as his own.
This entire land had been visited by the devil, Gabriel thought—not a mansized, horned devil who bothered to torment one soul at a time, but a devil who hated all men and the world and was killing everything at once.
These pictures would never leave Gabriel. They would not leave anyone who had seen the oil fires in Kuwait. They would be carried as communal scars by people like him who would never meet again and never return to the desert.
At the outskirts of the city, Gabriel saw more bodies lying on the roads. One man’s eyes had been pecked by birds, and the sockets were dried brown-red caves. Gabriel walked into a house whose front door had been kicked in. The hinges were wrenched half out of the wall. It occurred to him only as he walked through the doorway that the place could have been booby-trapped. He walked over broken glass in his melted-sole shoes and went straight to the kitchen sink,stumbling in the blue-gray moonlight that had found its way through the oil clouds now that the wind was blowing the smoke out across the desert. He held his head under the tap and turned on the faucet. He stayed, neck painfully contorted, and waited, feeling his open mouth dry up in the cold night air. After a minute, he realized there would be no water. He turned on all the faucets in the house, but there was no water anywhere. It was the same in several other houses. All empty. All ransacked. Things too big to steal heaved out of windows or bludgeoned with gun butts.
As he crossed one street, he saw a body lying in the road. It was a soldier in desert camouflage, tans and yellows and greens, none of which hid the corpse in the moonlight. Instead the blurred lines of color seemed to hover around him, like static. Gabriel walked up to him. The man was not as badly coated with oil as the other bodies had been. The dry air had pinched the skin around the corpse’s face and dimpled the tips of his fingers. At first, Gabriel could see no wound. Then he turned the man over, the body stiff and strangely light, so that when he tipped over onto his face, his open arms made him seem as if he were falling from a great height and trying to slow himself down. A huge hole had been blown through the man’s back. The combat jacket was shredded and bloody around the wound. It looked as if he had exploded from the inside. Stubs of broken rib jutted from the skin. Gabriel did not feel nausea or sadness. The man had been dead too long. Too little remained that he could recognize and pity. The corpse was only a thing now, its teeth bared in hostility against what it once had been. Gabriel took the canteen from the soldier’s belt, splashed a little of the water onto his palm and sniffed and then tasted it. Then he drank. At first, his throat was so cramped from dust and oil that he could not swallow. But he forced the water down. The greasy bitterness of the oil stayed in his spit long after the canteen was empty.
In the soldier’s side pack, he found an ID card written in Arabic and a mess tin. He opened the tin, slicked fingers slipping over the aluminum lid. It was filled with olives in a paste that looked red in the moonlight. Gabriel sniffed at it and the spices made his eyes water. He ate some of the olives and his mouth caught fire from the chili paste. He knew what it was. Harisa. There was no water to wash it down. His lips buzzed painful and raw. He puffed to cool them down.But he was too hungry to stop eating and he finished what was in the mess tin, squatting with his back to the body, looking up and down the silent street in the dingy light.
He kept moving. Now that he had reached the city and found it empty, he no longer knew where he was going. Gunshots sounded in the distance. They echoed across the thousands of broken windows and blast-chipped white walls. Now and then Gabriel came to a road and could see the desert. The nuclear mushroom clouds of burning oil merged in the sky, snuffing out stars as the wind
This entire land had been visited by the devil, Gabriel thought—not a mansized, horned devil who bothered to torment one soul at a time, but a devil who hated all men and the world and was killing everything at once.
These pictures would never leave Gabriel. They would not leave anyone who had seen the oil fires in Kuwait. They would be carried as communal scars by people like him who would never meet again and never return to the desert.
At the outskirts of the city, Gabriel saw more bodies lying on the roads. One man’s eyes had been pecked by birds, and the sockets were dried brown-red caves. Gabriel walked into a house whose front door had been kicked in. The hinges were wrenched half out of the wall. It occurred to him only as he walked through the doorway that the place could have been booby-trapped. He walked over broken glass in his melted-sole shoes and went straight to the kitchen sink,stumbling in the blue-gray moonlight that had found its way through the oil clouds now that the wind was blowing the smoke out across the desert. He held his head under the tap and turned on the faucet. He stayed, neck painfully contorted, and waited, feeling his open mouth dry up in the cold night air. After a minute, he realized there would be no water. He turned on all the faucets in the house, but there was no water anywhere. It was the same in several other houses. All empty. All ransacked. Things too big to steal heaved out of windows or bludgeoned with gun butts.
As he crossed one street, he saw a body lying in the road. It was a soldier in desert camouflage, tans and yellows and greens, none of which hid the corpse in the moonlight. Instead the blurred lines of color seemed to hover around him, like static. Gabriel walked up to him. The man was not as badly coated with oil as the other bodies had been. The dry air had pinched the skin around the corpse’s face and dimpled the tips of his fingers. At first, Gabriel could see no wound. Then he turned the man over, the body stiff and strangely light, so that when he tipped over onto his face, his open arms made him seem as if he were falling from a great height and trying to slow himself down. A huge hole had been blown through the man’s back. The combat jacket was shredded and bloody around the wound. It looked as if he had exploded from the inside. Stubs of broken rib jutted from the skin. Gabriel did not feel nausea or sadness. The man had been dead too long. Too little remained that he could recognize and pity. The corpse was only a thing now, its teeth bared in hostility against what it once had been. Gabriel took the canteen from the soldier’s belt, splashed a little of the water onto his palm and sniffed and then tasted it. Then he drank. At first, his throat was so cramped from dust and oil that he could not swallow. But he forced the water down. The greasy bitterness of the oil stayed in his spit long after the canteen was empty.
In the soldier’s side pack, he found an ID card written in Arabic and a mess tin. He opened the tin, slicked fingers slipping over the aluminum lid. It was filled with olives in a paste that looked red in the moonlight. Gabriel sniffed at it and the spices made his eyes water. He ate some of the olives and his mouth caught fire from the chili paste. He knew what it was. Harisa. There was no water to wash it down. His lips buzzed painful and raw. He puffed to cool them down.But he was too hungry to stop eating and he finished what was in the mess tin, squatting with his back to the body, looking up and down the silent street in the dingy light.
He kept moving. Now that he had reached the city and found it empty, he no longer knew where he was going. Gunshots sounded in the distance. They echoed across the thousands of broken windows and blast-chipped white walls. Now and then Gabriel came to a road and could see the desert. The nuclear mushroom clouds of burning oil merged in the sky, snuffing out stars as the wind
Similar Books
