Hell Hole Read Online Free Page B

bullet.”
    The guy crumpling up the Chex Mix bag nods. “That’s what we figure,” he says. “Death throes, you know? Flung it sideways. Kicked it over when he kicked the bucket.”
    â€œHow do you know it was his drug paraphernalia?”
    â€œWe dusted it for prints.”
    â€œDo they match Corporal Smith’s?”
    â€œHow the fuck should I know?” says Slominsky. “You think I got a microscope up my ass?”
    â€œSo your ‘findings’ at this point are pure supposition?”
    â€œHey, what’s your problem, sarge? Your fucking boy has needle
marks up and down his arms, okay? Probably started shooting up while you two were over there whacking Iraqis.”
    Slobbinsky heads toward the closed stall.
    â€œGo on. Check it out. Look at his fucking arms. The fact that he’s black makes the splotches easier to spot.”
    Slobbinsky swings the stall door open as wide as the hinges will allow.
    Guess it’s finally time for Dixon to see the dead man.

4
    Starky loses her cookies.
    I did the exact same thing when I saw my first corpse. Fortunately, Ceepak was there to prop me up so I didn’t end up facedown in a puddle of my own puke.
    Fortunately for Starky, we’re in a humongous bathroom. I hustle her over to the other side, find a toilet, hold her up under both arms, turn my head and give her a moment.
    â€œSorry, sir,” she groans after the second gusher.
    â€œTake your time. Happens to all of us.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    Another spasm. I think she’s empty. We’ve moved into the dry heaves stage now. Means we’re almost done. Don’t ask me how I became an expert on the regurgitative process. Probably my misspent youth chugging warm cans of beer from my dad’s stash of Busch out in the garage.
    Truth be told, I too nearly barfed when I caught a quick glimpse of Shareef Smith. Didn’t see much. Starky started making urp noises behind me. Duty called.

    But what I did see was gruesome.
    His head had exploded.
    It’s like it was a giant tennis ball somebody squeezed inside a vise until the trapped gas found a soft spot up top and burst free. Flanges of splayed bone gave him a crooked little red crown.
    He was slumped backwards, propped up by the thick elbow pipe behind the commode. Blood had gushed out of his mouth and nose. His shirt—I think it used to be blue—was soaked with the stuff. So was this bib of tissues he was wearing around his neck. At least that’s what it looked like: a thick circle of paper sitting on his shoulders, tucked under his chin and behind his head. It was like a Thanksgiving Pilgrim’s collar, only bloodier. I don’t know what it was, what it was made out of.
    â€œWell, Sergeant?” I hear Slobbinsky say on the other side of the men’s room. “That your boy? Sarge? Jesus, take your fucking time, why don’t you? I got all night, here.”
    I guess Dixon is just standing there, mesmerized by the horror show behind door number three.
    â€œYou okay?” I ask Starky.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou want to wait outside in the car?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œHow about some water?” I gesture toward the sinks lining the far wall. Someone has decorated them with vases of fresh-cut flowers. Not to honor the dead soldier, just to give this rank room a touch of class. Hey, I know they try their best to keep these restrooms clean. Got the clipboard on the wall indicating that somebody from HMM Host comes in every hour to swab the decks, fish the gum wads out of the urinals. But, come on: if thousands of strangers traipsed through your guest bathroom all day every day you could hose it down with a tanker truck full of Lysol and still end up with a room that reeked of urine mixed with industrial-strength ammonia.
    â€œI’m good to go,” Starky says, straightening up her uniform.
    â€œCome on.”
    We hurry back to the