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"At least you got to dream." "I dreamt I was in Iraq."
He's got a phone in his hand, one of those old rotary things with the round dial, a good heavy weight in his palm. The sort of weight you could probably knock a person out with, if you got them at the correct angle. The cord coils around his wrist like a snake as he tries to make a call. It never goes through, and Brad rattles the switch. He's not sure who he's trying to call, only that it never connects. He tries again, rotating the wheel with an even speed. Wherever he's calling, it seems to take more numbers than it should. He's always in a hotel, and it always looks plain and anonymous. Carpet of some color. A bed that he sits on when he picks up the phone. The bed is never made, sheet and blankets pooled at the bottom. He dials. The phone clicks, almost chattering at him in some electrical language he can't understand. He needs to make this call. He rattles the switch some more. The sound seems hollow. He turns the phone over and inspects it. There should be screws in the bottom, holding it together. He doesn't have a screwdriver; he knows he has a knife, somewhere, but it's not resting in the yellow circle of lamplight on the nightstand. Brad could have sworn he left it there. There is someone kneeling behind him. They could be a threat. The mattress dips, close enough to him that Brad tilts with it.
Sometimes he's on the boat, sometimes he's in the water. On the boat everything is hot, baking sun (Brad wakes up with the scent of heavy-duty sunscreen in his nose) mixed with the shocking chill of plunging a hand into the ice chest to fish out a beer (sometimes he reaches for a beer but never finds one, pulls out something other than an ice-cold bottle). In the water everything is cool, and in the shadow of the boat everything is dark as well. He never drowns in this dream, but he's often underwater, letting himself sink down, at peace with the ocean closing over his head. Further and further down he drops, until the cool water is nearly the temperature of the ice-filled cooler, and the things that swim past him are fanged and dangerous.On the boat he's not alone, fuzzy faces he can't quite make out (someone you used to know, the omniscient dream narrator supplies, someone you've always known) and bright laughter, beer foaming out of a dropped bottle and spreading in a puddle across the deck. In the ocean he's never sure; there could be another human down here with him, with a wetsuit and scuba tank, bubbles trailing lazily up to pop at the surface. Maybe they're just a skeleton, no cartilage left, picked clean by the moray eels that ribbon past Brad's feet before hiding in the sand. Down below, the black seadevils hang motionless, waiting for something to approach their flashing lures.
By now, the heat of his skin has warmed the trigger, and the world has shrunk to the matte black of the long barrel, the metal under his hands, the shapes moving on the horizon. Are they men? Are they children? Are they also holding a rifle and timing their exhalations? Counting exhale: two, three - skin and metal now the same temperature, like they might melt together into one form, like Brad's hand will always know the shape of this rifle, years and years from now when he's worm food and the bones of his hand are still shaped to pull a trigger.He fires and the gun jams; it jams every time. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," a complete litany of curses, a series of petitions as he scrabbles to fix it. The shapes on the horizon do not move. Are they men? Are they camels? Are they only tents, fabric and wood shaped to create shelter? Smell of cordite in the air. A book falls at his elbow: Bang!, complete with the exclamation mark. The shapes still do not move; he moves the rifle to thumb at the book. All the pages are blank. Someone, somewhere, yells "Contact right!" but there is no sound. Has he gone deaf? No, he heard the shout. In the distance, the giant metal ant begins to lift it's head, moving slowly up and down against the flame-orange sky, drawing crude oil from the earth. Average cost per barrel: thirty-one dollars and a war.
He's almost stopped noticing the way the sand stings when it blows hard across his face, almost chafing the thin skin, blue-purple bruise hollows beneath his bloodshot eyes. The wind drops to nothing in an instant, and an instant later it screams as all the stars in the sky disappear beneath a flash of sand. The shamal, come for all of them like a reckoning meant to weed good lungs from bad. The tent ripples, then nearly rips from the foundation, the ropes that strain to hold it fraying like some old cocoon. The towels they've got hanging from cords strung between the aluminum poles whip heavily, wrapping escapees in the faint damp smell of mold. A cry for help, another Marine snatched up. The canvas of the tent threatens to choke Brad as he struggles to get outside of it so he can help his men.They struggle to stop the flight of the tents, gone cartwheeling across a heaving plain. It could be Iraq, but it could be Georgia. His palms are wet with blood from the rough scrape of rope against skin that never seems to toughen up enough. The heels of his boots sink into the sand, his thighs and shoulders burn as he tries to spread his body far enough to hold the world down. The wind shouldn't be this formidable an opponent, shouldn't drag his men away like this, tossing them into the air for the great sand-monster in the sky to feast upon.
You're all right, a soft voice says, sweet and reassuring, and a hand strokes down over his arm. Open your eyes. It's a new day.It feels like a struggle to register that he's on a bed. The room is full of light, but it's not warm, not like sunlight. He moves the paper sheet and it tears, but it doesn't matter as he sits up. And then he looks down. Where his leg was is now a gleam of metal. A promise of faster, stronger, harder. He still has to breathe deeply to fight the nausea. You're all right, the voice says again. The voice is also a spire of metal, polished and plexiglass in places. It wasn't a hand that stroked his arm. The machine says, It's a new day, Sgt. Colbert, then, are you ready?Brad could spring from the bed to the rafters above, catch hold and climb, if only he weren't so weighed down by the storm in his chest. He thinks about bending the metal where his leg was, and it bends exactly as he pictures. The gleam is also in his mind, like the voice is in his mind. He should be scared. He wonders if the rest of him has wasted away. "Is it Tuesday?" he asks the machine, as he turns on the bed and sits up, bends his metal ankle down to touch new toes to the cool tiled floor.It is Tuesday, the spire agrees. It is always Tuesday.
The hand that sweeps over his shoulder has long fingers, strong, with square careful nails that are smooth when Brad rubs his thumb over them. The hand wears several heavy rings: 1) a dark red stone that gleams dully in a silver setting, 2) a wide band of some dark metal, 3) a gnarled thing that looks like a tree root ripped fresh from the ground. The metal warms nicely against Brad's skin, but he likes that first cool surprise of a touch. Whose hand is this, why are they squeezing Brad's knee? He doesn't know, but that's okay, it feels good, even with the damp grit of sand against his back. They're on a beach; they're always on a beach. Gulls wheel overhead, crying. The surf rolls up and curls white foam around Brad's feet and calves, while the owner of the rings laughs breathlessly. He can't tell, but he knows their hair is soaked with saltwater, because it drips over Brad's hot face and chest. The hand slides up the inside of his thigh, someone murmurs something about pale skin, and there's more low laughter, breath puffing damp and hot over Brad's neck before a nip of teeth. His skin prickles with the sensation, and the hand is moving even further up to stroke him through his shorts. Brad is arching up off the sand as his eyes squeeze shut. Is the sun out? He doesn't know, but that's okay, he doesn't need to wake up just yet.