Kill everybody who isn’t with the program, who isn’t in my gang, who isn’t running with the J-Town Disciples?’ Those MOBIC pukes are gangbangers. Plain and simple. Except the drug they push doesn’t come from some lab in a house trailer in Barstow.”

Without opening his eyes, Cropsey put in, “Come on, Sergeant G. You got religion like a bad case of superstition yourself, man. That tattoo of the Virgin Mary on your arm and everything.”

“It’s the Virgin of Guadalupe.”

“Same difference. It’s still the Virgin Mary.”

“Well, it is, and it isn’t.”

“No, man. It is. The Virgin of Guadalupe is the Virgin Mary. As she appeared to some Indian dude back at the Alamo or something.”

“It wasn’t at the fucking Alamo.”

But Cropsey had taken over the conversation. “At least the MOBIC guys don’t take any shit from the rags. You got to give them credit. And you heard what they’re saying around battalion. How the J’s have been crucifying prisoners.” Cropsey sat up, grinning. “You know what I think? I think we ought to interrogate that girl. She speaks English. We could ask her where all the men went. Where her daddy is. You could scare her with the Virgin of Guadalupe. You and me, Sergeant G. Good cop, bad cop.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

“Come on, Sergeant G. You telling me you wouldn’t like to fuck that little bitch’s brains out?”

Garcia rolled to his feet. “That’s it. Outside. Now. This is two days in a row you’ve used up your shit ration. And you. Larsen. Either see the corpsman, or stop playing with yourself. Cropsey, move. And put your armor back on.”

Polanski came back in from the hallway, blocking the doorway just as Garcia was dropping his body armor over his head.

“Stop dawdling, Polanski. Clean your weapon and go to sleep.”

“I was cleaning my boots, sergeant. The out house has turds all over it.”

“Just clean your weapon and go to sleep.”

Weapon in hand, Garcia led the way under the dangling lightbulb in the hallway and out through the drapery that served as a front door. He wondered where the electricity was coming from. It was hard to believe that anything still worked in the entire country.

Just outside, in the fading heat, Garcia turned on Cropsey. Keeping his voice low. And making a note that it was time to turn out all the inside lights, to go blackout.

The evening had gone the color of his mother’s favorite sweater, a soft purple. What did you call it? Lavender? The blotches on her face had been the same color just before she died.

“What’s your major malfunction, Cropsey? What is it, man? You don’t like the Marines? You don’t like sergeants? You don’t like Hispanics, maybe? Or maybe you just don’t like me.”

“I love you, Sergeant Garcia. It’s just that I’m afflicted with moral dilemmas and quandaries. I think I’m being traumatized by war.”

Garcia wanted to hit him. But he didn’t. Instead, he changed his tone of voice.

“Come on, Cropsey. What’s eating you? You afraid of something? If you weren’t such an asshole, you could be a great Marine.”

Cropsey just stared at him. Pale eyes in a fading face as the dark came down. As insolent as the Arab girl.

“We’ll settle this another time,” Garcia told him. “Meanwhile, I don’t want to hear one more word about that girl. That’s an order.”

Cropsey shrugged.

“You clean your weapon?” Garcia asked him. He wanted things to be normal. As normal as they could be in war. And he felt that Cropsey was getting the better of him.

“My weapon’s always clean, Sergeant.”

“Then go in and get some sleep.”

Cropsey pivoted and pushed aside the drapery.

Just in time for both of them to see the girl. She was standing at the doorway of their room. With a grenade in her hand.

For an instant, her eyes met Garcia’s. Then she tossed the grenade into the room and ran.

Cropsey began to swing up his weapon, but Garcia pulled him to the ground. Just before the explosion.

The blast blew out the light and thickened the air with dust and smoke.

“That little cunt,” Cropsey screamed. Then they were both on their feet. Weapons up. Heading for the room into which the girl had fled. Kicking masonry scraps out of the way.

“In first,” Cropsey yelled.

“Got your back.”