Malerman, Josh - Black Mad Wheel by Malerman Josh

Author:Malerman, Josh [Malerman, Josh]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-04-07T00:00:00+00:00

25

The sun is going down, but it’s not down yet. And the water is far enough behind them that the waves sound more like whispers.

He’s not dead yet, Philip tells himself, dragging one of the sixty-pound Ampex machines on its plastic lid. He’s missing.

This is more manageable. This keeps Philip’s sanity safe.

Until they see Ross’s body, unmoving, there is no dead.

They’ve reached a row of dunes they’re not going to be able to avoid.

Philip pauses at the base of the one they stand at, sees his shadow on the sand.

Once upon a time that shadow carried a gun . . . then a microphone.

Now it’s both.

Lovejoy plants a boot into the dune and looks up.

“Prints,” he says.

Maybe it’s the combination of the sun and fatigue, but Philip hadn’t seen the prints until Lovejoy pointed them out. He sees them now. Faint hooves. As if they step lighter than the Americans do. Know the desert better.

Know where to hide.

Lovejoy begins the climb up.

Stein snaps a photo of him and Philip can see the picture as if it’s already developed: black and white, the sweating former general leading the platoon on this dark day, the day Ross Robinson went missing.

The rest follow.

When Philip reaches the top, Lovejoy is already there, already looking through the binoculars. He points to a distant dot.

“Is it him?” Philip asks, breathless.

Stein snaps a photo.

From the peak of the dune it’s the size of a black crab.

“A dead body,” Lovejoy says.

Philip takes the binoculars from the sergeant’s hands.

He looks. He sees.

“What is it?” Larry asks. “Is it him?!”

Lovejoy begins the descent.

“Philip?” Larry repeats, because his friend’s verification trumps the sergeant’s.

Stein snaps another photo. Greer is descending now, finding balance where he can.

“I’m not sure,” Philip says. “It looks more like . . . a uniform.”

“A what?”

Magnified, Philip sees what could be a long-sleeved shirt and pants. The arms are raised, as if in self-defense.

“What kind of uniform?”

Philip studies it longer, stares until the distant details begin to make sense.

“It looks like a textbook,” Philip says.

“What does that mean?”

Philip lowers the binoculars.

“It’s not Ross. But it’s army.”

“Oh, fuck,” Duane says. “The other platoons.”

“No.” Philip is shaking his head. “Old army.” He hands the binoculars to Duane.

“Old?” Larry asks.

“Like it crawled out of a textbook. That’s a dead body, all right. But it’s dressed in a Civil War uniform.”

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