"Cataclysm: Coins for the Boatman"
December 2nd, 2018. 1708 hours. (5:08 pm.)
Pfc. Dominic "Rook" Martin.
United States Marine Corps. 3rd Battalion 25th Marines. Callsign "Sinner Two-One"
Inside city outskirts, Farah, Farah province Afghanistan.
The LAV was quick, I knew they were fast, but this was insane. Simone had the armored vehicle tearing down small back alleys, down one street and turning down another when RPG's got too close.
The engine would roar as she forced the vehicle through storefronts; smashing through the corners of buildings and forcing abandoned cars out of the way, clearing a path for the rest of us. Parker kept the Humvee close, cursing and shouting as the rounds smacked off the ballistic glass, making it harder to see with each shot.
Jeff was screaming as he unloaded the fifty-cal in all directions, hoping he was going to hit something. Sarge screamed into his radio, trying to coordinate anyone still listening.
But it didn't seem to matter, the rounds came from everywhere. And all I could do was panic, screaming the obvious. There was a loud crash as the LAV tore through the front of a store, crushing everything inside before coming out the back. Parker followed through, the building collapsing behind us.
"FUCK!" was Sarge's only response to being cut off from the others.
The Humvee bounced and shook and rattled as it tried to keep up the LAV, climbing through the debris; the shocks scream and croak as the Humvee bounces over rocks. The deep rumble of the LAV's engine changes to a high whine and it smashes through another alley, tearing at the walls and throwing bricks and dirt everywhere. Chunks of building smash against the Humvee and wreck the windshield completely.
"I CANT SEE ANYTHING!" Parker is jerking his head from side to side, trying to see through the milky glass. "JEFF..."
And with that, he pulled his head back into the Humvee, positioned to look out and call directions.
"LEFT," he screamed and Parker threw the wheel left.
The Humvee grinding against the wall before jerking and actually changing direction. It shook and rattled, the LAV a big brown blur through the small holes in the windshield.
"FUCK." He didn't elaborate, and it didn't need an explanation as he ducked inside, bracing himself.
There was a crash and the whoosh of a rocket firing and an explosion as the sound of the LAV's brakes locked up and the tires screeched. There was no real warning for it, just the crunch of metal on metal and the screeching of brakes as the Humvee slammed into the side of the LAV at an angle.
The sound of tires exploding from pressure and glass raining as I noticed the drop in my stomach as the Humvee rolled onto its side. Everything was crunching and breaking and everyone was screaming. But I wasn't ready; I wasn't ready for the sound. I wasn't ready for the dirt and chunks of pavement to fly through the turret hatch, for the buildings in the windows to shift to dirt and sky.
And I wasn't ready for the force of the hit. I wasn't ready to be thrown around the cab before everything went black with a crunch.
"I DON'T HAVE THE FUCKING GRIDS! DANGER CLOSE, DAMMIT! JUST FIRE!" he's screaming, but his voice might as well be a whisper compared to everyone else.
My vision is blurry and all I can see are the outlines of the buildings against the night sky.
"IS HE ALIVE?"
He seems closer now, and I think he's talking about me. I try to move my arms but nothing happens and I simply let out a pained moan.
"GET HIM UP!"
He's next to me now and I realize someone was dragging me. I try to blink away the blur, and it works to some degree; the night sky shifting and blurred tracers zipping overhead. But I still can't move. Jeff fills my vision and he shakes me.
"Get up, get up... come on buddy. Get the fuck up, we need some help. SARGE, I DON'T THINK HE CAN MOVE."
I strain my neck when he lets go, Parker is screaming among the gunfire. He pulls me up and sets me against something and the world unfolds before me.
The Humvee a few yards away, a flipped and burning husk. Twisted metal is strewn everywhere and the whole thing looks like it went through a trash compactor. Bullets still ping off it where it sits, connecting with road barriers that form some rudimentary cover.
Jeff slides next to Parker, digging through his pack and handing a heavy mag to him. Parker is angry and shaky as he forces the magazine into his M27, letting out a burst of fire as soon as he can. His gun mixes in with the others and two guys from a different fireteam join them in riddling an old building with automatic fire in an attempt to stem the stream of enemy bullets.
I fell like every bone in my body is broken as I try to move and it seems like forever before I give up and settle for regaining the use of my head. Everything is terrible, the windows are filled with men firing down on us and cover is scarce as one of the guys next to Jeff drops in a fit of screaming and a puff of bloody mist. But even with a bullet wound he climbs back up and keeps up the fire.
I hear the Sarge and realize that he is right next to me as I listen to him shout into the radio. They set me against the LAV, against one of the thick tires and there is a loud bang and dust and dirt flying through the air and it goes black again.
"WATCH THE BUILDING ON THE RIGHT!"
The world is a cacophony of gunfire and explosions, men screaming all around. I've been moved, I can see the Humvee on the other side of the road and the LAV is to my left now. I can't tell where exactly I'm at, but I can see the LAV clearly, the front of it a ruptured and burning shell of what it used to be. The place where Simone had been is engulfed in flames and torn apart, the turret hangs almost limply to the side and the wheels have all ruptured or exploded or melted away. The rest of it slowly turning to a charred husk.
I manage to look around and see what happened. An RPG hit the drivers seat and obliterated all the controls and Simone along with them; the brakes must have locked and our Humvee slammed into it and flipped.
Anyone still up had pulled together and forced barriers together for cover. The sky was lit with tracer fire and the air heavy with screaming from both sides. There's a crack and dirt flies up from a stray round and lands on my face and I try to wipe it away when it clicks that I have my arms back. My legs still sit there, limp and useless when I hear the rumble of an engine and the tell tale sings of a heavy machine gun.
"TECHNICAL!" The scream is short and bitter before rounds start to slam into the building nearby.
The gun throws lead and barks into the air as men scream and bullets crack, whiz and ping. I look around, propping myself up as dirt and dust flies about.
"TAKE COVER!"
I snap towards the scream and see Sarge yank the pin from a grenade, lobbing it through the air and ducking under a crumbled wall, rounds bouncing away from where he just was. It takes me a moment to realize the half-destroyed building around me. Or to see the twenty Marines firing down the road at targets I can't even see. But I can hear it all: the rifles crack and the machine guns bark and whats left of the Humvees that had arrived are letting loose with whatever they had left. I hear the panicked screams and the sounds of engines as more trucks approach. I hear the boom as the grenade goes off and the ringing as the shock wave passes.
Everything spins again and I half drag myself to what's left of a wall, turned to rubble and just low enough to look at the chaos. I hear a curse and see Sarge fight with his rifle to clear a jam. He screams and smacks the side of his rifle till the stuck case drops out and he loads and starts shooting again. He looks around, stopping when he sees me. But he spins around as a Marine falls behind him, writhing in pain as he wails.
"FAIRDAY!" he shouts and there's some sort of response from somewhere across the street. "FLANK RIGHT, KILL THAT DAMN GUN!"
If he shouted back I couldn't hear it, just more gunfire. Sarge leaves the dying man to another Marine, grabbing his rifle and scrambling to me.
"It's about damn time," he says.
There's a snap as a round flies overhead and he ducks, cursing under his breath, "Can you move?"
Another round smacks into the other side of the wall, the machine guns continue to bark out a quick death for those that get caught in the open. He falls against the rubble and fires a few shots at whatever he can see. There's a scream nearby and another Marine falls in a fit of pain and a puff of pink mist. Rounds snap and whiz and smack into everything. Sarge screams when his rifle clicks and he drops the magazine, scooting down to my level.
"Okay, legs or no legs it's all hands on deck," he grabs the extra rifle and shoves into my hands, "I want you to scoot up and start firing at anything you don't recognize. Cover who you can, suppress who you can. You ain't even gotta hit anyone, just fucking shoot at them. Okay?" His voice is calm and reassuring and I nod my head.
"Suppressing fire, got it."
He smiles when there's the ping of metal on metal and jerks down, the fabric on the top of his helmet torn and his goggles cracked and broken from where the round scraped across and for the first time ever I see him falter. It's only for a moment as he realizes what just happened, his finger rubbing the new groove in his helmet. He shakes his head and pulls a magazine from his carrier.
"Now that... was not okay." He almost smiles as he loads his rifle. "Okay, Rook, you keep me covered while I get some fire support." He scrambles back over to his original position and motions to me.
I take a few deep breaths and drag myself to the top of the small rubble pile and look out on a field of destruction.
The dead line the streets and the buildings have been riddled with every caliber imaginable. Walls have collapsed and bodies have been shredded: vehicles have been torn apart by rockets and fires rage across the entire intersection, casting an orange glow on the carnage.
"Jesus." I'm frozen in shock till the screams of my fellow Marines pull me from my stupor and I see groups of men from the other side charging at the entrenched soldiers.
Their rifles blaze and their screams pierce the air as they charge; jumping and stumbling over rubble they are cut down, but as one falls more take his place. I level my newly acquired rifle and fire at the charging men. I don't know if I hit any of them as they fall, but at this moment I can't bring myself to care. My heart thumps in my ears and my rifle kicks in my shoulder as I fire at the group. One after another jerk and spin and fall as rounds pour at them.
Finally, they stop, the few still alive turn and run under the protective fire of the big Russian fifty. My rifle clicks and I roll over to dig for a magazine and I see the Sarge yelling into a radio.
"I REPEAT, THIS IS SINNER TWO-ONE, WE HAVE MET EXTREME RESISTANCE. RETREAT IMPOSSIBLE, REQUESTING ANY AVAILABLE SUPPORT ON MY LOCATION! HELLO... DAMMIT!" He throws down the radio and fires out into the street screaming something.
I act on instinct and load my rifle and peek over the wall and freeze when I see a dark-skinned man in an old flak jacket running straight at me, his rifle leveled and his eyes showing murder. But before he gets to me the side of his neck tears into a burst of red and pink, his body twirling as he trips and lands no more than a few feet in front of me. He lies there for a moment, writhing and screaming and bleeding before another round lands in his back, then another. My radio crackles and a woman's voice filters through the static of the short-range communications.
"Sinner Two-One, this is Ghost Two-One. We can provide limited sniper support, but we are low on ammo and you are short on time; hostiles are gearing up for another push on your left flank and they want a softer target. That means you Sergeant O'Brady. Get your men across the street while you still can." Several suppressed shots come over the radio and I look over at Sarge and for the second time, I see him falter. He sits dumbfounded for a moment before kicking a rock and acting.
"You heard the lady. Hubbard, you and whatever you got left over there provide covering fire on my mark. Jeff, you and the others grab the wounded and move on my go. Oorah?" Several Marines echo his call and he makes his way over to me. "Alright kid, I'll drag your lazy ass across the street so long as you help cover. Oorah?" He grabs the back of my carrier and pulls me away from the rubble.
"Oorah," I shout, full of false confidence.
The radio crackles and more suppressed firing comes through before she speaks again.
"Move your ass Tanner... oh shit. John, armor coming down the road, get ready."
Sarge curses under his breath before looking at everyone. Who is Tanner? It's not the most opportune time to ask myself such questions, but I can't help it. Is he one of the Recon Marines? I don't remember his name on the list. But I do remember seeing the woman, though. If they've lived this long they've earned their reputation.
"Okay... GO, GO, GO!"
Concentrated fire fills the air and I feel the ground pull at me as he drags me across and it's only then do I see the full extent of the destruction. Bodies lie everywhere, trucks sit engulfed in flames and those not burning are being pelted with automatic fire. There's even more further back that I can barley see.
The buildings down the road are being chipped away by gunfire and look as though they should have already collapsed, but none of this is what truly catches my attention. Not the bodies strewn about, or the vehicles burning with men inside. Not the gore nor the immense sound of gunfire and the men scrambling to avoid it. No, what catches my attention is the rumbling coming from down the road.
The roar of a heavy engine and the screams of the enemy as they clear the way. That's when I see it. That's when I see the tank: large and heavy, armor dented and the paint scraped away. The ground shakes and the air fills with black smoke as it draws closer, bringing its heavy turret to bear in our direction, lit up only by the fires burning in the streets.
"Sarge... Sarge. Sarge, there's a..."
"I FUCKING SEE IT!" he screams and the turret fires.
The sound of thunder fills the air and the world shakes. Dust, dirt and debris fly in all directions and men scream all manner of things as walls collapse. The world goes black as it fires again with a resounding boom, the sound shaking my chest.
Sometime Later
It's such an ugly color, that tan. It's one of those colors that works in a lot of places, but not here. It's old and worn down, the carpet stained and frayed and covered in dirt. I close my eyes, taking a breath before rolling my head forward. There are my hands, lying limply in my lap; my sleeves are ripped, the frayed edges tinted red from the cuts and dust line them top to bottom. That might be where the dirt on the floor came from.
Maybe I should write an apology in case the people who lived here aren't dead. My arms tingle and my thumbs twitch impulsively. I try to breathe deeply but my carrier pushes down on my chest and I pull it sluggishly, unsure of what I'm actually trying to do. I give up after a moment and let my arms fall to my lap.
My pants are in worse shape than my sleeves and I move my foot around and look at my boot. Perfect, the lining is torn. Wait, my legs, I couldn't move my legs before could I? I try to shake away the fog sitting in my mind; I need to focus. What was happening?
Gunshots and explosions... why... why were there gunshots? The assault, that's right. I was in a firefight when... when a fucking tank showed up. Jesus, I was almost shot by a tank.
I struggle for another deep breath, my body more responsive to my commands as I shift the carrier and look at the rest of the room. I was right, it's an apartment. It's not a very good one, but I don't really think it's my place to judge.
The carpet is that tan color throughout and the walls are some sort of sickly green. What little furniture there is has been scattered and broken and there are bullet holes across the room. Holes peppered with dried blood. Maybe I won't need to leave a note. I try to look around but I don't get much further than seeing I'm propped up in a corner before I notice the kink in my neck.
"Shit..." I barely get the word out before a hand lands on my mouth and forces my head back against the wall.
I panic, swinging and grabbing at the arm when I see just who it's connected to. Faded blue eyes and tanned skin, scars abound and anger gleaming through her features. Her hair is held in by a dirty, rolled up mask; all save for a few stray blonde strands and I stop my struggle when she puts a finger to chapped lips.
I nod, staring at the odd line of a scar going across the bridge of her nose. Dried blood frames old cuts and new ones glistening red. She pulls her hand from my mouth and I just keep staring as she stands and steps across the room. She's not particularly tall, but her arms thick with muscle and she moves with an unexpected power.
She's wearing a simple t-shirt under her carrier and blood trickles from a makeshift bandage on her right bicep. It looks like a piece of a robe, torn and tied around her arm to slow the bleeding from some wound, but now it's just a damp red rag. I see the back of her carrier is in just as bad of shape as the rest of her as she opens the door to a hallway. One hand resting on a knife on her side, the other gripping a pistol in a not-quite-right holster on her hip.
She steps out and back in, visibly seething as she pushes the door almost closed, a small gap still remaining as she presses against the wall next to it.
The front of her carrier is even worse than the back: the fabric is torn and ripped and splotched with dried blood, her magazine pouches lie empty and her plate is sticking out of the corner where the fabric was shredded. The straps are frayed and battered but if it's lost any of its effectiveness she doesn't seem to care. I see her name stitched in one corner, Puckett S.
She pulls her balaclava down, yanking her pistol from her hip and I see why it looked odd. She had a big old forty-five shoved into a holster she must have gotten from an enemy. There's still bits of her old one on her carrier where the dented plate shows through. She pulls the slide back and looks in the chamber before partly dropping the mag and sliding it back home. Seemingly satisfied she flicks the safety and reaches for the knife on her side when she looks over at me.
She blinks a few times before pulling the knife and pressing the blade against her lips as a sign to keep quiet and I nod. It's no more than a few seconds before I hear the voices in the hall. I get the feeling this won't be so simple.
It's only a few moments before the voices go from getting closer and closer to actually opening the door. It was a slow creep from closed to open, the muzzle of an old rifle pushing open the door enough for the man to step through. The door hides Puckett from his sight as he looks around the room before gazing at me.
He's a slim man, overall short with narrow shoulders. His face is long and gaunt, his cheeks sunken with deep bags under his eyes and the telltale signs of age in his skin. His beard is long and frazzled, black hair streaked with gray. His rifle is worn and beaten, an old Kalashnikov. It looks too big for him but he carries it well, albeit clumsily as he takes a few steps towards me, his eyes wary. His clothes are dirty and torn, his chest wrapped in an old flak jacket. He mutters a few words in his own language before calling to the others.
She can take this guy, definitely. I know that if it comes to it she can take him down, but as his friends enter they dash away all my hopes.
Two more men step into the room, locking in on me and aiming their rifles. The second man to enter is robed and masked, but it's not hard to tell he's in much better health than the old man. He says something to the third man, the one I know will be the death of me.
He's a bull of a man, as tall as the tallest man I'd ever seen and as thick as well. His shoulders wide and his hands giant, he stares at me, a smile under his short beard. He's clearly in charge from his presence alone, not to mention his gear.
A modern era plate carrier and a clean AK make him look all the part the trained mercenary he most likely was; the others must be conscripts. He says something in a rumbling voice and the masked man nods and throws in his own comment, pushing the old man towards me. Despite his hesitation he levels his rifle and I do all I can to force myself deeper into the corner and wait for the shot.
A moment passes and I see something move behind their staggered positions. The old man closest, the bull behind him, urging him on and laughing while the masked man stands to the side. His was watching intently, waiting to see the contents of my skull against the wall, but the fire in his eyes died out when Puckett's arm snaked around the man, the black blade of her knife disappearing up in-between the man's ribs.
I watch as his weight slowly sits heavier on the blade as her other arm comes over his shoulder, pistol in hand. There's the sound of a rifle cocking and the bull looks at me for a moment and I look back at him. He must have noticed that I wasn't staring at the rifle because he turned right as she pulled the trigger. The pistol snaps in her hand and the old man topples, the mass of dead weight landing on top of me.
My ears ring and I flail under the man, struggling to get his corpse off me. The urge to vomit is strong and stopped only by adrenaline as his blood exits his body and goes straight to my carrier. I shout and push but he just flops before I hear another shot, then another and his body finally rolls off me, landing limply against the wall: his head at an odd angle from the rest of him, the life gone from his eyes.
I look up, remembering the other shots and see the bull is rearing, angry and nearly growling as he circles her. His arms are cut and blood drips from his hands as he screams and charges. She's quick, ducking under and sliding away before standing back up with a spin. Her pistol is nowhere in sight and she tosses the big, black knife from her left hand to her right, rolling her neck and lowering herself; ready for the next charge. She glances at me several times before looking me dead on.
"RUN, YOU DUMB-ASS!" she shouts and I take the words to heart, scrambling to the door in a mix of trips and steps, the sound of their fight close behind.
The hall was in much better shape than the room. Faded walls and torn wallpaper abound, that same sickly green coating everything. I take a few unsteady steps forward, leaning on the wall as I remember how to use my legs and there's a primal shout from the room I just left and I spin around just in time.
Puckett rushes out of the room and into the one across the hall, slamming the door behind her. It's only a moment or two before that beast of a man follows suit, smashing in the door and disappearing after her. There's thuds and shouts, the sound of frantic and heavy footsteps as furniture is thrown about. I hear the clanking of pots and pans and another crash through the wall before a moment of silence.
There's a heavy thud and the wall just down the corridor bows out a little. Cracks spread and plaster drops away before there's a muffled scream and the wall explodes in a cloud of smashed plaster and the bull comes through, Puckett held in his hands like a shield and he stops in the center of the hall. The momentum carries her further and she smashes into the other wall, the force causing it to crater and she lands on her feet. Her shoulders slumped and her head down she takes a few ragged breaths and looks up at him, the knife still clutched in her fist.
"Bi..." her voice cut short as a heavy kick sends her the rest of the way through the wall.
He grumbles and forces his way through the hole after her. I have a moment of disbelief before emotions kick in; I have to help somehow. I don't really have a plan as I reach the hole and any form of idea slips away when I see him grab her by the neck and lift her in the air with one of his tree trunk like arms.
He stands there for a moment, holding her up, shouting what I can only assume to be taunts. She grunts and chokes, her feet kicking before she swings the knife in his direction. But he's faster than he looks as he catches her wrist in his giant hand and twists, laughing. But she doesn't drop it; despite the obvious pain, her death grip holds.
In a flash of movement, her free hand goes from her belt to his arm before pushing forward in a spray of red.
He drops her, screaming and howling in pain; holding his arm as a torrent of blood gushes out of the now limp limb dangling at his side. It's only a moment before she's on her feet and he spins to face her, rage in his eyes for all of a moment. She steps to him, sliding the combat knife into the side of his neck, the tip coming through the other side, black and bloody. He loses his voice, his rage slips away as he slowly falls to his knees with a heavy thud.
The only sounds to be heard are the sickening gurgles as he chokes and spits out blood. She breathes deep and coughs, still holding the knife; placing a foot on his chest and I look away. I have no desire to the gore that follows. He lands with a heavy thud and the room goes quiet; her breathing is ragged and mixed with the sound of war far in the distance.
"Are you okay?" My throat is dry and the words don't come out quite right but she turns to me, her whole body moving with each breath.
She holds up a finger, as if to speak but falls to her knee instead. It's a few short steps to her and I stick my hand out to help but she looks up at me and wipes her knife clean on my sleeve. I almost protest but I'm already covered in the old man, so there's no real reason to. After she slides it back into its sheath she grabs my hand I pull her to her feet. She coughs a few times and pulls up her mask, showing her face before spitting out a mouthful of blood.
"Thanks for the help." She points at the body with the still bloody folding knife in her hand. She sighs and wipes off the blood, this time on her own pants leg before folding it and shoving it back on her belt. "Always carry a tactical pocket knife. Four inch blade with a million uses." Her voice is scratchy and she rubs her throat; her a face a grimace, bloody teeth and all.
She looks around for a second before kneeling down next to the corpse and reaching under him, yanking a canteen free from his belt a moment later. She opens the lid and puts her nose to the mouth and smells it before taking a mouthful and swishing it around, spitting it back out pink before taking a long drink. She shoves the canteen in my hands and climbs out the hole into the hall.
I rush to follow her, struggling as my carrier gets caught on the edges of the hole and I take bits of it with me as I get through and see her enter the room where this started.
When I get there she's dropping the magazine out of her pistol and putting it in an empty slot. She grabs a new one and stops to look up at me.
"What's the plan, Martin?" Her voice is casual as she looks at the mag in her hand, tapping it against the pistol and blowing dust off it before sliding it into the mag-well.
The plan? Why the hell would I have a plan? I try to voice my thoughts but my throat is dry and I take a long drink instead. The building shakes and and bits of dust and plaster fly about, the explosion sounding in the distance.
"Plan? You think I have a plan? I don't even know where I'm at and you want me to have a plan? What the hell is even going on?"
She doesn't respond, just looks at me like one would an irritating child.
"We haven't actually met." She moves and holds out a gloved hand, stained with blood. I shake it, feeling the need to move cautiously from her tone. She grips my hand tight, pulling me close and griping my shoulder. "You are Private First Class Something-or-other Martin, don't much care about your first name at this point. I'm Corporal Puckett." She releases my hand and makes her way to the window. "I have been running around this city, getting shot at or hiding, for the last couple days. I've done so because all I could do was wait for you guys to show up. Now, let me explain something to you, and let me explain it very carefully." she points out the window, to the fires burning in the night sky and the passing helicopters doing gun runs.
"I spent the last couple days watching twenty of my fellow Marines die in terrible, terrible ways. I have been: shot, choked, buried alive, flash-banged, shot again, burned, stabbed, shot by that goddamn tank more times than I'd like to count and finally kicked through fucking walls by a fucking Iranian terminator. Now what you need to get from this is that this whole situation has been fucked since the moment we got here. A lot of bad shit has happened, is happening and will continue to happen because someone decided to launch a recon mission and have that cluster fuck be our only way out." She steps to me and gets in my face. "You hear that?" She waits for a moment, staring at the ceiling as explosions go off in the distance. "That is the sound of the United States Marine Corps assaulting a city. A city defended by thousands of hardened militia backed up by conscripts. They, in addition to fighting the Corps, are fighting separatists; guys who figured out just how fucking crazy their leader is after he killed a city and started lighting people on fire. In short, it's a fucking free-for-all slug fest and me, and whichever few of my brothers are still alive at this time, are stuck in the fucking middle of it." She shoves past me and kneels next to the man with the mask, grabbing his rifle.
"I know that mu-"
She springs up, newly acquired rifle in hand.
"Now, as for you and the ever brilliant Sergeant O'Brady; you are here to save me. Remember how that works? You are here to save me. And the fact you drove into an ambush doesn't much matter because as far I I can tell, Tanner, as relayed by my teammate John before my radio got smashed, says your mission still stands. The only thing that changed is that we are all getting out of here now. So Martin, you, as a Marine who went through a briefing and were given instructions on what to do once you found me, must have a plan set in place. So, I ask again. What's the plan, Martin?" She shoves the rifle in my hands. "I'd be quick, we only got a few minutes before more of them show up."
I stare at her for a moment, dumbfounded.
"East end of the city where the buildings spread out. Go there, pop smoke. Venoms are on station to extract us." She nods, frowning, and I understand shortly after. "Except we don't have smoke grenades," I say and she smiles a sarcastic smile.
"No, but I would guess Tanner does. And I think that it's a safe bet that at this point he's gathered anyone still alive and started heading that way. We should do the same." She takes a few steps to the door before stopping. "Okay, we don't have smoke, but I've got a couple flashbangs and those are going to be a lot more help in thirty seconds when they come pouring up that staircase. What you are gonna do is head left out of the door and make a hard sprint for the window at the end," she speaks casually as she pulls the grenades from her belt and stacks up at the door, peaking around the frame.
"What do I do at the window?"
She looks at me in annoyance. I let the question drop when I hear the shouts and steps of hostile men heading this way.
"On my mark." She pauses for a moment before tossing a stun grenade into the hall.
It pings off one wall, then another before it clatters onto the floor and I hear men start to shout before it goes off. It's loud, even from here and I flinch at the sound.
"Remember, left, and don't look to the right unless you want to go blind and then die. MARK!" she shouts as she throws the second grenade.
And I do as she said, sprinting left and trying not to think of what's behind me, but instead think of what I'm doing at the window.
I don't ponder it long before she passes me, full sprint and jumps side first through the glass in a violent show of athletics. Glass flies everywhere and I have time for one last second guess before I follow suit. My stomach flips as I leap through the hole and close my eyes, fully expecting to slam into the ground with a wet splat.
It's not a long drop, just long enough for me to look down and see the pile of garbage I'm going to miss right before I touch the ground; my ankle rolling in one direction and the rest of me rolling the other, the rifle I had skittering away. I howl in pain and clutch my ankle before looking around in panic and see that I only jumped from the second floor. Before I have time to really think beyond the pain she pulls my arm around her shoulder and pulls me up, rifle in hand.
"You think we were diving out of a fucking skyscraper?" is all she says before marching me away and it's everything I have to hop along on my one good foot.
It's a long and dangerous trek through the city. We have to stop every few blocks to hide from passing bands of separatists, the militia hunting them or the technicals scanning the city for any Americans not on the front line.
Every stop is more tense than the last; they run closer or search one room away every time. It's a miracle they don't find us. Or it should be, but after watching her for the last hour, dragging me and hiding us from the bad guys, I've come to realize she has some sort of sixth sense; some avoidance to danger or some radar for it.
Every time we have to stop she quickly finds the perfect place to hide and quietly take out anyone that lags behind or comes just a little too close. She finds the alleyways and buildings and rooms they won't bother to check, like she knows. But in my short time with her I've noticed something else, something strange.
I don't know if it's the way she carries herself with a certain swift strength, or the utter silence she is capable of. But most likely it's her stare, the look in her eyes as she acts. Where most would have fire or determination in their eyes she has... something else. It's not something I've ever seen before, nor do I think I'll ever see it again.
I have no proper words for it, but the closest I can come to is a hollow acceptance. Not of the situation, she is very clearly not okay with how things are, but those are still the only words I can find.
The sun is rising in the sky and the sounds of battle have gotten louder as we moved. Explosions rumble in the distance and the cracks of thousands of rifles fill the air. Helicopters buzz overhead and ground attack jets fly by, their mighty canons tearing at targets in the distance. The battle rages heavily, but not here, not on the outskirts of the city where the roads have gone from pavement to dirt and the buildings have lost their color.
Anything over three stories is a marvel on the ever reddening horizon. Roads and buildings are lined with empty stalls where vendors once stood and sold their wares. Stores are empty and ransacked or destroyed and bazaars torn apart. The roads barely wide enough for a few bikes let alone any form of vehicle. It was in this place we found an old plaza.
A ring of old buildings safely guarding a still intact series of storefronts. It was here that she set me next to an old, rusted dumpster and told me to wait. There won't be any technicals around here so keep your eyes open and that rifle trained. She didn't wait for a response before running off to try and find the Sarge, or Tanner or whatever she keeps calling him. She said he would be around here somewhere, but I'm not so sure.
Through the spaces in-between the buildings, I can see the sun rising and it's a picturesque sight. The colors shift and dance in the sky, the light slowly making its way through the cracks and gaps of the city. I was never one for the beauty of nature, but this sure shows me it's out there, no matter what. I pull my focus away from the morning sky and lean around the dumpster just to be safe as I scan the plaza.
There's nothing there: no people, no animals, no life. The stalls still have their wares, the buildings haven't been shredded by gunfire and the store is still lit; its goods sitting on their shelves and the cardboard cutout of a bottle of yellow liquid still sits in the window. A caption in the local language and bright colors to show they have it and it should be bought. But now there's no-one left to buy it. I wonder what it is. Some sort of soda, maybe some kind of juice? I don't wonder very long when I hear the footsteps, heavy and many.
There's the click and clack of gear and I shoulder the rifle. They are going to find me, this is how I die. But what actually rounds the corner and what I was expecting are very different and I've never been so happy to be wrong.
The first one to see me was Jeff, whipping his head around as he searched the plaza; another man follows him. He's dressed like Puckett, expect still with his long sleeve combat shirt and his rifle.
"Jeff?" I ask with surprise.
He spots me and smiles with a big toothy grin. "Thank god you're alive, dude." He slaps my shoulder and kneels down next to me, the other man following close behind.
He's big, a strip of black hair on the top of his head and a few days of stubble on his face gives him a look of toughness on top of his already fit frame. He nods to me, his attention quickly focused on my ankle.
"Wow, that has to hurt pretty bad. How the hell did you do it?" Jeff is still smiling and I can't help but smile back till I feel the immense pain in my ankle. I grab a hold of Jeff's sleeve and grit my teeth.
"Dear god, please stop!" But the big guy just keeps moving my ankle.
"My name is John Shilah, in case you wanted to know. I would like to know yours if you don't mind." His voice is deep and calm, his eyes never leaving my leg.
"Dom Martin, my name is Dom Martin. I would really like for you to stop that, please," I force through gritted teeth. He bobs his head.
"It is good to see a friendly face in such times. As for his ankle, Lance Corporal, he broke it by jumping out of a window. And don't worry Private, coming down is always the hard part." He looks up at me, a warm smile on his face as he stands.
Jeff mutters something but I don't really hear him.
"Oh, so it is broke, that's nice. No worries, it only hurts a lot."
He nods and Jeff laughs, wrapping my arm around his shoulder to pick me up.
"Come on, buddy. Let's get out of here." It's then that I notice, as he drags me to my feet that I realize.
"Where's Parker?"
He doesn't respond, not verbally. But he gives me answer enough.
"Fuck, it never ends. Sarge?"
"Dammit, Sam, if you wanna punch me then fucking punch me. But it doesn't change the fact that..." Sarge and Puckett come around the corner and manage to walk forward despite being in each other's faces.
"Goddammit, Tanner, it wasn't your place to fucking step in. I was going to turn myself in," she nearly hisses at him and he lets out a single, sarcastic Ha.
"Bull-fucking-shit. You weren't going to turn yourself in, if you had any real intentions of doing it you would have spoken up, but you didn't, so I'll say the same thing I said then. You are a coward, plain and simple," he states it as a fact and she poises to throw a punch, John bolting to them in a flash and stepping in-between.
"So, uh, turns out those two know each other and Sarge didn't do that stuff in Boot. She did." Jeff tosses it out there like it's no big deal and helps me hop over.
But it's John that says what we're all thinking. "I don't know, or care, what happened between you two. And if you want to kill each other, you can, but wait till we get out of here and I'm taking a long rest." His tone is calm yet forceful and they both stare at the other before taking steps back.
"I'm with him, we need to get the fuck out of here. You said it yourself, Puckett, this isn't a fight we have a roll in."
She tilts her head back and closes her eyes, breathing deep.
"Very astute observation Rook. We need to signal for evac." Sarge doesn't look at me, his eyes focused on her.
She rolls her head to one side with a pop and sighs. "I take it that means you have a way out. Smoke, maybe." The anger and tension have left her voice, a calm taking its place.
Sarge reaches into a small pack on his back and pulls out a solitary smoke grenade.
"One M18 smoke grenade, green, taped for safety. Do we have a suitable landing zone?" His tone is factual.
"Yeah, a few blocks from here is some construction projects. Lots of cover on the ground and enough room for the helos to land. That is, of course, if they see the smoke. You've been out of contact for a while, think they're still watching?" Her skepticism is blatant.
"Yes, I believe they are. Before our radios cut out we told them to keep their eyes open out this way. They already found and extracted your Captain and a few others."
She nods for a moment, days of stress finally showing in her features.
"It's good some of the others made it, but fuck the Captain, and fuck whatever idiot found him." She's not done speaking before John put's his hand up to her.
"Enough."
She nods again and starts a slow march down the alley. John turns to Sarge, seeming to be trying to find the right words.
"Long story." he settles with. "Let's move."
No-one spoke on the way, not as we walked or stopped to scout. Not as we rested on account of my foot and not as we caught sight of the skeletal ten-story building. We simply kept forward, all quietly eager to get out of here. It was when we viewed the churned dirt of the field, the construction supplies scattered about and the shapes of buildings off to the side that anyone spoke.
"Keep your eyes open, there isn't as much cover as I'd like and this might draw some attention." He digs the grenade out, peeling away the tape and yanking the pin as he tosses into the cleared area. "Come on baby, take us home."
Jeff hoots and laughs as he sets me against a pile of pallets among the cluster of construction supplies. Pipes and girders seemed tossed about, most likely abandoned when Noor hit the city. He checks me over and gives me a thumbs up.
"Besides that busted ankle, you don't seem too roughed up." He finishes with a pat on the shoulder and smiles again. But I don't share his sentiment, and neither do the others. John and the Sergeant stand ready, rifles leveled as they scan the area again and again just for good measure.
"Yeah, I'd be dead if it wasn't for Corporal Puckett. I thought letting women get Recon certified was a gimmick, but damn if she hasn't proved herself."
He leans on the pallets next to me and we listen as the sound of jets gets louder in the distance.
"Warthogs doing gun runs. If we haven't been seen yet, they sure as shit see us now." Sarge chimes in as the A-10's pass overhead. "Yeah, shouldn't be long now."
"So, this Puckett lady, you seem to uh, admire her some."
I look around to see if she's nearby, but no sign of her.
"Just a bit. Maybe a bit more than a bit. But if I'm being honest, she scares the shit out of me. I watched her kill a dude the size of a fucking giant. I mean, I'm not even sure he was human, his hands were just... anyway, she killed him in a one on one fight." Jeff seems unimpressed, moving his rifle a bit further up. "Guess you just had to be there." I look for her again, noticing that she isn't here. "Hey, Sarge, what happened to Puckett?" I ask and he turns to look at me, seemingly thinking the same thing.
"Oh, shit, there they are," Jeff says excitedly as he points in the distance. Two dots slowly growing as they come closer. I feel a certain relief at there sight. Jeff looks at me, his slightly crooked teeth showing "Finally. Time to get..." It's almost silent at first. Just a thump as the round hit, passing just over the plate in his carrier.
It came through with an angry puff of red mist, tearing through his shoulder and throwing the dust off him. He looked like he was still smiling as he twirled to the right and went limp, falling to the dirt; blood already soaking everything. That's when the shot came. That's when I heard it; right as the distinct sound of the Venoms came into range. I fall next to him and shove my hands onto the wound, hoping the pressure might stem the tide of crimson. But it seems to have little effect and I watch as the blood mixes with the dirt around him.
I look up, deaf and blind to anything but my problem, failing to notice John and the Sarge drop into cover nearby. They glance at a three-story building in the distance, a tan blur busting in through the bottom doors.
"JEFF'S HIT!" I scream even though they know. But that doesn't stop my panic. I hear another shot and look up at the building, a mass of dirty white falling out the third story window.
There's the crunch of metal and the shattering of glass a moment later and I drag my focus away and back to Jeff. I ignore the sudden screams, the outburst of gunfire. I tune out the sound of the helos circling overhead. I push harder on the wound, hoping for it to do something but more blood pumps out. His skin is pale and he's trembling, his good arm gripping at my shirt. He blinks erratically and shakes, blood trickling out of the corner of his mouth. What do I do?
"Hold on, Jeff, hold on," I say in a panic.
He looks at me, trying to speak and suddenly someones pulling my hands away and I fight for a moment before I see that it's Sam. She's bloody and cut and bruised but she pushes a pile of cloth down into Jeff's wound, shoving my hands back onto him. She looks at me, her eyes filled with fury.
"Don't look at me, help him." Her voice is calm despite needing to shout.
The helos door guns rip at whatever targets have popped up. Dust and dirt circle and fly in every which direction and she takes one last look down at him before taking his rifle and moving past me. He whimpers and coughs and I don't know what to do, but before I have anymore time to panic I'm greeted by a silent figure in a flight suit. Then another and I realize one of the helicopters landed, the crew coming to help. It's only a few moments before the masked, helmeted men are unfolding an emergency stretcher and lifting Jeff onto it.
One moment I'm in my own little world, trying to keep my friend from dying and the next I'm being dragged away; forced to stare at the reality of the situation. Where there were once empty streets and abandoned cars are now dozens of men, all enraged and firing relentlessly at the small presence here. The door guns of the circling helo the only thing keeping them from overrunning the others.
They slide Jeff into the bay, one man going to work on his gear and trying to help the wound, the other spooling up the door gun as I climb in next to him. I look at the construction yard, John is methodically moving from one place to the other, firing at the most important targets. Sarge is propped over cover and firing at anyone that moves, but it's Sam that catches my eye. She looks at the helo and motions for it to take off.
There's a surge in the engines and it shifts around, pulling itself up off the ground. It's only a moment before she turns back to the fight. She fires a few well placed shots before dropping the rifle and in one fluid motion draws her pistol. I hear the door gun start to whine as the helo starts to go into a slow circle. I grab the gunner, making him look at me just to make sure he hears me.
"ARE WE JUST LEAVING THEM?"
He stares for a moment be for leaning in close and shouting back and I realize it's a woman.
"NO CHOICE. IT'S HIM OR THEM AND THEY CAN GET ON THE OTHER CHOPPER." She doesn't wait for a response, knowing there isn't one coming. They are doing all they can.
I look down, out of the crew bay and see Sam look up and she motions for us to leave. The door gun starts to spit fire when the whole helicopter shakes and shudders to the sound of an explosion. searing heat and blinding light as I'm thrown against my seat. Red lights glow and the helo starts to wobble and tilt and spin and I see the pilot furiously fight the controls before there's another shudder and all control is lost.
I grab at my seat as the force of the spin pulls at me, half out of the helo. I look to the gunner, she's gripped to the helicopter in several places, the gun flailing wildly as she loses her grip. But she doesn't fall, not yet at least. There's a general call from the pilot, something I shouldn't even be able to hear.
"Goddammit, we're going down."
I can't see much beyond the spinning crew bay, but I feel the impact. The tail hits first, tearing off as hit connects with the unfinished building at an odd angle, then the rest of the helo comes in, the rotors break and snap as they hit re-bar and steel, the fuselage crumpling as it hits concrete and floor. And it's in this last moment that there's a spectacular light, and an unbearable heat that washes over me, the whole thing going up in flames in one last explosion. Coming down is always the hard part.
December 3rd, 2018. 0707 hours. (7:07 am.)
Cpl. Samantha J. Puckett.
United States Marine Corps MAGTF. 2nd Reconnaissance Battalion. FORECON team "GHOST".
City outskirts, Farah, Farah province Afghanistan.
You are a coward. My entire adult life has been spent with those words looming over my head. A dark cloud that makes me second guess myself, makes me reckless. For so many years I've lived with the idea that this was all because I was more than just scared; that this was all because I was a coward. I've spent so long just trying to leave everything behind, trying to make myself better.
But it's never worked, never had any real effect. I spend my days living simply to make sure my teammates don't die, and I failed at that. I watch the green smoke billow out of the grenade, traveling to the morning sky. And as the warthogs pass overhead that cold empty feeling I've lived with for so long settles back in. That feeling that there's no point to this anymore.
I watch the jets bank back over the city, likely to make gun runs on anything out in the open. Big gray machines going off to tear the city to pieces. They head over the building in the distance, a moment later their heavy guns tear into the earth with mighty roars. Noor can't win this fight; he must know that by now, and if he doesn't his men surely do.
I look at Martin and his friend, leaning against a stack of pallets as they talk. I watch John for a moment, his rifle leveled and scanning any point of attack. I stare at Tanner, his words running through my head again and I get a ping in the back of my brain.
A little warning bell I've learned to trust over the years. I look at the buildings in the distance, one catching my eye and making those alarm bells ring ever louder. I start to make my way there, my mind swells with half a decade of repressed thoughts trying to push to the front as I weave through the maze of supplies. That's when I see it; the glimpse of white and the muzzle flash.
I spin around and see Martin's friend twirl and fall, Martin landing next to him; John and Tanner taking cover. I move as fast as my feet will take me, the helicopters that have come to save us starting to kick up dirt and dust as they hover above.
The building is old and worn, the walls faded and chipped and the double doors at the bottom cracked and off center. I hear Martin screaming behind me, a panicked cry in the distance as I shoulder my way through the broken doors.
It was somewhere in the bash and flying of splinters and dust that I lost myself. My vision fades and my body carries itself with energy I didn't know I had. This fucker doesn't get another one us.
"JEFF'S HIT!"
I bound up the stairs, hands and feet as I climb several at a time. I round the corner at the top and see a small hallway with a few doors. All are shut and covered in dust save one, cracked open, the light filtering through. It shuts with a heavy slam in beat with my pounding steps as I bolt down the hall. I don't stop at the door, nor do I slow as I turn a shoulder and charge through, the old wood busting off the hinges.
He's there, right there in the corner of the room, sitting on one knee with his SVD raised at me. But he didn't know I'd come through like I did, not with the force or the fury or the momentum. His rifle cracks and the round tears through the flesh and muscle on my left arm but I keep running, ignoring the pain and the new found blood. I close in on him violently, grabbing the rifle and shoving it away as he tries to stand.
I knee him into the corner, my knuckles cracking as I land a blow on his nose, I swing a wild left and he snaps to one side. I raise my right fist when he slams the butt of his rifle into my side and I stumble back.
He climbs to his feet, his rifle held in front of him as a melee weapon. I bolt forward, the edges of I vision frayed and gray, rage taking me. He shoved the rifle forward at the last second to bash me but I catch it with both hands. It's a short struggle from one direction to the other as we spin around the room; a violent and bloody dance in the morning sun. He struggles to fling his knees at me but I pull back and slam the top of my head into his face, I feel his nose break he loses his grip and I tear the rifle from his hands.
I shove the butt into his gut, the small carrier over his white robe does little to stop the blow as he doubles over. I slam the whole thing into the side of his head in a heavy blow and he loses whatever footing he had and stumbles back with a twirl, landing his hands on the window. I toss the rifle as he shakily turns, the cloth of his mask drenched red as he lands against the window and groggily reaches for his hip. The rifle skitters to the ground and I take a deep breath, readying myself for what comes next.
"Fucking do it." I urge him on, living in rage.
His hand finally reaches whatever he's grabbing for but he never gets the chance to pull it out, my full weight hitting him as hard as possible. A full tackle and the window explodes, glass and splinters and dust. It's a short fall, my hands clenched on his chest and a sudden stop, the crunch of metal and the shattering of glass as we land.
The roof of the car bows in as he slams into it but I'm not so lucky. I hit him and bounce to the side, landing with a thump on the cold ground, covering my face as the glass rains down. I wait a moment, listening to the gunfire. Dozens of rifles pop and the door guns from the helicopter's roar as I drag myself to my feet.
I hear a wheeze and look at the sniper; the rage leaving me when I see him. His mask has fallen away and I see him for what he is: a young man, my age, the shadow from a few days without a shave frame his long face. His adam's apple moves as he fights for breath. He stares at me with what little life is left in his eyes and I'm stuck wondering; what would he think if it was me lying there? His arms twitch and he coughs, blood and air mix as he fights to live.
I pull the knife from my side and look him in the eyes, his head hanging off the edge of the car's roof. I place the blade against his throat and look back at the firefight. It's hell on earth, rifles of all kinds fire wildly and the helos spit death and I sigh, pulling the knife across in a smooth motion; ending his suffering. His gasping and fighting stop and I feel disgusted with myself.
How many more times will I have to do this sort of thing before I admit that I don't feel it anymore? I cut part of his sleeve and rip the rest, wadding up the cloth and looking at my arm. The flesh is torn and the muscle ripped, the whole thing bleeding heavily but I ignore it, turning to walk into the dust storm and hell fire.
Martin is on his knees next to his friend, bloody and panicked as he tries to stop the bleeding. The blood pools around them and his hands are crimson as he tries so hard to save his friend. What's his name? Do I not know his name; did I never ask?
I read his bloody tag and feel a certain rage in my gut. Rage at myself for not knowing who this man was. Donaldson... his name is Jeff Donaldson. I look up at the old Venom, kicking up dust and wave to its crew. Jeff whimpers and I grab Martin's hands and push them away.
He fights for a moment till he sees it's me and stares, fear In his eyes. I shove the torn cloth onto the wound and place his hands back.
"Don't look at me, help him," I shout through the cacophony, my voice much calmer than I'd have though it could be.
There's nothing else I can do. I'm helpless to stop his bleeding and even then... I look up at the still circling helicopter and watch as casings fall by the dozens from each burst of the door gun. The minigun roars again and I look at the crewman of the helo that's landed and I grab Jeff's rifle. At least I can stop a few of the attackers.
I stand and jog to the helo, grabbing one of the crew and pointing at Jeff and Dom. "Get them out of here, we'll take the other chopper."
He nods and grabs a stretcher from the bay and charges off towards them, another crew member hot on his heels. I turn my attention to the others: John, moving from one piece of cover to the next to get the best shots. I look to Tanner, hunkered down in some crates and firing at the sudden horde. A door gun fires and some of them retreat and others fight harder.
I level the rifle and fire at any of them dumb enough to try and move forward. One drops, then another and another and I move forward, firing again. I spin and look at the landed helo, at the crewmen as they slide Jeff in and I motion for them to take off. A moment passes and the pilot nods at me; the helicopter lifting off the ground in a tornado of dust.
Rounds ping off the armor and one whizzes by me and I fire into the wave of angry militia. The rifle clicks in my hand and I drop it and reach for my pistol and look at the helo one last time, waving them off.
"Come on, get the hell out of here."
It starts to circle away when I see the trail come from behind a building down the street.
It's quick as it slams into the tail rotor, the helicopter beginning to belch black smoke and twirl before the tail finally goes in a fiery puff, metal falling and it spins wildly, the pilot fighting for control before the tail slams into the unfinished building, then the rest of it follows suit. Concrete and metal rain down as it tears at the construction.
"No..." I feel myself mumble it as the entire thing goes up in a ball of flames and black smoke and the sound bounces around the site.
There's a short pause in the gunfire as everyone watches the catastrophe before it starts again. I empty my pistol in their direction as I move to John and Tanner. I will get them out of here.
The remaining helicopter circles again, unloading its door gun on the enemy in vengeance for it's fallen sister. John and Tanner shift their eyes in-between their sights and the carnage above as they try to stay alive. I get close to them, taking cover behind a pile of girders when I see it.
The old Chinese grenade bounces and lands behind them, neither one seeing it. I act on instinct, sprinting at the pair and tackling someone over a barrier. I hear Tanner's voice run through my head one last time, You are a coward. I don't care, whether I am or I'm not doesn't matter anymore.
I feel my momentum carry me over the barrier and the last thing I see is John standing there, rifle raised as he fires at the horde of men before there's a flash of light and I feel a warmth I haven't felt in years, followed by the worst pain I could ever imagine and one glimpse at Carly's smiling face before the world goes black. Why did I see her? Why is it always her?