John Gifford

Chance of Rain

For thirty-nine days the temperature in the desert had peaked at one hundred and fifteen degrees. But on the fortieth day, clouds moved in and choked out the sunlight. The temperature struggled to reach ninety. That evening, the weatherman broadcasting on the Armed Forces Radio Network called for a fifty-percent chance of rain.

Through the door of the tent, Richard Juergens noticed lightning flashes in the sky. He and his machine gunner, Corporal Ramsey, were paired up against two other soldiers from the First Battalion in a game of spades. The men were sitting on cots inside the tent. Richard Juergens was about to throw down a card when the early-warning siren erupted. Lightning flashed in the sky. The lights in the tent blinked and then went out.

“Dude!" Ramsey said. “I had a good hand."

“Dude, get your gas mask on," Richard Juergens said. He removed his mask from the canvas pouch around his waist and pulled the straps over his head. With the rubber mask covering his face, he inhaled. Air rushed in through the filters. He felt the mask seal against his jawbone. “Got it on?"

Ramsey didn't answer. He had run to the door. Richard Juergens saw him looking out into the night.

“Ramsey, quit screwing around and get your mask on."

“I don't have it."

“You better. You know you're not supposed to go anywhere without your mask and rifle."

“I left it in my tent. I didn't think I'd need it."

“Don't you take anything seriously?" He shouted to project his voice beyond the barrier of the gas mask. “That was an order from the colonel. And me."

Richard Juergens walked to the door where Ramsey was looking up into the sky. Soldiers were running back and forth in the corridor between the tents. The siren continued wailing. It reminded him of the tornado sirens that sounded each spring in Texas and the noise gave him goose bumps on his neck and arms.

“Supply ships in port today," someone said. “That's why they're gunning for us."

Richard Juergens turned and walked back through the tent. He checked to make sure every man had his gas mask on. Then he turned back to Ramsey and said, “Come on. We're going to get your mask."

But before he was out the door, two explosions sounded, shaking the wooden frame of the tent. The noise reverberated through Richard Juergens' head, down his spine, rattling the fillings in his teeth.

“Patriots are up," someone else said. “That SCUD's headed our way."

“Everybody get down behind the sandbags and keep your heads down," Richard Juergens said. He looked back toward the door. In the illumination from a lightning flash, he saw Ramsey kneeling beside one of the cots. Ramsey's head was bowed and his hands were clasped together near his chin.

Just then a voice came over the loudspeaker outside, shouting Gas, gas, gas! This is MOPP level three.

Richard Juergens walked over to Ramsey and put a hand on his shoulder. He could feel the corporal shaking.

“I never got my anthrax shot!" he said.

“You're kidding me."

“I wish."

“You lied to me. You told me you got it. What's wrong with you?" Richard Juergens felt the acid boiling in his stomach. He could hear soldiers running outside the tent, their boots striking the ground, then kicking at the sandbags as they scrambled over the barricade. Gas, gas, gas! the voice continued over the loudspeaker. “Why didn't you get your shot? You knew this could happen."

“I was afraid of the side effects," he said. In the lightning flashes, Richard Juergens could see the sweat glistening on Ramsey's face. He could see the whites of his eyes glowing. His Adam's apple jiggled as he talked. “The corpsman said it's only been tested on cows. I ain't a damn cow! What if I get cancer or something?"

“What if you don't live long enough to get cancer?" Richard Juergens said. “We're going to go get your mask."

“I don't think we should risk it."

“You willing to bet the missile won't fall on us? You willing to bet it's not dirty?"

Ramsey, sitting on the edge of the cot, buried his face in his hands. The lightning flashed and Richard Juergens saw the cards scattered on the plywood crate they had used for a table. Playing spades had been Ramsey's idea. Robert Juergens wasn't a gambler; he didn't even know how to play the game until Ramsey had taught him. He had told him they could win some money.

“I don't like to lose money," Richard Juergens had said.

“We have a good chance of winning," Ramsey had told him. “I feel good about it."

Now, listening to the sounds of the rain beginning to pelt the heavy canvas tent, peppering the sandbags on the bunker walls just outside the door, falling loudly, forcefully, inevitably, Richard Juergens closed his eyes and whispered a prayer behind the protection of the rubber mask that sealed his face from the elements.

Ramsey stood up from the cot and said, “I hate this. I hate not being able to do anything. I don't even want to think about what's going to happen if those Patriots miss and that SCUD hits us."

Richard Juergens broke the seal on his gas mask, pulled it from his head and felt the air suddenly cool and refreshing on his face. With the mask off his face, his vision was clear and sharp.

“You better not think about it, then" he said. “Here. Put it on, and let's get down by those sandbags."

"Chance of Rain" appears in Battle Runes: Writings on War (Editions Bibliotekos 2011), Gregory F. Tague, ed. www.ebibliotekos.com.

John Gifford is a writer from Oklahoma and the author of Wish You Were Here, a collection of short fiction. Visit his website at www.john-gifford.net or connect with him on Twitter at @johnagifford.