Excerpt from All the Ruined Men by Bill Glose, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Mueller's hand drifts up to his eyebrow and fingers a scar bisecting the hair, a remnant from a high school brawl. Rubbing the old scar is something he does whenever he's deep in thought. Anytime someone asks about the white strip of skin, he brags how the guy who hit him broke two of his fingers. Part of the reason why he's nicknamed Blockhead, but not the only one.

Looking down, Mueller notices his tapping feet and makes a conscious effort to stop. Part of the ADHD generation, he can't sit still without his skin itching as if ants were burrowing beneath. He needs action. If nothing's happening, he's got to make something happen. Stretching a hand out in front of his team leader's face, he points outside the window. Hey, Faust, know what those things remind me of?

Say my sister and I'll have you doing push-ups in the aisle till we get to the range.

So you were listening. Thought so. No, man, I'm being serious now. They remind me of those Christmas specials on TV, the sound of bells off-screen just as Santa flies up in his sleigh.

Faust glances out the window. You on acid? Ain't nothing like Christmas out there.

Just the sound, man, that's what I'm saying. Mueller leans back in his seat and fingers the scar again, his head slowly rocking side to side. Soon he's whistling the tune of "Up on the Housetop." After a few minutes, he snaps his fingers, then starts singing. Out in the desert on a jingle bus, where's Hajji taking all of us? Out to the range to blow shit up, fire off some rockets and some other stuff. Ho, ho, ho, who wouldn't go? Ho, ho, ho, who wouldn't go? Oh, up on the rooftop, click, click, click. There's Saddam, let's shoot the prick.

HEAVY WEAPONS

The bus pulls up behind three Humvees spread across a dune's hard-packed crest and halts, air brakes hissing. Third squad barely pays attention to the new arrivals. The sun hangs low in the sky like a ripe mango, throwing long shadows from the men, who crowd around a circle of ammo cans, howling and cheering. A couple of them give a cursory glance at the jingle bus, then return their attention to the circle.

Shit, man, says Mueller, I want in on this action. He races out of the bus, and everyone but Berkholtz follows quickly behind.

In the center of the ammo-can circle are two scorpions, a thick, black one, with sharply defined segmented sections, and one about half its size, colored a light butterscotch that appears translucent in the sand.

From the bottom step of the bus, Berkholtz leans against the accordion door, giving his boys a little space for the moment. They're like a pack of wild mongrels, and he is the alpha dog who needs to manage their fury. All amped up with no enemy to take it out on, they've been instigating fights with each other, wrestling in the sand, and dry-humping the losers in shows of dominance. He's glad the war is over. How much further they could descend into their animal selves, he hates to think. If this little sideshow can bleed off some tension of their testosterone, Berkholtz won't stand in its way.

Shouldering his way into the circle of men, Mueller shouts, I want to put fifty bucks on the big fucker.

Sure, says Corporal Rambali, I'll take that action.

The scorpions have already begun dueling, the small one snagged in one of the black pincers. They're scuttling in a clockwise circle, the black scorpion's head and thorax pressed low, scraping a furrow as they spin. The smaller one keeps tugging to get out of the black pincer's grip while avoiding the large, lancing tail. At the same time, the smaller one's tail keeps stabbing its venom into the scabrous sides of its larger foe, until finally the black scorpion's pincer opens up as its body jerks and falls, then sits still. A loud cheer goes up from half the men, a volley of curses from the others.

Excerpted from All the Ruined Men by Bill Glose. Copyright © 2022 by Bill Glose. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.