Bones of the Lost

decomposition.
    For thirty minutes the air rang with the sound of blades gouging the earth. Of displaced earth
shish
ing onto a growing heap.
    Men gathered at the village wall to watch in grim silence. Now and then I’d raise my eyes to glance at them. Though too far away to read their expressions, I knew they were scrutinizing us closely.
    An hour passed. Ninety minutes. The sun rose, and with it the temperature.
    After finishing a third series of photos, Blanton moved off to the edge of the group and lit up a smoke. An old man approached him, hand out. Blanton shook free a cigarette and placed it in his palm.
    Finally I saw the telltale shift.
    “Hold up,” I said.
    The boys stopped shoveling. Straightening, they looked at each other, then at me.
    “Ask them to step away, please,” I told Welsted.
    The boys obeyed.
    The hole was roughly three feet deep. At the bottom, a dark oval was emerging from the yellow-brown soil. Poking from it, I could see what looked like fabric.
    I heard boots, then a shadow fell across the grave.
    “Found one of our boys?”
    Ignoring Blanton’s question, I dropped to my belly, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply through my nose.
    The odor of decomposing flesh is unmistakable. Sweet and fetid, like residue spoiling in a trashcan.
    I smelled only soil and a hint of something organic. Either the bodies had mummified or they had skeletonized completely.
    Another shadow joined Blanton’s.
    “Need a hand?”
    “Get the trowel and brush from my pack, please.”
    Welsted was back in less than a minute. “What do you have?”
    “Probably the edge of a shroud.”
    “Time for a body bag?”
    “Yes.”
    Using the trowel, I scraped dirt from around and below the fabric, slowly revealing the lumpy contours of what lay inside. When enough was exposed, I gently lifted one fragile edge.
    The shroud contained exactly what I’d hoped. I recognized a clavicle, a scapula, some dark and leathery ligamentous tissue.
    I gestured that the boys should now proceed with trowels, and gave a brief demonstration on how to do so.
    An hour later, Rasekh’s shrouded bones lay aboveground. I was on my knees, zipping the body bag, when, far off, I heard a noise. A low buzz, like a honeybee sluggish with sun.
    I glanced up. Scanned the sky. Saw nothing.
    The buzzing grew louder. Was joined by the sound of pounding feet.
    I looked around.
    Across the cemetery, Blanton’s eyes were huge in a very white face. The villagers were gone from the wall. Back by the Humvee, Welsted was gazing skyward. So were the marines. My digging team was nowhere in sight.
    The human brain is a switching station that operates on two levels. As my cortex processed these facts, my hypothalamus was already ordering adrenaline full throttle.
    The buzz became a whine. Closer. Louder. The delicate hairs inside my ears vibrated uncomfortably.
    “Get down!” Shotgun screamed.
“Now!”
    I curled and threw my hands over my head.
    The world exploded.

I OPENED MY eyes.
    Darkness.
    I listened.
    Absolute quiet.
    By instinct I’d cupped a palm around my mouth to create an air pocket. And my helmet had helped. But the small bubble of space wasn’t enough. My chest was compressed, my lungs squeezed too tightly to function. The heavy armor only made the pressure worse.
    I tried to breathe. Couldn’t.
    I tried again. Got no air.
    Panic began to set in.
    How long could a person go without oxygen? Three minutes? Five?
    How long had I been trapped?
    I had no clue.
    Again I tried to inhale. Again I failed.
    My heart was banging. Pumping blood that was fast losing what little oxygen it held.
    I tried moving the hand away from my mouth. Hit resistance within millimeters.
    My other arm was numb. I had no sense of its position. The position of my legs.
    A wave of dizziness flooded my brain. I saw images of the mesa. Of the ladyfinger rocks.
    Rocks that now imprisoned me like a coffin.
    How many feet? How many tons?
    The panic increased. Adrenaline shot through me.
    Breathe!
    I tensed my neck and shoulder muscles. Bent my head forward as far as I could, then thrust it back.
    My skull cracked rock. Pain exploded through my brain.
    But the move worked. I heard the hiss of falling sand, felt a little less pressure on my chest.
    I breathed in slowly. The dusty air coated my tongue, my throat. My lungs exploded in a series of hacking coughs. I breathed again. Coughed again.
    The dizziness passed. My thoughts began to organize into coherent