Johnson's body was crumpled next to me. He was dead, I knew, despite the moaning I could hear from his lips. Just air trapped in his lungs being forced out by the weight of his pack. He was dead.
Across the road from where I lay half entrenched in the ditch, I could see McNamara belly-crawling his way towards the wreckage of our Humvee, hoping to use it as cover. The popping of automatic fire rang in my ears, and jets of blood shot skyward from Rick's back. He screamed. He kept crawling. Fountains of dirt erupted all around his body, and I knew the bastards down the road were taking potshots at the lone soldier.
I took a deep breath, rolled onto my stomach and pushed myself onto my knees. The gun roared and bucked in my hands, an angry beast whose breath was fire. One in the window of the building, two crouched behind the fence, a third up on the roof taking aim with a grenade launcher. I didn't think, just fired. Four dead. Shots coming from another direction. Bullets whizzing past my helmet; I drop back into the ditch. I look over at McNamara. He's laying next to the tire of the truck. He's dead, too.
The bullets stop for a few seconds; I take another deep breath. I've got Johnson's collar in my hand, and I'm dragging his body across the road towards the truck. I fall into the grass on the side of the road, just on the other side of Rick's body. I check his pulse, just to be sure. He's gone.
The shots start up again, dirt spraying the area I just left. Jesus, were they really that close? But they don't know I've moved. I'm up against the wooden fence, now, half crouched and jogging towards the t-intersection where the low wall ends and the row of commercial buildings begins. The muzzle of a gun is sticking out from the other side of the wooden boards, flashes of light accompanying the roar of the barrel. I swing the stock of my own weapon up, knocking the bastard's gun up and away from me before stepping around the corner and finishing my clip into his guts. I had thirteen shots left.
Now I'm running back towards the truck, changing magazines as I go. I hit the embankment at a dive, rolling under the truck and worming my way back towards Johnson and McNamara's bodies. J-man is moaning again. It's not just air. The lucky fuck is still alive. I try to call in for assistance. There's a bullet hole in the radio on my hip. I use Rick's. The guy on the other end of the line is sending help right away. It's deathly silent for the next ten minutes, until the distant squeal of tires is accompanied by two squads' boots on the pavement. Somebody carries me into the back of a big rig, and there's this soldier yelling something at me. I can't hear him. I can't see him any more. My stomach is on fire. I close my eyes.