The Things We Bury - Part 2: No Big Apocalypse [Completed]

Chapter 3: Surfacing (Part 6 & 7 of 7)

The dream was a repeat—a dredged up rehash that had plagued him for seven years. It didn't matter how it began: he could be in a Humvee driving through the desert on his way out of Kut; or he could be back at base playing cards with Davenport, while the sun set behind the rocky landscape; but just as easily he could be having dinner at home; or be a small boy again playing around the Jacksonville trailer park. It didn't matter how the dream began—eventually it led Maxwell into the accident. For some reason he would get in a car and at some point the road, whatever road it was, would turn into a sunbaked dirt track, because the dream always ended the same way.  Eventually Maxwell would end up  immobile, trapped under his  turned over vehicle with an IED inches from his face.

This wasn't something that had ever happened to him. It was a story they had told him his first week in-country. It had supposedly happened to a friend of a friend, who was state-side in a VA hospital. It might have been made-up for the sole purpose of scaring the fresh faces arriving through the Basrah port. Ultimately, it didn't matter if it was real or not—the fear had poisoned him and the story haunted him ever since, surfacing in the predawn hours on rare mornings when he had just begun to believe that he'd forgotten about it.

The booby-trap was half submerged in the rocky roadway, a rat's nest of wires around a silver canister. He couldn't see a timer but it was ringing. A shrill repeating bell burst from it and the sound was like a drill penetrating his skull. Imperceptibly, the hot Iraqi sun dimmed to the weak light his bedroom window and the bomb morphed into the phone by his bed.

He still had one foot under an overturned Humvee when he answered. The voice on the other end was frantic, barking details at him of an attack. Maxwell wasn't sure if he was still dreaming.

Why did his body and mind betray him? Why only at home? In the field, he'd be dressed and in the car already.

Did comfort and safety weaken him? Did thoughts of home and family lead him astray? Did they cause him to lose his guard and make errors in judgement?

A case could be made for it.

Maxwell stood up to shake off the sleep that weighed on him as heavy as an armored truck.

"How many," he asked. "Are they armed? Uh-huh. Put Brennan on."

He pulled on a pair of slacks while waiting for the Major. Struggling to get a T-shirt on with the phone still in his hand, Maxwell made his way to the desk and switched on the computer monitor. After a flicker, the feed from four security cameras came up.

The images had not perceptibly changed from when he left them at one in the morning to go to bed.

"Agent." Brennan's voice erupted in the receiver like a command from a drill sergeant.

"Major, what's the situation?"

"It's a cluster-fuck? Unknowns have crossed into the security zone and we have a containment breach in the labs. We're still trying to get details."

Threats from above and below. It sounded like the day of the raid. Four years ago, coordinated attacks had caught them unprepared and left The Music Box in tatters. Could it be happening again?

The timing was damn suspicious. Two days before the full moon and Amy's scheduled termination. Maxwell didn't believe in coincidences that much. This wasn't an attack but a rescue attempt. Whoever it was this time would be in for a horrible surprise. They had lots of time to correct their mistakes from last time. No one would be getting in.

"Major, listen to me, the priority is the external assault. Do not send people down into the bunker."

"I am aware of security procedures, Agent. The facility has been locked down until the hazard level is verified."