James Axler – Watersleep

“Geez, this joint makes me nervous,” a youthful voice said.

“Everything makes you nervous, Breaux,” came a sarcastic response from about twenty feet away. “Gambling makes you nervous. Gaudy sluts make you nervous. I say, take advantage of anything you can and go for the moment. Use your nerves, man.”

“Whatever you say, Dunlop. I just wish I’d get assigned to do something more exciting than hiding out and guarding an empty shithole. Aw, Christ! Look at this!” the voice identified as Breaux wailed. “What a bastard mess.”

Ryan, his vision now back to normal, peered out from behind his haven and took in the scene. The man with the slight Cajun accent had to be Dunlop. He came running up warily into Ryan’s rapidly improv­ing view. He was a tall black man, with a mass of thick dreadlocks sticking out in all directions atop his sweaty face. He was dressed in baggy, ill-fitting pants and a patched tie-dyed T-shirt that read All-Nite Funk Machine in silver iron-on letters. A white headband stretched across his forehead. In its center was the skull patch.

“Makes a convenient target,” Ryan muttered.

The black man also carried an M-16 identical to the one the slain man had been using.

The other man—or rather, the other boy—Breaux, was white, and wore a red flannel shirt open in the front, black jeans and a threadbare pair of white can­vas tennis shoes that were now splattered with crim­son from where he’d stepped into the growing pool of blood leaking from the slain sniper’s shattered cra­nium.

Sunglasses with darkened lenses were perched high on the forehead of his moon-pie face. He looked every bit of fifteen years old. His hair was cut close and stood up on his scalp like freshly shorn wheat. The shirt and jeans were too short, and his young­ster’s wrists and sockless ankles were showing. Ryan guessed the boy hadn’t had a change of clothing in some time, and was rapidly growing out of what attire he owned. An H&K .32 automatic blaster was gripped tightly in his right hand.

“He’s dead, then, is he?” Dunlop asked, gazing past his companion and scanning the dead end of the hallway.

“What do you think? Half of his damned head’s gone!” Breaux said nervously, eyeballing the thick red pool he’d stepped into. Already the blood was starting to congeal around the ruin of the corpse’s head and left shoulder.

“Poor Mikey, he dead. Scared of a little blood?” Dunlop chucked, using the toe of one foot to nudge the dead man. “Got to grow up sometime, little one. Learn to laugh at red.”

“Fuck, no—I ain’t scared,” Breaux protested. “Not of a dead body or some blood. I’m scared of who did this to him. Smells horrible.”

“Here’s some free advice—try not to step in it.

Shit will stick to your shoes like hot glue. Lucky for your delicate nose Mikey here is done deader ‘n dick,” Dunlop said, keeping his rifle level as he peered down with a clinical eye. “And not long dead. Otherwise he’d be stinking a whole lot worse than usual in this heat.”

“Who do you think did him?” the younger man asked, cutting his eyes warily back and forth.

“Don’t know. Guess the boss knew someone might be coming back here sooner or later—otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered posting guards. Lucky break for you, man.”

“Lucky break how?”

“Could be you chilled there on the floor. I walked out here with you from camp as a favor. What if you found such a terrible sight alone, eh?” Dunlop’s voice was sarcastic. “Wet your pants and come back crying for help. Too bad Mikey couldn’t handle it better than this, though, the stupid son of a bitch.”

“Mike was cool, man. Ease up,” Breaux said softly, feeling guilty about being so flip over a friend’s death.

“Sure, sure. Look, he’s been made, too,” Dunlop said, pointing down at the corpse.

“How do you know that?”

“His gun’s gone, stupe. Unless the man’s weapon decided to run for cover, somebody beat us to turning him over.”

“You’re right,” Ryan said flatly as he stood up from hiding with the SIG-Sauer leveled at the men.