(Musical Inspiration)
The rattling ceiling fan did little to combat the smoky haze surrounding the man chain-smoking at the scarred table in the bungalow’s small kitchen. His back to the ancient refrigerator, his bloodshot eyes gazed vacantly down the short hallway into the living room, where the new monster television babbled on with continuous coverage of the terror attacks in Belgium, repeating ad nauseam the same news from the last week. The eyes changed little, every now and then the change in hazy lighting glinting gold in the brown eyes, the only motion the repetitive scrape of a match every couple of minutes, interspersed with the raising of a bottle to the lips. The only other sounds, the slight snoring of someone in one of the two bedrooms, and the wheezing of a dilapidated window air conditioner that did less to cool the heat of the home than the ceiling fan.
Every so often the eyes would slowly close, and then the man would jerk awake, fighting the nearly overwhelming desire for sleep. Then he would glance down at the business card sitting on the table, frown and consider the argument that had occurred earlier that Sunday evening with the much younger man, a boy even, sleeping in the other room.
Booze and nicotine worked at cross purposes, the cigarettes an attempt to stay awake, the alcohol meant to dull the senses and dreams when the battle against sleep was finally lost.
The drone of the television murmured on…….
The television rattled on, playing one of those sickly sweet Bollywood romance movies where they dance and sing for hours while the team laughed and joked in the rec room.
“Hey Anderson, when are yoos goin’ ta visit your pretty liddle Dutch nurse? Are you finally goin’ ta get her to introduce her mates to a fair dinkum blue man? Besides, we only have two more weeks as base hospital security before we bloody go back to active.”
“Fuck yoos Smittie! But Anka did say there was a new nurse, just your type! She said Thomas likes em just like yoos do.”
He returned ta reading the letter from his sister, smiling. Envisioning the scene of another Christmas missed, Bridge’s final one before her graduation from the tech college. He couldn’t wait to get the next letter, after she knew of her gift. Queensland University of Tech hadn’t come cheap, but all these fucking combat missions paid well. She really wanted to fly though, and a few cases of some really good scotch were little price to pay for the colonel’s assistance in getting her the appointment to flight school beginning in the fall. Based on the letter, his dad was pissed about the boys’ gifts, though. He had been forced to tell Bridge about them, otherwise it wouldn’t have worked. According to Bridge, the boys were going bloody ape-shit over the motor-cross bikes. He couldn’t wait for leave in March to go out riding with them. It had already been fifteen months since he’d been home. The team had gone fucking straight from that shit-hole in Timor to the hellish deserts of Iraq. Hospital security was the closest thing to leave in six months, but Anka sure was appreciative. He shook his head, putting the letter away.
“Let’s go Smittie. Anka and her friend are getting off duty in fifteen.”
They were walking down the hall with the nurses when the first explosion shattered the doors to the block building. The chaos always seemed surreal in dream memory. The noise of the blast nearly deafened them, to where he didn’t even hear the round that hit Smittie in the shoulder. The girls were screaming, and so was he, but he never ever heard any sound.
The first Hajis came through the doors, firing like maniacs, missing him. He turned, firing twice from his SR98. Even with the snap shots, one Haji head exploded and the other went down with a massive bullet through the abdomen. He turned to his friends, “Smittie, come on, we gotta plug this fucking hole…Smittie, shit man…” as he realized Smittie wasn’t going anywhere again. Anka was moaning, blood running down from a scalp wound. He froze for a second, before picking up Smittie’s F88. He didn’t remember the other one’s name, just screamed. “Get Anka back ta the nurse’s station. Then get the patients back there too. Call base ops, tell them the fuckin’ Hajis are wearin’ bloody Iraqi uniforms.” Then he sprinted for the gaping hole where the doors were.
Outside the door, he stepped through the mess of his former squad mates, not even really noticing as he squelched through bloody mud instead of dust. The strobes of fire destroyed any vision, but there were shadows everywhere, and all those muzzle flashes seemed pointed this way. Time stalled…..Pricks tore at his uniform, gouging his leg, hand, an arm. Somehow the FN MAG still stood after the second explosion, he racked it and opened fire, the heavy bullets from the machine gun seeming to go on forever until it jammed from a broken feed. He threw a grenade, followed by a second and then drew his Browning. His left arm wasn’t working right as he backed slowly down the hallway, firing at movement. As he returned to the nurse’s station, there was blood everywhere, Anka’s friend lying in the hallway, nearly decapitated. He turned at the movement, seeing the Haji standing over someone, they fired nearly as one. Pain blossomed across his chest as he fell, he saw Anka’s sightless eyes staring at him……..
It always changed at that point, whichever dead woman he saw from his past…..”get up Brett, get the fuck up…..” The mouth moving….”you failed here, you failed every time….get the fuck up!” The features change from Anka’s blond hair to brunette, as Bridge screamed in pain as the transformation wracked her body, killing her……”Why didn’t you protect us? YOU LIED!!!!!!!” And the blood poured out of her eyes and mouth. And the whispering cough, “Don’t fail again.”
Brett Anderson, the one known as Ghost Venom, jerked in his hard back chair, a twitching hand moving up to wipe his face. He stood and walked to the partially open door, looking in at his youngest brother. “I won’t, sis, I promise.”
The ghosts knew it for the lie it was, and only the ghosts could see the aftermath of battles fought over and over again, bandages and balms of a vodka bottle and ashes of cigarettes sitting next to the Victoria Cross, awarded for high bravery to gloss over the death of so many by proclaiming the savior of others. The ghosts of all the dead hovered, and they knew the only real release from the pain was the handgun sitting next to where the twitching hand had been resting on the old, scarred table.
Last Dreams 