Dwelling
Authors: Thomas S. Flowers
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Horror, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Military, #Supernatural, #Ghosts
DWELLING
The Subdue Series,
Book One
By: Thomas S. Flowers
DWELLING
Copyright © 2015 by Thomas S. Flowers.
All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: December 2015
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-388-5
ISBN-10: 1-68058-388-3
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
For my wife, Kaia, without whom I’d never had the courage to write this book.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE BATTLE OF AL-HURRIYAH
Johnathan
Iraq, 2004
Gunfire rattled off in the distance. Screams, but here in this place there’s a strange way the dust swallows the sound, making it impossible to tell where the shots were coming from. An eerie yellowness interfused and covered everything, like some symbiotic creature, draining life. It’s in the air we breathe. On our uniforms and the thawbs the locals wear. It cakes the ground. You can see tire and feet tracks in the soft plumes of smoke kicked just a few inches off the ground. It even covers the garbage. God…the garbage seems to have no end.
As far as Private Johnathan Steele knew, there was no Waste Management Incorporated out here, no receptacle pickup, no bins, no end to the god-awful stench of storekeepers, vendors, café proprietors, peddlers and hawkers of
fine
wares of imported technological junk, duct-taped television sets, and prepaid cellphones packaged by malnourished Bangladeshi children, tick infested goats, and plucked chickens squawking and defecating. Little sandal-clad boys chasing feral dogs up and down the muck covered alleyways—everything added together in a flatus gale of chaotic noise.
Gunfire? What gunfire? Everyone and everything lived and worked and slept in the streets, and in the streets dust gave a new credence to the old biblical saying,
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
, and so on and so forth. Even the sun had a hard time penetrating the hazy, dirty-yellow fog. Gunfire? What gunfire?
Johnathan reached for his Keffiyeh scarf, the black and olive one his wife, Karen, bought for him, and dusted off a layer of yellow film collecting on his ESS goggles. These were his only ‘nice’ pair, a Christmas gift from the higher-ups at Camp Victory.
Only a few months ago
, he recalled, painfully shoving the memory of his wife and daughter and another holiday missed deep inside the coffer in his heart.
Johnathan hated to breathe. It was only out of necessity that he did. He could taste yellow muck on his parched tongue, despite the Keffiyeh.
It was a hot day. His skin roasted in the burning haze of the sun. Back home, it was humidity, here it was dry. The weight of his gear didn’t help matters. About ninety pounds of
battle rattle,
his Kevlar helmet, plating, and ammo strapped to his chest, gloves, shoulder pads, and crotch protector. All of it, in the turret, made him feel as if he was being cooked alive in an oven. The wind on his face felt like a hairdryer.
Bitterly, he watched the rooftops fly by as his convoy continued down the road. Looking for that glimmer of light or some asshole with a cellphone. The convey passed a field that had perhaps once birthed a field of grain for harvest, now littered with garbage and rusted and torn pieces of metal. People were living out there. Little huts in the waste.
…In the air we breathe.
He knew it was a dreadful thought, but he thought it anyhow, all the particles carried in the sand and dust, all the particles of chicken and goat feces, the trash and muck of some stranger’s excrement, all of it burning in the field where dreadful little shacks stood.
Nasty!
Reaching down inside the gunners hatch, he searched with a blind hand for the red Coleman cooler. Finding it, he popped the top. The ice inside was pleasantly cold, soaking into his glove and chilling his fingers. Quickly he retrieved a bottle of Furat, uncorked the top, and heartily downed half its contents in several painful, but delightful, gulps. He took a breath and swallowed some more. He discarded the empty bottle down in the back passenger seat. There was no point keeping any water in the turret. It would boil in minutes.
Beads of sweat dribbled down his face.
How long have we been driving?
Johnathan wondered, feeling the familiar creeping numbness on his backside. He stood up, ignoring the annoyed gaze of his team leader below.
Sniper fire, Steele. Don’t stand up unless you have to. Don’t get shot in the neck ‘cause your ass hurts. Blah, blah, blah.
He rested his arms on the shielding plate, which only protected him about waist high, knowing he was lucky to have that. He’d seen some trucks with no armor at all, just some sandbags on the floorboards. Ghetto-rigged or not, he was lucky.
Yawning, stretching his head and neck and arms and legs, blood rushed back to his numbed ligaments. The turret strap he used for a seat had been pinching his buttocks for the last hour or however long they’d been on the road. He could feel the red welt already swelling as his knees popped in ecstasy. Outside, their Humvees continued to rumble past a sea of dirty, dust covered streets. People huddled together, walking about, yelling, selling, buying, hawking, living, surviving. Horns honked. Mufflers rattled as a mob of hand-me-down European vehicles kept a fair distance from his squad’s convoy, away from the Eighty-Ninth Military Police Brigade, First Platoon, Second Squad Renegades and their pack of heavily armored beasts, traveling in a row no more than fifty meters apart.
Frankensteins
, as Johnathan liked to think of them, because of the fabricated plating and welded bits of metal and horribly placed boxes filled with sand.
Still not sure what that’s supposed to do? IED’s will rip through most everything. Doesn’t sand turn to glass when it gets hot enough? Great. Just what I need. Glass plus metal equals no legs, fuck me sideways.
He stood up a little higher, bracing against the turret on his tippy-toes, trying to get a better look as a group of mangy dogs barked and ran past the backend of his Humvee. He watched, bewitched, feeling reminiscent of home as the mutts ran towards an alley. One of the runts in the pack reminded him of Ricky’s dog back home.
“Hey, Smith, I think I just saw Moxie!” Johnathan shouted down inside the Humvee.
“No shit?” shouted Smith from the driver’s seat. “Moxie’s hardcore. Probably running missions in country.” He laughed.
Johnathan grinned. “She’s leading a pack of mutts, by the look of ’em.”
“Sounds like Moxie. Most stubborn dog I’ve ever met,” called Smith. “Just like her
mama
. But don’t you tell her I said that. Steele, you hear me?”
Even from the turret, Johnathan could see the broad smile across his friend’s face, but behind Ricky’s ballistic sunglasses he knew there was a dark film of loneliness and homesickness as well, clinging to his laughter, his words, and his breath.
I feel it too man, I feel it too
.
He turned away and watched the dogs disappear down some unseen alley. He thought of home, of Ricky being with his wife, Maggie, and their willful brown and gold Shih Tzu, Moxie. He thought of home, snuggled on the couch with Karen and Tabitha, watching one of Tabitha’s nature shows—something about bugs on Discovery. He thought of the last backyard BBQ. The beers. The laughter. The overcooked hamburgers and stale buns. The sunny clear skies. The joyful feeling of family. The feeling of home and being loved.
At least I got Ricky with me
, Johnathan admitted, recalling his childhood friends and the inevitable deconstruction of their club,
Suicide Squad
. Bobby left first, joining the Army,
when was that? Well, it was before 9/11.
Jake had signed up as well; both of them before Ricky and Johnathan, both serving in different MOS’s.
Still can’t believe Jake is a Chaplain’s assistant, what a POG! Now Bobby—that’s a different story. Hope that crazy dude is keeping his head down…wherever he is.
…leaving on a jet-plane. Don’t know when we’ll get back again…
Lord, let me get back again.
The convoy passed another dilapidated neighborhood, slowed and then came to a halt in front of a large, makeshift Iraqi Police station crawling with locals. A smoking gorge the size of wrecking ball had been torn through the east wall. IP’s and civilians alike gathered together at the front, gawking at the damage. Trucks buzzed in and out of traffic.
Johnathan could feel eyes watching him, watching his convoy, seen and unseen, from the shambling neighborhood.
“We’re here,” called up Sergeant Cobbett from below. The chubby non-com was on the horn, confirming vehicle placements.
Johnathan grunted as he spun the turret with his hips, facing slightly to the southwest. He scanned the area. Hands gripped on his erect M2 .50-Cal. Thumbs at the ready. Everyone looked distraught walking by. Eyes gazing. Darting. Wandering. Dust fell like yellow snow.
Can’t trust a single one of them.
“They look nervous,” shouted Johnathan to no one in particular.
“They’re not alone,” said Cobbett.
“What’s that Sergeant?” asked Johnathan.
“Nothing. Keep your head on a swivel,” ordered the tired, tubby father of five.
“Roger that.”
God, let me get home alive…
***
Johnathan drifted in and out of sleep. He remained alert for as long as he could, but the heat from the orange sun and the thick blanket of dirty-yellow dust began, not soon after the convoy arrived at Al-Hurriyah IP station, knocking his head into his chest.
Need to wake up.
This is not a nice neighborhood to catch some Zs.
The streets were still crowded. People shopping across the street. Buying. Selling. Living.
Jesus, I’m bored! I can’t wait till we’re off this detail. I need to get back home. I miss Karen, bad.
The dusty trash and mud filled block of Al-Hurriyah, better known to the brave and bold soldiers of the Renegades as the
Mosh Pit—
a colorful name coined by the few squads who actually put boots on the ground.
Al-Hurriyah was one of the main IP stations Johnathan and his squad worked with, dealing with local officials, and the cumbersome task of training and supplying the brunt of the Multi-National Task Force. Basically, buttering bread and building confidence—
hearts and minds kinda bullshit.
But what confidence actually existed was hard to gauge. Of all the IP stations around Baghdad—Al-Wazireya, Adhamiyah, Salam, and Sheik Maaruf—Al-Hurriyah was one of the worst and most violent.
The Renegades had been working with the clumsy and out of shape blue-collar men who had the audacity to call themselves police officers at Hurriyah for the better part of the month. He knew its reputation well, yet despite that knowledge, the great expectation of violence, Johnathan fought to abate the heavy fog taking over his body.
It was so warm. He was so tired. The low roar of the engines sounded like a sweet, peaceful purr. The clunky AC trickled upward, poorly cooling the mobile oven in which he sat. His Kevlar helmet knocked to his chest again and sprung up just as quick. His mind drifted to unimportant things. He daydreamed of DFAC coffee. Pie. Smoking a Camel.
Fine living.
He smiled dreamily.
Maybe we should have a kid, I mean, another. One that’s hers and mine equally. That is, if I can get back home in one piece.
Tabitha would love a brother, someone else to share her strange fascination with bugs.
“You doing all right up there, buddy?” called Smith from below. He leaned back in the driver’s seat, monitoring the radio traffic while Cobbett had gone inside the station with the other non-coms.
“Yeah. Fine,” said Johnathan, doing his best to diminish the sound of sleep from his voice.
“Here.” Ricky handed a cold can of Rip It. “Last one,” he said, somewhat sadly.
Johnathan marveled. The greatest gift a friend could give, to give up the last can of Rip It, second only to a fresh pack of smokes or a fully charged phone card.
“Thanks.” Johnathan took the can merrily and chugged the nuke-warm contents. The warm liquid cooled his throat, brightened his eyes, and washed away the dust. He sat upright.
“No problem.” Ricky rested his head against his seat, the radio mike wedged between his shoulder, ear, and chin.
“You napping?” Johnathan said, playing shocked.
“Nope. Just listening to the radio.”
“With your eyes closed?”
“Yup.”
Silence came over them. Only the sounds of the neighborhood existed, and the low rumble of the trucks.
“What do you think Mags is doing? Enjoying life as much as we are, you think?” asked Johnathan, tossing the empty can in the back seat.
“Don’t know. I try not to think too much about it,” said Ricky.
“Yeah.” Johnathan nodded. “Probably don’t want to think about
Jody
taking Mags to Red Lobster either, huh?”
“Jody? Red Lobster? Really? You’re going there? I could say the same about you and Karen.”
“Karen’s too mousy to cheat. Maggie on the other hand, well Mags is—”
“What?”
“Dominant.”
“Shut up, Johnathan.”
Johnathan smiled, but said nothing more. He pictured Ricky’s wife, Maggie, and immediately thought of Karen again. The two were insufferable sisters. Karen was much younger and never technically part of their club, their
Suicide Squad
.
