Youngblood by Matt Gallagher Page A

Even he—I’m telling this story to show it can happen to anyone if you let down your guard, even for a moment. Don’t think that because the war seems over that it is. Right now, out there, men are plotting to kill you. To kill your friends. And like those birds, the only way we make sure that don’t happen is to get some before they do. You hear me, Hotspur?”
    â€œHooah!” the platoon grunted in unison.
    â€œI said, ‘You fucking hear me?’ ”
    â€œHooah!” They were louder this time. Fiercer, too. I wasn’t sure if he was done. Part of me hoped so.
    Part of me didn’t.
    Something blossomed out of the dark near the pit. It crawled under the firelight, then down the hill, capturing Chambers’ attention. He raised his boot and then thought otherwise.
    â€œGet a cup,” he said. “One of the large ones.”
    It was a camel spider. I’d seen them before—at a distance, though, not like this. Yellow with brown fur, it was thick like a cigarette pack. It kept poking its front pincers and gaping angry jaws at us as we passed around the cup. Some sort of insect blood, probably beetle, was splattered across its mouth like a child’s art project.
    â€œMen,” Chambers said from the other side of the fire. “Heard some of you caught a scorpion at the front gate. True?”
    I was about to answer that we’d just missed it when a voice beside me spoke. “Roger, Sergeant. Mean little fucker.” It was Alphabet.
    â€œHe upstairs?”
    Alphabet nodded.
    â€œBring him down,” Chambers continued. “What better way to end the night than a prizefight?”
    As Alphabet went inside, I sought out the gate guards from earlier. I found Hog first. He explained that after I’d left, the scorpion had reappeared from under the Humvee.
    â€œOne of the Iraqi brothers grabbed it,” Hog said. “By the tail. Then we put it in a jar.”
    They set up a ring next to the bonfire, a cardboard box with its bottom pushed open. They dumped the camel spider in first, and it poked the walls of its new prison, all four corners and two square feet of it. Testosterone bogged the air, and red flashlights flitted over the ring like police sirens. I looked around and didn’t see jaded boredom anymore but something else.
    I wondered if I should stop the fight. I decided not to. I wondered if I should leave the fight. I didn’t.
    â€œNo need to be queasy.” Chambers spoke to me from across the ring. A red light shined up from a wristless fist onto his face. “Your man Lawrence did this. It’s a proud tradition.”
    â€œAll good.” I grinned. “Who you got?”
    â€œScorpion,” he said. He must’ve smelled the stink of easy money on me. “You thinking spider?”
    â€œEveryone knows the scorpion always wins. I’m not that green.”
    He winked. “Guess not. How long you think the spider will last, then? I’m in a betting mood.”
    The soldiers crowded around us, shouting suggestions, picking sides. I studied the two combatants. The camel spider was at least twice as big as the scorpion. Besides, I reasoned, it’d take time for the scorpion’s venom to seep into the spider’s bloodstream, or whatever circulatory system spiders have.
    â€œTwo minutes,” I said.
    â€œI’ll take the under,” Chambers replied. “How’s a hundred bones sound?”
    I nodded. I had faith in the big ugly.
    Most of the soldiers did not. I looked around and, intentional or not, nearly all of them had slid over to Chambers’ side of the ring—and the scorpion’s. Through the firelight, I spotted a friendly face.
    â€œ Et tu , medicine man?” I said.
    â€œSorry,” Doc Cork said. “Like you said. Everyone knows the scorpion wins.”
    I nodded again and felt a hand on my shoulder. “We’re with you, sir.” I turned