Day 11
The end.
Warm crimson droplets fell from his hand as he stared out at the sandy landscape, dust billowing up around the scrub brushes and destroyed vehicles in small puffs. He couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from.
At this point he didn’t care.
After a minute, of searching around him, he found his helmet. Thankfully, the flames hadn't burned off the reflective red cross on the front. He plopped the bucket onto his head with a lopsided grin.
Slowly, Merciville got to his feet. On the ground, only five feet in front of him, lay Sergeant Olden. Olden’s face has been torn clean off, it looked like by a piece of sheet metal blasted from one of the MATVs. His leg, combat boots always laced so tightly, twitched in convulsions, then finally lay still. Merciville couldn’t do a damn thing for him, but he knelt down next to the sergeant anyway, the effort bringing a fresh pain to the pit of his stomach. He gripped Olden’s hand, shouted that he would get help.
The ringing still had not left his ears.
Staggering back to his feet, Merciville wound through smoldering pieces of slag, craters in the sound, and, he numbly saw, large puddles of a terrifying mixture of fluids, most of which were tinged crimson. About 20 yards from Olden lay Gruber, sitting up, clutching his neck with his left hand.
His right hand was missing.
Gruber balanced a radio mike in the crook of his shoulder, shouting for reinforcements.
As he half walked, half stumbled toward Gruber, Merciville’s ears suddenly popped. He widened his jaw in a silent yawn, and distantly felt a creeping sensation in the region of his feet at the soft whiz and pop of more rounds striking the ground.
He was glad the Taliban weren’t great shots.
At last, he reached Gruber and, ignoring the lieutenant’s protests, bandaged his hand. It was awkward, and took much longer than normal, but he finally got him taken care of. Out of the corner he saw the severed hand on top of a flaming box of MREs.
He didn’t mention this to the lieutenant.
The next time he stood, the pain knocked him back to the ground, and Merciville inhaled a mouth full of moon sand. Coughing, he felt Gruber grab him and drag him into a sitting position. Gruber told him not to move, ordered him not to tend to anyone else.
He had never disobeyed an order.
That didn’t matter anymore, though, he thought.
In about five minutes, nothing would.
Finally, he pushed himself to his feet.
Warm crimson droplets fell from his hand as he stared out at the sandy landscape, dust billowing up around the scrub brushes and destroyed vehicles in small puffs. He couldn’t tell where the shots were coming from.
At this point he didn’t care.
After a minute, of searching around him, he found his helmet. Thankfully, the flames hadn't burned off the reflective red cross on the front. He plopped the bucket onto his head with a lopsided grin.
Slowly, Merciville got to his feet. On the ground, only five feet in front of him, lay Sergeant Olden. Olden’s face has been torn clean off, it looked like by a piece of sheet metal blasted from one of the MATVs. His leg, combat boots always laced so tightly, twitched in convulsions, then finally lay still. Merciville couldn’t do a damn thing for him, but he knelt down next to the sergeant anyway, the effort bringing a fresh pain to the pit of his stomach. He gripped Olden’s hand, shouted that he would get help.
The ringing still had not left his ears.
Staggering back to his feet, Merciville wound through smoldering pieces of slag, craters in the sound, and, he numbly saw, large puddles of a terrifying mixture of fluids, most of which were tinged crimson. About 20 yards from Olden lay Gruber, sitting up, clutching his neck with his left hand.
His right hand was missing.
Gruber balanced a radio mike in the crook of his shoulder, shouting for reinforcements.
As he half walked, half stumbled toward Gruber, Merciville’s ears suddenly popped. He widened his jaw in a silent yawn, and distantly felt a creeping sensation in the region of his feet at the soft whiz and pop of more rounds striking the ground.
He was glad the Taliban weren’t great shots.
At last, he reached Gruber and, ignoring the lieutenant’s protests, bandaged his hand. It was awkward, and took much longer than normal, but he finally got him taken care of. Out of the corner he saw the severed hand on top of a flaming box of MREs.
He didn’t mention this to the lieutenant.
The next time he stood, the pain knocked him back to the ground, and Merciville inhaled a mouth full of moon sand. Coughing, he felt Gruber grab him and drag him into a sitting position. Gruber told him not to move, ordered him not to tend to anyone else.
He had never disobeyed an order.
That didn’t matter anymore, though, he thought.
In about five minutes, nothing would.
Finally, he pushed himself to his feet.
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