Short Story

Dead Dog Smell

By Micah Bates

“How?” Raul asked his son. “How can a baby create this much stinky poop?” 

He held his six-month-old in place with one hand. Awkwardly reaching for a fifth baby wipe, he tried to mop up the mess. Sam arched and twisted against Raul, trying his best to dive off the changing table. 

“Not on my watch, little trooper.” 

Raul used the last baby wipe and frowned at the empty plastic container. The Pampers baby model smiled in restful sleep, taunting Raul. Had Jenn already bought more baby wipes, or had she asked him to? His sleep-addled mind could not remember. He wished Jenn was here to help get Sam cleaned up and back in bed, wished she did not have to work the overnight shift at the hospital to keep them afloat.

 He slapped a clean diaper in place and scooped his son off the changing table. The dirty diaper he picked up with more caution. Holding it at arm’s length, he headed out to dispose of the hazardous material in their apartment complex's dumpster. 

The brisk chill of early fall raised goosebumps on his naked torso, prodding him into a barefoot scamper across the coarse parking lot. The dumpster stood askew, one corner encroaching on an empty parking space. The far corner jutted against the bowed chain link fence. 

Raul tossed the diaper into the dumpster. The smell of decomposing refuse was overwhelming. Murky sludge oozed from the dumpster’s rusted bottom, puddling at Raul’s feet. The stench and rot cut deep into the recesses of his mind, unleashing the nicotine addiction he thought he had conquered. The fingers on his right hand curled reflexively, grasping for a cigarette they had not held in almost a year. He tried to shake away the craving and the memories that came with it. Clutching his son close, he hurried back to the warmth of their one-bedroom apartment.  

Inside, Raul snapped a new pair of pajamas onto Sam. He sprayed the stains on the old pajamas and removed the soiled changing pad cover, then left them both to soak in the bathroom sink. He already knew the annoyed look Jenn would give him when she came home to the dirty laundry. 

Sam wriggled in his arms and cooed at the bathroom mirror. Then squealed with delight at his own reflection. Raul smiled too. 

“How could anyone ever stay mad at your little face?” Raul asked, squishing Sam’s cheeks with one hand. With any luck, Jenn would be too distracted by the baby to notice his failure as a stay-at-home-dad. 

Raul heated a bottle of formula and slumped into the rocking chair with Sam’s favorite lovey. His mind, reeling from the lingering scent of the dumpster, wandered back to memories he wished he could forget.

#

It smelled like death, the sickly stench of decomposing flesh. The scent wafted up his nostrils, clawed its way through the base of his skull, and seeped deep into his brain. Raul was not sure how much longer he could handle it.  

His squadmate, Private Peters, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his tan camouflage cargo pants. He crinkled the flimsy white and blue plastic before turning it upside down, spilling two short cigarettes into his meaty dust-covered palm.

“Want one?” Peters asked.

Raul hesitated. They had both agreed to quit smoking three weeks ago. Peters had only made it two days. Raul had stayed strong—until now.

“Thanks, asshole,” Raul said, taking one. His mouth watered when he grasped it loosely between cracked lips. 

Peters pushed his helmet back, exposing a white rim of skin above his tanned nose and cheeks. He rubbed at the angry red indentations left by his helmet, smearing sweat and caked dust across pale skin.

Everything in Afghanistan was dirt. The field in front of them was dark brown clods of dirt. The flat road their convoy was stopped on was a slightly lighter shade of the same dirt. The mud-brick dwellings behind them were built from dirt. Even the short wall separating the road from the field, the wall Raul and Peters were currently crouched behind for cover, was made of solid packed dirt. 

How had the Afghans cultivated life here? Above the hot desert sun-scorched any last remnants of moisture from the soil—and from Raul. It was hard to imagine this barren landscape inundated with rain and mud. As far as he knew, Afghanistan had always been withered and dry. And it always would be.

Peters lit his cigarette and tossed the lighter to Raul.

Raul sparked the lighter and sucked the flame through his cigarette. Stale smoke filled his mouth and burned the back of his throat.

“Tastes like grass,” Raul said. He frowned at the unfiltered cigarette and then inhaled again. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

Peters tossed Raul the empty pack. The thin plastic foil was smaller than Raul was used to. The sun-bleached Marlboro logo emblazoned across the front, followed by indecipherable Arabic scrawl.

Raul took a deep drag. It masked the stench of death—for a few seconds. 

It had been four hours since their convoy came to a jarring halt at the edge of this small Afghan village. Raul had been driving when the attack occurred right in front of his Humvee. A young man in a red turban had run at them. His face tight with fierce resolution as he tossed the ancient wood-handled Russian grenade. 

“Shit,” Raul cursed, slamming on the brakes. His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel and he pressed himself back into his seat, away from the grenade. The explosion was comically small, a harmless spray of pebbles against the side of their armored Humvee. 

“Fucker,” Private Mulchey yelled, his tan boots dancing on the center console as he spun their .50 cal turret to face the attack. Sergeant Thomas was faster than the machine gunner. Kicking open the rear door of the Humvee, Thomas stalked towards the young man, firing five rounds into his frail chest. 

The Afghan looked surprised at first, then dropped to his knees before falling sideways into the road, red turban unraveling across the hard yellow dirt.

That was it. No extended gun battle. No flanking maneuvers or air support. Just a pointless grenade followed by a quick death. Why had the young Afghan looked so surprised? What other outcome had he imagined?

The lieutenant had ordered a search of the surrounding village, which was still ongoing. Half the platoon was clearing the mud dwellings. The rest of the soldiers, including Raul and Peters, were maintaining a defensive perimeter. 

Raul dragged at the cigarette again. The orange ember devoured the tobacco until it burned his fingertips. Dropping the butt, he crushed it under the heel of his boot. Raul still did not know where the horrible smell was coming from, but if he did not get another cigarette soon, he was going to lose his mind. 

“What the hell smells so bad?” Raul cursed. “Can’t be the guy we killed. Hasn’t been dead long enough?”

“Dead dog,” Peters said. “Other side of the berm.” 

Raul stood up from his crouch and leaned forward. There was a pile of decaying flesh and fur in the ditch on the other side of the wall. Off-white jaw bone and teeth protruded from what had once been the dog’s face. 

“Oh…” Raul said. “Think Sergeant Thomas will care if we move?”

“You gonna ask him?”   

Raul sat back into a crouch. No matter how bad the stench got, pissing off Sergeant Thomas would be worse. His knees and thighs ached. His camelback had run dry an hour ago. His mouth was parched and his tongue felt swollen. His saliva was so thick it was hard to swallow. The cigarette had only made it worse.

“Got any more smokes?” Raul asked.

“Nope.”

 Raul hocked a loogie, hoping to clear the stench from the back of his mouth. The spittle caught in the crease of his lip and he had to wipe it away with the back of his sleeve. It did not help the smell. 

He eyed the crowd of locals, which swelled outside of their defensive position, inching closer over the hours. Their disconcerting presence gave Raul an idea.

“Hey!” Raul yelled, waving at the closest group of children. 

A single boy approached. Cautiously at first, his dark brown eyes wide with fear and curiosity. He could not have been more than eight years old. Once the boy was close, Raul held up the empty pack of cigarettes and a five-dollar bill. 

The boy’s apprehension lifted into a bright smile. He stepped up to the low dirt wall, ignoring the dead dog and the barrel of Peter’s rifle. Snatching the money from Raul, the boy left as quickly as he came, sprinting towards the other side of the village.

“Kiss that five-dollars goodbye,” Peters said.

“No way,” Raul said. “I trust him.”

“Can’t ever trust a camel-fucker.”

“Dude,” Raul said. “He’s just a kid. And maybe he’s the one who shouldn’t trust us. I mean, what the hell are we even doing here? If we just went home, maybe they’d stop trying to blow us up?”

“They were blowing us up before we got here. Remember the towers?”

“That wasn’t these guys. These idiots don’t even know how to use a grenade, much less fly a plane.”

 Peters shifted his weight from one knee to the other. “We’re here because we signed up for this shit. Stop trying to think above your pay grade.”  

The young boy re-appeared. His tiny sandaled feet flitted over the hard-packed earth, a new pack of cigarettes held proudly above his head. 

Raul’s stomach clenched when Private Mulchey swiveled the Humvee’s .50 cal, tracking the boy’s progress. Raul imagined the worst, envisioned the boy’s chest riddled with bullets. 

Mulchey held his fire, and the boy arrived safe. Out of breath, but face beaming with triumph. Raul smiled back and pulled a piece of hard candy out of his pocket. 

“Told you,” Raul said.

Peters licked his chapped lips, eyeing the new pack of cigarettes. “Only did it for the money. Pack don’t cost five dollars here.”

Raul accepted the pack with a grateful nod and handed over the candy. The boy stayed, waiting and watching them with sparkling brown eyes. Raul tore away the pack’s thin plastic wrapping and fumbled to pull the first cigarette from the tight packaging. 

He never got it out. 

The explosion from the house behind them was too loud to hear. Raul felt it in his chest. His ears buzzed and bits of debris pinged off the back of his body armor and helmet. Smoke poured out of the small mud building. An entire wall, blown away by the force of the blast, had been replaced by a cloud of billowing dust.

“Lock it down,” Sergeant Thomas yelled from the other side of the Humvee.

Two houses down, an old woman peered out from her dark earthen doorway. Peters fired twice. The bullets struck the doorway, puffs of dust only inches from her startled face. She retreated inside before Peters could correct his aim.

Raul looked for the boy. He was on the other side of the dirt wall, knocked flat, lying next to the dog carcass. The young boy's smile replaced by a mangled gash in his cheek. Raul jumped over the wall and pulled the boy protectively to his chest, looking for something to staunch the bleeding. The back of the boy's head was wet and nauseatingly soft.

 The lieutenant yelled for the squads clearing the houses to get back to the convoy. Sporadic rifle fire crackled from the platoon’s defensive positions, Raul’s fellow soldiers securing the area. The crowd of locals had disappeared with the blast.

“Peters, you're with me,” Sergeant Thomas ordered. “We gotta clear the rubble.” 

Their squad leader’s voice cut through Raul’s mental fog, bringing him back to reality. In his rush to get to the boy, he had left his rifle behind. 

“Dominguez,” Thomas yelled at Raul. “Get the fuck back behind cover.”

“The boy’s hurt bad,” Raul said.

“Back. Here. Now.” Thomas said, voice low, each word coming out like a gunshot.

#

Raul ran his finger gently across his sleeping son's cheek. Sam sucked at the empty bottle, sighed, and sank deeper into Raul’s arm.

“I was a terrible soldier,” Raul told his son, skin flushing hot from the shame of it. “A kid died ‘cause I wanted a smoke. And all I did was forget my rifle.”

Raul remembered the humiliation of Sergeant Thomas’ scowl. He remembered the feeling of utter powerlessness when he left the boy in the dirt and climbed back over the wall. Remembered staring at the new scratch in his M4’s lower assembly. Above his right thumb, the shallow silver gouge ran across the rifle’s lower assembly, crossing through the word safe. 

The memories of Afghanistan brought back the full force of his nicotine craving. He chewed at the crease of his lip and the ghost of a cigarette. Raul debated bundling Sam up for a late-night trek to buy a pack from the Walgreens on the corner. It was not the cold that stopped him. He did not have the courage to brave Jenn’s wrath if she caught him smoking again.

He swallowed back the craving and listened to his son’s rhythmic breathing. The sweet milky scent of Sam’s skin washed over him.

“I’m going to do better,” Raul promised, holding his son close. “We’re going to be better.”