Lauren studied the landscape; they couldn’t stay in this ravine any longer. Situated within Trout Run’s floodplain, they were enclosed and concealed by its silty valley walls, six to ten feet below the adjacent ground level. No one could see them here, and it was doubtful anyone even knew where they were. If searching for them, Lauren couldn’t hear their calls in her current state. She had to find a way out of here and get Neo the help he needed, but she wasn’t about to leave him behind.
Lauren shifted behind him and placed both arms beneath his. She then lifted with everything she had, barely able to hoist the young man’s body upward along with hers. Using a fierce jerking motion, she ducked under an armpit and boosted Neo’s body upward and into her arms. Exerting herself now under his full weight, she took wobbly steps to the edge of the bank, then began the arduous climb to the top, feeling her boots battle for traction on the slick, moss-covered shale and water-worn stones.
Battling muscle fatigue and waning energy for the duration of the ascent, Lauren crested the ravine, with Neo barely hanging from her arms. She slogged a mere twenty steps before collapsing to her knees, using what remaining energy she held in reserve to keep Neo from crashing to the ground under gravity’s full influence. She panted desperately for air while aligning him straight and arranging his arms alongside him; then she wilted, falling backward to her elbows, yielding to exhaustion.
Lauren peered right into the chaotic mess of smoke and ashen debris where the shed had once been. Aside from wreckage strewn about in a haphazard radius, there were no signs of it nor anything that had once abided within. All had been obliterated, wiped off the face of the earth, but by what means? What on earth could have caused this? She rotated the other way to find the cabin remained in one piece, notwithstanding a yard covered in sporadic rubble and a mess of broken rear-facing windows. Lauren wondered about Grace and why she hadn’t yet ventured outside to further lose her mind over all this. Could she have slept through the uproar?
Two thin figures moving rapidly in her direction caught Lauren’s eye, but she couldn’t readily identify them. She called out to them with both arms in motion, perceiving the reverberation of her vocal cords louder than her own voice. Assured her visitors had seen her and were coming to render aid, her attention fell to Neo again. She moved close to him once more, delighted to feel his breath brush her skin. As she extended, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and a woman’s face came into view.
“Lauren! Oh my word, child, what happened?!” Jean expelled, taking in the scene. She went to a knee and rubbed at a spot of murky residue on Lauren’s forehead. “You look a fright…are you hurt?”
“Damnation…looks like that shed out back blew up.” Francis moved slightly past while coughing out smoke and airborne ash.
“It did…and I’m okay,” Lauren replied, her voice shaky and reflexively elevated. “But Neo…he’s critical. He needs help.”
A look of distress befalling her, Jean visually explored the young man’s injuries with a hand over her mouth, then looked to her husband for remedy.
Francis leaned in. “He looks hurt bad. I’ll run and fetch Mr. Woo Tang…see about gettin’ one of them trucks they got over here.”
Lauren vetoed with a resolute shake of her head. “There’s no time…we have to get him to Dr. Vincent now.”
“And how do you suppose we do that?” Francis shot back, arms aloft to his sides. “I can’t rightly carry him there, not with my back in the shape it’s in.”
His reaction was beyond vexing, reminiscent of something his cousin Lazarus would asseverate without a care in the world as to how it sounded or was perceived.
Lauren was confused and frazzled, operating on waning adrenaline. Her drive alone possessed the muscle to get Neo anywhere he needed to be, but her body felt tenuous in the wake of her latest brush with death. She knew she wasn’t up to the task, though confessing that weakness was another matter.
Jean held up a pleading hand, hopeful that Lauren would reserve further reprimand. “Francis, just go. I’ll stay here with Lauren and the boy. We’ll try to figure something out.”
“Oh? Such as? Your back ain’t much better than mine, Jean, need I remi—”
“Francis Thorne Whitacre, don’t you test me! I said go on! Now! Git!”
His distaste on display, Jean’s husband sighed and trotted off in the direction whence he’d come, only to find that Woo Tang, Fred Mason, and another uniformed man were already hastily making their way to them. “Reckon I’m stayin’ here. They must’ve gotten wind of the ruckus.”
Lauren cast aside everything and everyone in that moment aside from her injured friend, until detecting Woo Tang’s muffled voice when he knelt beside her.
“Lauren Russell, move out of the way, please. We will take it from here.”
Her heart warmed at knowing he was here. She nodded a response without looking and scooted away on her knees. “I thought he was dead, Jae,” she whimpered. “He wasn’t breathing when I found him…I started CPR and got him back somehow…I-I think I might’ve broken his ribs.”
“That’s valuable info, thank you,” said the young man opposite her.
Lauren looked him over as he rifled through a blue medical bag at his side, identifying him as the FMTV driver who’d happened upon her group moments after their trip on foot to the valley had ended. He’d sported a broad smile then, and his face had been clean shaven, but neither attribute was tangible now. “Evans.” She read his name tape aloud. “You’re…a medic?”
He grinned awkwardly. “No, not formally, ma’am. But not to worry. The corporal’s in good hands.”
“I wasn’t asking to insult you…”
“I know, and you didn’t,” Evans said. “The shit hit the fan during my eighth week at Fort Sam, midway to sixty-eight whiskey. I learned a lot there, just…never made the grade.”
Lauren nodded understanding and left him to his devices. She knew well what it had been like not to have finished a level of education resultant of society’s downfall. Sitting back, she watched him assess Neo, and took in a sense of the real damage done. Dave Graham’s RTO looked as though he’d been dragged through an all-consuming hell. Severe burns and blistered skin covered a substantial portion of his back. And his glasses were missing again.
Scarcely able to hear even his own patented command voice, Lauren found Fred standing tall in proximity. With one arm cradling his M1A like a newborn grandchild, the other supported a walkie-talkie he held close to his ear. His stare punched holes through the pile of smokey destruction on the opposing side of Trout Run. “Charlie fucking Foxtrot…talk about drudging up bad recalls,” he grumbled, giving the walkie a frustrated shake. “I think this rig of yours is FUBAR, squiddy. I can’t raise any of your people.”
“Have you tried another channel?”
“I have—every damn one of them.” Fred handed the radio off to him. “Either no one’s listening, they’re too pooped to riposte, or that fast mover got to all of them, God forbid.”
The former SEAL glowered crossly. “Let us hope that is not the case.”
Fred grunted his accord while appearing unconvinced.
“Fast mover?” Lauren prompted, still raising her voice enough to discern it, though no one furnished a reply.
She observed Fred in the span of reticence, noting how the ferocity had returned to his scowl. The uncharacteristic, deep-rooted anxiety that had manifested within him, spawned undoubtedly by his capture and the subsequent brutality he’d endured, looked to have all but evaporated. He appeared as she’d remembered him prior to that encounter, like his old curmudgeon self, but the way he was now looking upon the destruction zone had a terrible nature assigned to it. Something was eating at him.
Woo Tang never ventured anywhere without his signature airs of poise, confidence, and strength of being. The former SEAL bore the tenacity of an enraged badger lying in wait even on his worst days, but something was now off about him, too. It was as if both he and Fred knew som
ething terrible was taking shape that hadn’t before.
“Did the blast impair your hearing?” Woo Tang asked Lauren, adding some boost to his voice.
She nodded to him, preparing to verbally respond until Fred chimed in.
“With any luck, it’s temporary.” His impatience on display, Fred beheld Evans, who had a stethoscope pressed to Neo’s bare chest. “Use your words, Private. We got places to be. There’s an entire valley of folks who need checked up on. Is he stable enough to move him?”
Evans wiped sweat from his brow. “I don’t know about stable. His breathing is steady, but his pulse…it’s weak at best.”
Fred rolled his eyes. “Meaning…”
“Meaning he is likely going into shock,” Woo Tang declared.
“Shit. I’ll secure a transport,” Fred said firmly. “Give me two mikes. Private, with me. I could use your assist.”
“On my way,” Evans acknowledged.
Fred turned away in a gallop, pointing back to the group as he ran. “The rest of you should spread yourselves out…makes for a less favorable target.”
Francis looked strangely at him, then his wife. “What’d he say?”
Jean merely shrugged, as if she hadn’t heard or wasn’t paying attention.
Private Evans unfolded a space blanket and went about covering Neo’s frame, tucking the edges beneath him. “Keep him as warm and comfortable as you can. It’s all we can do.” He rose, meeting Lauren’s stare before leaving to catch up with Fred. “Nice job, by the way. He’ll likely pull through this. You did good.”
Lauren forced a bleak grin. “Not as good as he did.”
Chapter 26
Will Sharp was jarred awake by a manifold of burning sensations all over his body. Crying out in pain, he put both hands before him to the well-worn asphalt and shoved his body into a seated position, now able to perceive the sources of his agony. Shards of hot metal and bits and pieces of molten plastic debris had showered him and were sticking to him now, practically head to toe.
Will jumped to his feet and frantically fanned his hands about, brushing off and knocking away as many of the superheated objects as he could, those made of metal giving off mild clangs and clatters as they tumbled to his boots.
Dizzy and incredibly disoriented, he tried remembering what had taken place that had put him here, as he looked all over, around and behind him. His ACUs were covered in a scattering of burn holes and molten fibers. The smell of smoke, brimstone, and spent propellant engulfed the air. Moving in a circular path, he soon found his rifle in the grass several feet away and his ruck not far beyond. After gathering both, he spent a while looking for his portable radio, grasping the imperative need to report this incident to the unit’s local operations net. After a time of doing so and not seeing anyone else up and wandering around, he veered away to investigate the scene and search for survivors, all the while appealing to a God to whom he’d seldom prayed that he wasn’t alone.
The old automobiles parked bumper to bumper to serve as the valley’s northern barricade had been reduced to nothing. A sizable segment of the bridge platform was missing, the surrounding jagged concrete and rebar charred and blackened by whatever frenetic turpitude had unleashed its fury and converted the two antique autos into randomly distributed molten heaps of scrap.
Up until the explosion, Will had been standing yards away from the bridge’s edge, chatting over the day’s search efforts with four of his unit colleagues: Jurgensen, Henry, Thompson and Fischer, all privates, all fellow light infantrymen. But there were no signs of them now. Something had detonated here, yielding enough power to take out the improvised blockade and send all of them elsewhere. Had it been an IED of some variety? Had an enemy of those living in the valley placed it here deliberately?
As his mind raced across possibilities, Will trudged through traces of rubble and, before long, came across the remains of a body. Though as malformed and mutilated as it was, it could have been as many as two bodies. He got low and tried to identify the fallen while fighting the urge to vomit, but it was no use. Will lurched over, and his stomach let loose with a clumpy foulness too insufferable to describe. Dropping his pack to the ground, he freed his canteen, rinsed out his mouth, and discarded the polluted, lukewarm liquid onto the pavement. Then, with the morning’s misfortune weighing heavily on his mind and his frustration festering into outrage, Will rose to resume searching, this time on full alert with his M4’s stock pulled tightly to his cheek.
Catching sight of something smoldering just ahead on the road’s edge, Will went to it, finding the remnants of a laced-up boot. A closer look established that it was still affixed to a leg, one that looked to have been shredded from a fellow serviceman’s outer pelvis consequential to the blast.
Feeling his stomach convulse again, Will turned away and shouted curses at the sky, no longer inclined to assimilate any of this. He stiffened and cringed, fighting every inherent urge to cry over the ruthless deaths of his friends. Then he heard a voice calling to him.
“Sharpie? Hey, Sharp! Is that you, brother?”
“Fischer?” Snapping his head around, Will spotted his fellow infantryman using handfuls of waist-high grass to drag himself to the embankment’s edge. He raced over to give him a hand. “Thank fucking Christ, man. I never thought I’d be this happy to see you, bro.”
“That makes two of us. Just go easy, don’t get all gay on me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Fish…you’re not my type anyway,” Will jested, noticing Fischer was limping. “Are you injured?”
“No, not really. A little banged up, stunned as hell, and my ears are ringing like mad…but I’m good, I think.” Fischer staggered to the center of the road, giving the smoldering bridge scene a look of bewilderment. “Fuck me running…that’s some ate-up shit. What do you think they hit us with? IED?”
“I don’t have the slightest notion what it was or who they could be. I just know it happened fast.”
“Yeah, it did, for real. Came out of nowhere. And it had a ton of ass, whatever it was. I smell burning plastic…kind of like that polymer PBX shit. It’s a wonder any of us lived through it.”
Will hung his head low, reluctant to offer what he’d learned. “Besides you and me, none of us did.”
“What?” Fischer sent a look of incredulity. “What do you mean, man? No way—there were five of us, Sharp.” He counted from one to five on his fingers. “Stop playing with me. Where’s Jurg-off at? Where’s Hen-ro and Thom—”
“Gone,” Will interrupted, finality in his tone.
Fischer’s brows knitted. “Oh, come on! No way! That’s impossible!”
“I assure you it isn’t,” Will droned. “I found three KIA…assumed one more would be added to that tally…until you hollered at me from that ditch. Do the math.”
“W-where are they?”
Will hesitated before pointing to where he’d located the remains of the fallen. “There isn’t much of them left…just…pieces.”
The other soldier shook his head feverishly. “No! No…that can’t be! What the fuck, man?! They can’t be dead!”
Will lunged for Fischer and took hold of him by the arms. “They’re gone! They’re gone, Nate! Are you tracking me? We lost three of our own here today! Now do whatever you need to pull yourself together and get with it! This might not be over yet!” A long pause. “You and I are here, and we still have a job to do. My gear was knocked from me, I don’t know where my radio went, and that means no one knows what happened here. You and I got to beat feet, tear down this valley, and rally with the others.”
Fischer, now fully red in the face, pulled away and did his best to gather himself. “Damn…I’m sorry, Will…it’s just that…” He trailed off, exhaling. “You’re right. My bad, man. My bad.”
Will gave him a pat on the shoulder.
Rotating, Fischer jutted his chin to the desert-tan vehicle parked near the wood line, a veneer of metal fragments, plastic and chunks of concrete coating i
t. “You think the Oshkosh still runs?”
“It’d better. It’s a long way back on foot.” Will started off, motioning for Fischer to follow him. “Let’s move. Gather your shit if you can find it. I’ll drive.”
The duo boarded the JLTV, cranked the engine, and headed south after a multipoint turnabout, a disturbing feeling of remorse settling over them for having left their brothers behind. Will pushed hard on the accelerator down the straightaway, passing the old store soon after. He rounded a corner and slowed, seeing a large man stomping his way from the left side of the road to the right. As they neared him, the man halted to face the oncoming vehicle and threw his hands up in a ‘please stop’ gesture.
Will pressed on the brakes, and the light armored vehicle screeched to a standstill.
Fischer pushed open his door and held it in place with his boot. “Everything okay, sir?”
“Peter,” he panted, moving in to lean on the JLTV. “Peter Saunders, and no.”
“I’m Private Nate Fischer. Don’t think we’ve met before.” He gestured left. “This is Private Will Sharp. How can we assist?”
Peter conveyed a brief nod, then pointed to a house sitting above the road to their right. “That’s my place up there.” He keeled over, placing his hands to his knees, appearing exhausted and distraught. “I was heading back to call this in on the radio…but since you’re here…” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder to the opposite side of the road.
Will jerked his head left, and a raging fire burning nearly out of control came into view a hundred yards east of their position.
Fischer stepped out to inspect, able now to discern the fire’s ferocious roar. A vast murky column of black smoke churned like a funnel cloud from the treetops into the hazy sky above. “Hoooly shit!”
“That’s what I said,” Peter muttered, “when I heard the explosion or, more to the point, felt it. I lived near a quarry when I was a kid; reminded me of dynamite being set off underground.” He sniffled and wiped at his nose, a distinctive shadow of distress casting over his expression. “Everything is blown to kingdom come over there—there’s nothing left. Three friends of ours are dead. They were filling some gas cans and…topping off the tanks in their quads…getting them ready for today. They must’ve been right beside the storage tanks when they went up. I…tried to go over there, but the fire…it’s just too hot. I can’t get close enough.”
The Heart of War: Book Seven of the What's Left of My World Series Page 20
