The Death Trust

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Corporal Dante P. Ambrose climbed into the front seat of the Humvee beside the driver, relieved to be out of the sun. His black skin glistened in places where the sweat from his pores had sluiced away the fine, light brown sand that coated everything in Iraq. A single river of sweat had cut a valley through the layers of grit down his forehead, like the Tigris through the desert.

Behind him, Sergeant Peyton Scott grunted as he tried to get comfortable in the rear seat. His shirt and pants had stuck to his skin, and the ceramic plate in his vest pushed up against his chin when he sat, limiting mobility. He felt trussed like a pig. All I need is a goddamn apple in my mouth, he thought. “How’s that coffee coming along?” he said.

“We ain’t having coffee. We’re having tea,” replied Corporal Ambrose.

“What?” said someone.

“What kind of a faggot drink is tea?” said someone else.

“Fuckin’ tea?” said another.

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