him.
Lights appeared and men hollered orders. Generators kicked on. Engines started. Gentry adjusted his pack as he ran. It was not made for running, but for marching, and he had packed it lopsided, heavy, too casually. His mind clicked over the preppers back home, and whether their backpacks had respected the fact that they would likely not saunter into the wilderness in quiet, calm order. They would probably run like hell. “What about Goetsch?”
“Keep moving,” Sarge hollered. “Don’t look back. Got to make it to the trees before the lights come on, boys.”
Gentry passed the teenager lying face-down in the mud. Blood covered the back of his head and neck. Gentry’s hand rose instinctively to the back of his own head, as if swatting away some nagging thought. The action tangled his legs, but he managed to arrest his fall before he landed belly-first in the mud beside the boy. The pack swayed on his back, tossing off his balance, but he managed to keep the rifle clean as he righted himself and stumbled on. He obeyed Sarge’s order and did not look back, but focused on the trees across the open field and the mountains rising beyond them. The men in front of him did the same. None of them glanced back to see if he was still in the rear, and he did not check to see if Goetsch had made it out behind him.
One by one they disappeared into the trees. Darkness and underbrush swallowed them, and they were gone as bunnies in the bush. He hastened his pace as the lights came on and blanched the moonlight into a luminescent glare. The back-glow sharpened the shadows of the tree line, and Gentry squinted to spare what night vision he had already shored up. As he entered the trees, he stopped and listened, expecting to hear footsteps from the others. Instead, he heard a hoarse-whisper scream behind him.
“Genny! Sarge! Billings!”
“Goetsch!” Gentry spun around. “We’re up here, I think. Shit, I lost them. Come on man, move it.”
Behind Goetsch, soldiers rushed about the camp until a group of them converged on the tent. The others had slowed ahead of him. They appeared as heavy-breathing specters swiveling their heads toward the camp, where already a fire crew was dousing their tent in flames.
Sarge snorted to gain their attention. “Situate your packs, boys. Make it quick. Cinch it up tight, ’cuz we got a climb ahead of us.”
Gentry had never noticed how much lighter Sarge’s and Billings’ packs had been, but now he saw it. All that time listening to Billings rant about being ready to run one more mile, and here he had packed for a quiet campout. This was supposed to be a bugout pack, a grab-and-go pack, and the grab-and-go would be at a full sprint. Billings and Sarge had packed nothing more than food, rope, ammunition, and first aid. Gentry had stuffed in extra clothing, a camp stove, a pair of Crocs for camp shoes, and even a light blanket. Arroyo had tied on an extra sleeping bag, which he cut off and flung into the woods. Goetsch unhooked a lantern that had been clinking as he ran, and tossed it toward the sleeping bag. The others trimmed their packs, but all of Gentry’s gear was inside. They did not have time for him to dig it out, which meant he would have to shoulder the weight. So he cinched a rope around the outside to balance its load, shrugged it into place, and waited while the others adjusted their gear.
Sarge performed a quick inspection of the men and waved his hand. “Moving out. Try and keep up, you lard ass puppies.” He led them double-time through the woods. Gentry fell into the rear with Goetsch, both of them struggling with their over-stuffed bags and undersized bodies. He followed Arroyo, and ahead of them he lost sight of the others. He hoped Arroyo could see the man in front of him. Every few yards, Gentry glanced behind to ensure Goetsch was still in the rear.
The ground steepened in a black rise that Gentry sensed more than saw. The dirt loomed upward, and the sounds of
Lights appeared and men hollered orders. Generators kicked on. Engines started. Gentry adjusted his pack as he ran. It was not made for running, but for marching, and he had packed it lopsided, heavy, too casually. His mind clicked over the preppers back home, and whether their backpacks had respected the fact that they would likely not saunter into the wilderness in quiet, calm order. They would probably run like hell. “What about Goetsch?”
“Keep moving,” Sarge hollered. “Don’t look back. Got to make it to the trees before the lights come on, boys.”
Gentry passed the teenager lying face-down in the mud. Blood covered the back of his head and neck. Gentry’s hand rose instinctively to the back of his own head, as if swatting away some nagging thought. The action tangled his legs, but he managed to arrest his fall before he landed belly-first in the mud beside the boy. The pack swayed on his back, tossing off his balance, but he managed to keep the rifle clean as he righted himself and stumbled on. He obeyed Sarge’s order and did not look back, but focused on the trees across the open field and the mountains rising beyond them. The men in front of him did the same. None of them glanced back to see if he was still in the rear, and he did not check to see if Goetsch had made it out behind him.
One by one they disappeared into the trees. Darkness and underbrush swallowed them, and they were gone as bunnies in the bush. He hastened his pace as the lights came on and blanched the moonlight into a luminescent glare. The back-glow sharpened the shadows of the tree line, and Gentry squinted to spare what night vision he had already shored up. As he entered the trees, he stopped and listened, expecting to hear footsteps from the others. Instead, he heard a hoarse-whisper scream behind him.
“Genny! Sarge! Billings!”
“Goetsch!” Gentry spun around. “We’re up here, I think. Shit, I lost them. Come on man, move it.”
Behind Goetsch, soldiers rushed about the camp until a group of them converged on the tent. The others had slowed ahead of him. They appeared as heavy-breathing specters swiveling their heads toward the camp, where already a fire crew was dousing their tent in flames.
Sarge snorted to gain their attention. “Situate your packs, boys. Make it quick. Cinch it up tight, ’cuz we got a climb ahead of us.”
Gentry had never noticed how much lighter Sarge’s and Billings’ packs had been, but now he saw it. All that time listening to Billings rant about being ready to run one more mile, and here he had packed for a quiet campout. This was supposed to be a bugout pack, a grab-and-go pack, and the grab-and-go would be at a full sprint. Billings and Sarge had packed nothing more than food, rope, ammunition, and first aid. Gentry had stuffed in extra clothing, a camp stove, a pair of Crocs for camp shoes, and even a light blanket. Arroyo had tied on an extra sleeping bag, which he cut off and flung into the woods. Goetsch unhooked a lantern that had been clinking as he ran, and tossed it toward the sleeping bag. The others trimmed their packs, but all of Gentry’s gear was inside. They did not have time for him to dig it out, which meant he would have to shoulder the weight. So he cinched a rope around the outside to balance its load, shrugged it into place, and waited while the others adjusted their gear.
Sarge performed a quick inspection of the men and waved his hand. “Moving out. Try and keep up, you lard ass puppies.” He led them double-time through the woods. Gentry fell into the rear with Goetsch, both of them struggling with their over-stuffed bags and undersized bodies. He followed Arroyo, and ahead of them he lost sight of the others. He hoped Arroyo could see the man in front of him. Every few yards, Gentry glanced behind to ensure Goetsch was still in the rear.
The ground steepened in a black rise that Gentry sensed more than saw. The dirt loomed upward, and the sounds of
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