Oasis of the Damned Page 7

  Everything alive, given the chance, experienced it.

  What if I let you live?

  It cocked its head again, this time looking more confused and afraid than threatening.

  Richter forced herself to continue staring into those awful yellow eyes. If there was any chance she could communicate with this thing, to see or find something—anything—in this creature that might allow her to avoid killing it, she was determined to find it. Some common ground, perhaps, there had to be some primal common ground.

  “Help me,” she whispered to it. “Help me stop this.”

  A deafening thunderclap boomed from over her shoulder.

  The creature screeched as its head exploded and sprayed the wall behind it. Then the body slumped over and collapsed like a rag doll onto the sand.

  Though she’d jumped at the unexpected clamor of the gunshot, Richter stayed where she was, her eyes still locked on the now dead being and the carnage its execution had left in its wake. She began to tremble.

  “Are you all right?” Owens asked from somewhere behind her.

  Richter wiped the tears from her eyes and shook her head no.

  8

  Fighting daylight, Owens and Richter gathered what they’d need to leave the outpost. Canteens, a few weapons, some food and items of clothing that could help shield them from the sun. But after a brief conversation they decided they had too much and whittled their provisions down to a more manageable amount of items.

  While Owens drew as much water as he could from the well, filling the canteens, Richter stood amidst the gasoline-soaked bodies of the creatures, the piles of which stretched to the very edges of the outpost. Moving through the maze of corpses and back toward the domed building, she forced herself to really look at them, to really see them, and the more she did so the more she found something beyond their grotesque and otherworldly appearance. There was something more profound here, in these broken and battered bodies, in these dead, jaundiced eyes. Something so foreign to her she could scarcely believe what she was seeing, something so alien she could never hope to in any way relate to it, and yet…

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  Owens stood near the wall of sandbags, an unlit torch in each hand and a bevy of canteens, supplies and weapons at his feet.

  She wiped sweat from her eyes and nodded. “Can’t spend another night here.”

  Owens ran a forearm across his brow, wiping perspiration from his face as well, as he gazed back at the tower. “Sounds crazy,” he said softly, “but I’m kind of afraid to leave this place behind.”

  Two bloody hands, one clutching the other with whatever scraps of life remained…

  “We’re gonna make it, Owens,” she told him. “We’re getting out of here and we’re gonna get back home, both of us.”

  Unspoken lives passed from one to the next…unknown yet shared…the same…

  He turned, his face partially obscured by the glaring sun.

  Dreams…nightmares…life…death…

  “It still exists,” she assured him. “We just have to get there.”

  Blinding sun…endless darkness…

  “Either way this finally ends,” he said, “doesn’t matter if I believe you or not.”

  The ancient past…the here and now…the future…

  “You need to trust me. I’m going to get us out of here alive.”

  All of it happening simultaneously somehow…a perfect symbiotic organism of tears and laughter…deliverance and damnation…designed order and wretched chaos…

  “Shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Richter.”

  Washed in the same blood that kills and creates…dripping from the eyes of gods both sleeping and dutiful…a baptism of benevolent parent and malevolent child both…all for greater meaning beyond any human comprehension…and all for nothing. Nothing at all…

  “It’s time to go, Owens.”

  An ironic smile twitched across his face as he ignited both torches, then held one out for her. Through the flames and madness, he watched her like a demon engulfed in hellfire. “Then light ’em up.”

  * * *

  Bullets rain across the fuselage, forcing me back behind it for cover, closer to the moans and cries of the wounded. Soon as I can, I crawl to the edge of the fuselage and fire back. A running man drops to the sand, writhes about for a moment, then lies still.

  Another barrage of rounds hit the fuselage and sand around me, kicking it up into my face. I roll back behind cover, breathing heavily and glancing up into the sun-blurred sky. Where the hell is the evac?

  “Captain!” Blount calls to me. “There’s too many, they—”

  His voice becomes a gurgling cough and I know he’s been hit. Scrambling back around, I fire first and locate him in the madness second.

  Blount is standing—why—why is he standing—get—for Christ’s sake, get down!

  He staggers about, hands clutching his throat, which is spurting blood.

  “Blount, down!” In a single motion, I get to my feet, fire and run for him.

  But it’s too late. Before I can reach him he begins to spin like a top, battered by a hail of bullets that tear him to pieces.

  Then he collapses, dead in the sand.

  Beyond him, the others come, running, firing, screaming.

  As I fire at them, then turn to run, something hits me in the side. It feels as if someone very strong has punched me very hard, so hard that it knocks me to my knees and I soon find myself rolling back behind the wreckage.

  And then a burning, searing pain spreads from the point of impact up into my chest, and I know...I know…

  Pushing my free hand against the wound, I attempt to slow the flow of blood, but that only seems to make it worse. It runs between my fingers, bright and wet.

  Hiding behind the fuselage, I frantically search for a way out, even though I already understand none exists.

  “Help…Help me…”

  I follow the sound of the man’s voice to one of the wounded—probably the last one still alive—a man with a blood-soaked bandage on his head that covers his eyes and most of his face. Blind, his bloody hands reach for the air around him, clutching at nothing. “Please…help me…”

  “Hang on,” I tell him, horrified by how weak my voice has already gotten, how terrified I sound. Mine is the voice of someone who has already begun to die. “Help’s on the way,” I lie. “It’ll be all right, just—”

  “Please—not alone, I…”

  I lean as close to him as I can, and despite the pain, reach out with my free hand until I’ve grabbed hold of his wrist. “You’re not alone,” I gasp. “I’m here. I’m here with you.”

  The attackers are so close I can hear their footfalls in the dirt.

  I take the man’s hand, and our bloody fingers entwine.

  “Please…”

  “Shhh,” I say, “it’ll be okay.”

  I can barely breathe now, it hurts too much, but panic unlike anything I’ve ever experienced throttles me.

  I don’t want to die. Please, God, get me out of this. Please, I’m afraid. I don’t want to die here, not here, not like this, please—

  On a rocky ridge in the distance that overlooks this valley where in mere seconds my life will surely end, I see something standing there, watching me.

  A small boy…

  Waiting.

  “Malcolm,” I whisper, somehow smiling through the tears, the pain and terror. “Malcolm…”

  * * *

  Remains of the shattered plane protruded from the dune like the discarded bones of some giant animal. Most of the debris that had been scattered on impact had either been buried in the sand or blown away on the desert winds, leaving only the battered fuselage and what remained of the wings. The only part of the aircraft still accessible was a compartment with an enormous hole torn in its side. A few seats were still intact beyond the jagged opening, eerily empty and out of place amidst endless sand.

  When they first arriv
ed, Owens became very quiet, distant and emotional. A while later he explained this was the first time he’d returned to the crash site, and it had hit him a lot harder than he’d thought it would. Since then Richter had given him his space, but eventually the heat and sun became too much and both took cover inside the aircraft.

  Now night had begun to fall over the desert, and the temperature was plummeting, so they positioned themselves at the top of the dune, ready to make their break when the time was right.

  A distance away, a few of the fires they’d set earlier still burned, though most were out, replaced by columns of thick black smoke rising into the growing darkness. Despite the distance, they were unable to escape that horrid smell of burning flesh.

  “Where the hell are they?” Richter growled.

  “They’ll come.”

  For what seemed an eternity, they waited and watched for the creatures to appear and attack the outpost. But they didn’t come.

  “What are they up to?” Richter asked a while later. “Every night, like clockwork, they come, and now, when we need to know where the fuck they are they—”

  “Owens!” a ghostly voice called through the darkness. “Owens!”

  He tried to disguise it by wringing them, but Richter could tell his hands had begun to shake uncontrollably. “They’re here. We just can’t see them yet.”

  “Owens!” the disembodied voice called again, eerily drifting through the night.

  Richter clutched her rifle tighter and tried to hold it together. “Why don’t they show themselves? Why don’t they—”

  “Look.” Owens pointed to a dune in the distance, one that overlooked the outpost.

  Richter squinted, doing her best to see.

  There, atop the dune, stood a single hyena. And it was looking right at them.

  Sometimes they come as hyenas.

  Owens stared at the animal but said nothing.

  In that strange and terrifying moment, Richter saw something change in him, as if the hyena had somehow communicated with him, told him something he hadn’t known or realized—perhaps understood—until just then. “Can they leave the area in that form?” she asked quietly.

  Her voice seemed to break the spell, and although he continued watching the animal, he finally said, “I don’t know.”

  Very slowly, more hyenas appeared, stalking over the side of the dune and joining the first at the top until a long line of animals had formed across it, an army of yellow eyes glowing in the mounting darkness.

  9

  The stare-down continued until night swallowed the last of the sun.

  “They can’t leave,” Richter said, breaking the silence. “They haven’t moved. They haven’t attacked because they can’t.”

  Owens turned to her, finally taking his eyes from the hyenas, and opened his mouth as if to say something. Instead, he held her gaze, and something passed between them.

  “What is it?” she asked. There was something different about him. Since she’d met him he’d been brooding and dark and fatalistic, but now he seemed calmer, almost at peace. For the first time since she’d laid eyes on him, he looked…free.

  “Go,” he said softly.

  “Not without you.”

  “Go. If they attack, I’ll hold them off long as I can.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Either way, I’ll be right behind you.” He reached out, took her hand in his. “Trust me, Heather. You got to trust me on this one.”

  She froze. “How did you know my name?”

  A subtle smile drifted across his weathered face. “You told me.”

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t.”

  “I’ll be sure to save you that stool,” he said with a wink. Then he let her go, drew his swords and turned back to the yellow eyes in the distance. “Run.”

  Lugging the weapons and canteens, she started off down the backside of the dune, into the night, into the desert, looking back over her shoulder every few feet. Nothing else moved.

  Until Owens charged, running straight for the hyenas.

  “Owens!” Richter screamed, stopping, twisting and dropping to her knees in the sand. “Goddamn it, Owens!”

  He ran on, ignoring her, crossing the distance and climbing the next dune, closing on the creatures, which had slowly begun to break ranks and circle, their heads low and backs arched, fangs bared and ready for battle.

  Helpless at such a distance, all Richter could do was watch as the hyenas finally vaulted down the side of the dune to meet him. Owens squared his stance and began flailing away with the swords, killing several of the beasts before the sheer number of them overwhelmed him, taking him down into the sand.

  He never made a sound.

  Even as they ripped his eyes from his head and tore him to pieces.

  * * *

  They’re coming…they’re coming to kill us both, and I know this. They’re coming to kill us both and there’s nothing I can do to stop them, no escape.

  Even as I squint through the sunshine—beautiful on any other day—and see the vision of my little brother on that ridge, I know it’s over. Even he cannot save us.

  “Not…alone…not…” the soldier coughs as blood runs from his mouth and coats his chin.

  “I’m here,” I tell him, tightening my grip on his hand. “I’m here.”

  “What…What’s your name?” he asks, the words gurgling.

  I stare at the little boy in the distance, watch him fade away; swallowed by a shaft of sunlight burning down from the sky. “Heather,” I tell him. “My name’s Heather.”

  The cries of the approaching Iraqis bring me back. My eyes shift to the edge of the fuselage just as they round the corner. Bracing myself against the aircraft as best I can, I raise my gun hand and fire. The first few fall, spinning away as they’re hit, but there are too many swarming the crash site now, a wave of them all running right for me, screaming like banshees and closing on me even when my gun is empty and there is only a strange clicking sound emanating from the weapon. Still, I continue to pull the trigger, looking right at them as they fire back, hitting me multiple times across my chest and stomach and neck.

  This time it’s my screams that echo through the valley, as the rounds tear through me, throttling my body as I convulse and finally drop the gun, my arms no longer able to move, my hand slipping free of the man’s next to me just as the attackers begin shooting and kicking him.

  Is this real? Can this really be happening?

  Am I really dying? Here…now?

  In all the mayhem and chaos and horror, a peculiar calm comes over me as I slump to the side and feel my face hit the ground. I taste more blood and dirt, and am only able to see glimpses of those killing me now, kicking at me, punching and stomping me into oblivion.

  Not here, not like this—please—I—

  The pain—at first unbearable—is suddenly no more…and through the blood in my eyes, I try my best to find that ridge. Somehow, although I can no longer move, I do.

  The specter—Malcolm—is gone.

  And then darkness comes, and so am I.

  * * *

  Lying in the desert, many miles and days from the outpost, Richter found herself collapsed in the sand, trying to crawl. But the water was gone and she could no longer stand. Her mind raced in blurred circles that made no sense, her skin burned and chapped, her lips peeling away and her lungs on fire.

  I’m going to die out here, she thought.

  With every ounce of strength and determination she had left, she slowly managed to raise her head. Nothing for far as the eye could see in either direction but sand and harsh sun. For days she had walked, moving at night and conserving water as best she could, but there was nothing, no one. It was as if she’d been left on some alien planet all alone, and in a way, she had.

  There, just ahead of me, I see him through the sunshine…

  Running and laughing, Malcolm bolts through the tall grass. I watch him go, giving him a head start as a summer b
reeze kicks up. The grass sways back and forth, so graceful and alive, shielding the little boy, hiding him.

  And then I’m running too. I can feel that grass as I pass through it, as I join in his laughter and call out to him. “Malcolm! Malcolm!”

  No matter how hard or fast I run, he remains just ahead of me, just beyond my reach, even when he’s made it to that old tree and looks back as if to be certain I haven’t left him again, and as if to let me know he has not left me.

  I’m still here, I tell him.

  We’re still here, he corrects.

  Then he smiles and I know everything will be all right.

  Never again will I imagine my mother finding her baby hanging from that tree, his tiny body rocking in the wind like a rag doll. A fragile and beautiful little boy driven to such extremes by bullies and a brutality reserved for those who hate even themselves, perhaps especially themselves.

  My brother…my friend…my soul…both of us lost to hate but found by love, he waves for me to follow him. And then he runs for the house, vanishing into the sun like a dream. I run after him through the grass, calling his name.

  He doesn’t answer, but not because he isn’t there.

  Beneath the hot sun, I come to a stop near the tree. Out of breath, I drop to my knees and look to the sky. I can feel my devils burning away, my suffering baptized in its warmth and hope, as somewhere night falls, hiding all our monsters from the light.

  But who are these demons? Perhaps it all depends on who’s looking…

  Just as she was about to drop her face into the sand and let the desert take her, Richter saw something in the distance through the rippling waves of heat…just beyond the golden glint of sun breaking over the dunes, in the sky, the top of a tower.

  Somewhere out there, a blind man wanders home, free—finally free—his wounds healed now and his eyes regaining sight, even if only long enough to look on those he left behind. I can feel him there with me…with us…a part of him in me and a part of me in him, our blood becoming one in deserts real and imagined, in the nightmares of those so very far from home, slowly slipping free of a haunted world none of us understand.