death and blood for a lifetime. All I have to do is get through this patrol without anything going FUBAR, and I’m home free.
Of course, I don’t have a home to go to, but I can figure that shit out when I get home. For now, I just have to focus on this house, this room, this street. Then the next one and so on through this sector, and then we ride the seven-ton back to the MEK and I’m back Stateside within a week.
And of course, I’ve got the jitters. My hands shake, my spine tingles. This is my gut telling me shit’s about to go down, because of course, nothing is ever easy.
Derek acts oblivious, keeps joking. I want to tell him to shut the fuck up and pay attention, but I know better. He runs his mouth because he's nervous. He feels it, too. He chatters like a goddamn blue jay when he's scared. I can see his eyes scanning, see the tension in his shoulders, in the way his rifle is almost at his shoulder, ready to fire.
We round a corner, and my gut clenches. I slow, scan the rooftops. Derek is doing the same.
"Feel it?" I ask.
"Fuck yeah. Shit's about to hit the fan."
The others are piled up behind us. I see nothing, so I continue, even though my instincts are telling me to stop, go back, stay, get the fuck down. I creep forward a few more feet, and then my gut is screaming too loud to ignore. I shove Derek to the side and drop to the ground for no reason whatsoever. As I taste dirt, an AK barks from a rooftop. Bullets snap through the air where we had been.
Fucking knew it.
Someone behind us shoots back—Barrett, I'm pretty sure. Only Barrett fires like that, three-three, pause, three.
Then all hell breaks loose. AK fire erupts from all directions, and suddenly we're split, half our unit cut off from the other half. Derek has a bead on an insurgent on the roof opposite us, so I wait until a muzzle-burst gives away a location and pour fire at it. I see a head and shoulder pop up, black metal and tan wood and black-spot eyes. I squeeze the trigger, and a burst of pink mist tells me I dropped him.
There's a pause, and Derek and I lurch into a run, breaking for a better position. I hear boots pound behind us. We're nearly there when I hear a hackhackhack and then fire and pain gouts through me, centered on my left shoulder and thigh. I'm spun around, fall. I'm dragged by the hand through the dust, bleeding. The strain on my wounded shoulder as I'm pulled is agonizing. I see Derek beside me, firing at a doorway. I see a shape, a muzzle-burst, bullets peppering the dirt and the wall near us.
Derek hits his target. I watch, the world sideways, as the muzzle-burst goes silent mid-bark. Derek shifts, prepares to drag me farther into cover. Then a figure, thin and young, stumbles from the doorway, bleeding. He throws a grenade, and I try to move, but Derek is already on top of me, rolling away with me, and the seconds until detonation tick in my head like thundering drums, each one a heartbeat.
Heat and fire and pressure erupt, the sound so deafening it becomes silence, and we're thrown. I feel wetness spread, feel pins of pain stab me. The silence continues and I wonder if I've gone deaf, but then ringing fills my ears, and I know my hearing will return eventually.
Derek is too still. Too wet. I find my feet, bullet-pierced leg screaming, refusing to support me, but I don't care. Can’t afford to care. Adrenaline powers me. I grip Derek's red-slick hand and pull him, needing him to be okay. Rifle fire is a distant roar, and I see puffs of dirt marking Death's walk toward me.
My side hurts, low, near the hip. Shrapnel, I think. I push my hand against it, trying vainly to dull the pain with pressure. I get Derek a few feet away, closer to the doorway that would provide some cover, but then I'm struck again in the shoulder. I fall to my knees, find my rifle, fire blindly. Find a target, fire. Dropped him. Another— crackcrack —dropped him.
Fuck, I hurt.
A slug of agony
Of course, I don’t have a home to go to, but I can figure that shit out when I get home. For now, I just have to focus on this house, this room, this street. Then the next one and so on through this sector, and then we ride the seven-ton back to the MEK and I’m back Stateside within a week.
And of course, I’ve got the jitters. My hands shake, my spine tingles. This is my gut telling me shit’s about to go down, because of course, nothing is ever easy.
Derek acts oblivious, keeps joking. I want to tell him to shut the fuck up and pay attention, but I know better. He runs his mouth because he's nervous. He feels it, too. He chatters like a goddamn blue jay when he's scared. I can see his eyes scanning, see the tension in his shoulders, in the way his rifle is almost at his shoulder, ready to fire.
We round a corner, and my gut clenches. I slow, scan the rooftops. Derek is doing the same.
"Feel it?" I ask.
"Fuck yeah. Shit's about to hit the fan."
The others are piled up behind us. I see nothing, so I continue, even though my instincts are telling me to stop, go back, stay, get the fuck down. I creep forward a few more feet, and then my gut is screaming too loud to ignore. I shove Derek to the side and drop to the ground for no reason whatsoever. As I taste dirt, an AK barks from a rooftop. Bullets snap through the air where we had been.
Fucking knew it.
Someone behind us shoots back—Barrett, I'm pretty sure. Only Barrett fires like that, three-three, pause, three.
Then all hell breaks loose. AK fire erupts from all directions, and suddenly we're split, half our unit cut off from the other half. Derek has a bead on an insurgent on the roof opposite us, so I wait until a muzzle-burst gives away a location and pour fire at it. I see a head and shoulder pop up, black metal and tan wood and black-spot eyes. I squeeze the trigger, and a burst of pink mist tells me I dropped him.
There's a pause, and Derek and I lurch into a run, breaking for a better position. I hear boots pound behind us. We're nearly there when I hear a hackhackhack and then fire and pain gouts through me, centered on my left shoulder and thigh. I'm spun around, fall. I'm dragged by the hand through the dust, bleeding. The strain on my wounded shoulder as I'm pulled is agonizing. I see Derek beside me, firing at a doorway. I see a shape, a muzzle-burst, bullets peppering the dirt and the wall near us.
Derek hits his target. I watch, the world sideways, as the muzzle-burst goes silent mid-bark. Derek shifts, prepares to drag me farther into cover. Then a figure, thin and young, stumbles from the doorway, bleeding. He throws a grenade, and I try to move, but Derek is already on top of me, rolling away with me, and the seconds until detonation tick in my head like thundering drums, each one a heartbeat.
Heat and fire and pressure erupt, the sound so deafening it becomes silence, and we're thrown. I feel wetness spread, feel pins of pain stab me. The silence continues and I wonder if I've gone deaf, but then ringing fills my ears, and I know my hearing will return eventually.
Derek is too still. Too wet. I find my feet, bullet-pierced leg screaming, refusing to support me, but I don't care. Can’t afford to care. Adrenaline powers me. I grip Derek's red-slick hand and pull him, needing him to be okay. Rifle fire is a distant roar, and I see puffs of dirt marking Death's walk toward me.
My side hurts, low, near the hip. Shrapnel, I think. I push my hand against it, trying vainly to dull the pain with pressure. I get Derek a few feet away, closer to the doorway that would provide some cover, but then I'm struck again in the shoulder. I fall to my knees, find my rifle, fire blindly. Find a target, fire. Dropped him. Another— crackcrack —dropped him.
Fuck, I hurt.
A slug of agony
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