Gravedigger by Mark Terry

he noted that both legs appeared to be gone just above the knees.
    Things clicked.
    Derek’s heart hammered harder. He had tripped in a crater. The body’s lower legs were gone.
    Afghanistan was littered with landmines. The Russians had left millions of them lying around.
    In an act that Derek felt could only be described as evil, the Russian Army had disguised landmines as toys, so children would pick them up. There was a generation of maimed Afghan children.
    This poor bastard had tripped a landmine, gotten his legs blown off, and died here, body left for the carrion and the weather to desiccate his flesh.
    And where there was one landmine there were usually more. Many more.
    Derek shivered, thinking of all the time he had been hiking off-road. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
    Stupid, stupid, stupid.
    For a moment Derek grayed out. He began to hyperventilate, his heart racing. For a moment he wondered if he was having a heart attack. Calm down, dammit! His fists tightened, clinging to the muddy ground and the blood seemed to roar in his ears.
    Derek felt frozen. His nerves felt like they were sizzling, muscles jumping under his skin. What the hell was happening to him?
    Closing his eyes, he imagined himself somewhere else … anywhere else. On his boat. He lived on a boat, a sixty-foot Criss-Craft Constellation he had bought off a wealthy widow. It was teak and mahogany and fiberglass and parked in a marina in Baltimore. The water was blue, the waves gentle; the sky the color of faded denim, a mild breeze on his face.
    Slowly his heart rate slowed, his breathing regulated.
    Derek was able to sit up. Good God, he thought. What the fuck was that? Was that a panic attack?
    Rocking back on his heels, Derek surveyed the area. Ideally, he should backtrack the way he came. The rain had wiped out his footsteps, but he was fairly certain he knew the way he had gotten here.
    Climbing to his feet, he carefully followed the route he had taken back toward the road, gaze focused on the ground. His heart beat a little harder, but otherwise he seemed in control, moving his feet carefully, walking slowly.
    Finally stepping onto the harder surface of the road, he realized the two muj were standing, waiting for him. Their AK47s were aimed right at him. He held his hands out. “Hello.”

16
    It was a long hike and his captors weren’t chatty types. They took his weapons, searched his rucksack, then pushed him on ahead. After about forty minutes they passed a large, sprawling house made of mud brick with a tin roof. A helicopter was parked next to it. He guessed he knew the location of the Russian pilot now.
    An hour later they came to what Derek assumed was the village of Shing Dun. It was probably a hundred buildings within a stone and mortar wall. They spoke with two guards. His rucksack was torn from his back, then he was led to a small building and shoved inside. The wooden door slammed shut after him. He heard a latch clang home.
    “Dandy,” he said.
    It was completely dark. No light whatsoever, no windows.
    Carefully he pressed his hands to the wall. He made a slow circuit of the room, which was about fifteen feet square. Bare dirt floor – dry, thankfully – with a bucket in one corner.
    With a sigh, Derek sprawled next to one wall and did his best to get comfortable. It had been a long day. He dozed off.
    An unknown time period later, the door opened. Gray light filtered in. It was daylight and the rain had turned to a fine mist. Two muj stood there, both armed. They spoke to him in Pashto and waved him forward.
    Climbing stiffly to his feet, Derek followed them out. He thought he might be able to take them and get the hell out of there, but he didn’t know how many armed men were in the village. Hoping that learning as much about what was going on before attempting an escape was the best plan, he decided to cooperate.
    He was hungry and thirsty, but otherwise in decent shape.
    They walked through the village,