The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [29]
DeWayne sprang back from her. He was holding her pistol clutched in his hand. Keller heard Wesson’s shoes grinding on the gravel as he tried to turn, simultaneous with the report of the gun and the wet smacking sound of the bullet striking Wesson.
“EDDIE!” Marie screamed. Wesson’s limp body thudded into the ground behind Keller. There was a brief scuffle of gravel as Wesson’s body twitched and writhed in its death throes. Keller kept his eyes fixed on DeWayne, willing himself not to look back. Marie leaped towards DeWayne, but he had already swung the pistol back to point at her face. She drew up short, her hands in front of her. Her mouth moved soundlessly. DeWayne was panting like a long-distance runner, but his hands were steady.
“Don’t do anything stupid, lady,” he said. He motioned with his head towards Wesson lying beside Keller on the ground. “This gets easier every time I do it. It ain’t like I want to do it, but the way I figger it, I ain’t got nothin’ to lose now, y’know? Now get your hands up. Behind your head.” Slowly, like a person moving in a nightmare, Marie complied. “Now down on the ground,” he ordered. She sank to her knees. Her face looked blank and dead in the harsh glare of the headlights. DeWayne backed away from her, then turned the gun towards Keller. He smiled for the first time, but the smile was a rictus, devoid of pleasure or humor. The blue lights of the police car still flashing behind him gave the scene a surreal, nightmare quality. DeWayne looked like a fun-house clown turned insane. Keller looked down the barrel of the gun.
Burning, they were burning. He could hear the screams as they died. Keller tried to stand, stumbled, then crawled towards the Bradley on his hands and knees. The gravel beneath him cut into the palms of his hands and shredded the knees of his uniform. Twenty feet away from the burning hulk, the heat pushed him back like a force field. He sobbed in frustration. The screams were abruptly cut off, drowned in the hammering series of explosions as the ammo inside the Bradley cooked off. The sky was filled with white flashes and streaks of red and yellow. Keller sank to the ground. Helpless. Useless.
“Do it,” Keller snarled up at DeWayne. “Get it over with.” He looked into DeWayne’s mad eyes for a long moment. The gun held steady on Keller, then wavered. Then DeWayne stepped back and lowered the gun.
“I cain’t do it,” he said. His shoulders sagged as if under a great weight. He looked over at where Marie knelt on the ground. “I cain’t shoot you while you’re just layin’ there helpless.” He shook his head. “Reckon I still got that much good left in me. ‘Sides,” he said with a high-pitched giggle, “don’t reckon I can kill nobody crazier’n I am.” He edged past where Keller lay on the ground. Keller attempted to turn his head to watch where DeWayne was going. He couldn’t see, but he heard DeWayne’s voice. “But this is for lockin’ me in a fuckin’ car trunk.” Keller caught a glimpse of a heavy boot headed for the side of his head, looking absurdly large. There was a blinding flash of white light and an explosion of pain in Keller’s skull, then darkness.
There were three of them, two majors and a light colonel. They were sitting behind the table, looking immaculate in their class “A” uniforms. They made him wait a long time at attention before speaking. “Sergeant Keller,” the youngest of the two majors began. “We have investigated your claim of casualties caused by so-called friendly fire. The conclusion of this board of inquiry is that your vehicle became separated from the rest of the unit and came under attack by an Iraqi anti-tank platoon.”
“No sir,” Keller said flatly. “It was a helicopter. I heard--"
“Sergeant,” the major on the other end of the table spoke up, “we’ve checked thoroughly. Except for the Blackhawk that saw your vehicle burning and picked you up, there were no Coalition air assets reported