by Holly Hart
She’s interrupted by the rata-tat-tat of gunfire close by. "Shit!" she says, punctuating her panic with a couple more obscenities. "Shit, shit, shit!"
I hug her back tighter. "Calm down, come on. We need to stay quiet. What's wrong, Sophie – speak to me!"
She's practically hyperventilating, breathing in and out so fast that she's losing control of her emotions. I don't know why I'm not panicking as badly, because I'm certainly no soldier – and I’m the one with a child inside me – but all the instincts of my training kick in, and I almost feel grateful that there’s something I can do – something I'm trained to do, anyway. Because nothing else that's happening tonight fits within my area of expertise!
"I –"
"I –" she tries again, thwarted by her own breath.
I grab her by the shoulders, squeezing hard so she's got something to focus on. "Look at my eyes, Sophie. Just focus on my eyes, come on – deep breaths. You can do it!" I finish encouragingly.
Her big eyes, colorless in the darkness, stare into mine like I'm a lifeboat that she's trying to board, and even though the only light streaming into the room is from a couple of bullet holes in the walls, I can see the fear in her gaze. But her breath starts to slow, she's getting it back under control.
"That's right, keep going!" I whisper encouragingly. "You've got this!"
Apparently she agrees, because she starts trying to speak again.
"I can't believe –" she gasps, halting for breath. "I can't believe I –" Another pause. "I can't believe I can't remember how far it is to the shelter!"
"That's all you had to say!" I whisper with a smile on my face, trying to find a refuge in humor from my terror. She gives me a weak grin in response.
“I don't think going outside's a good id–" I begin, only to be interrupted seconds later by a scraping sound – a sound I know only too well, because I've been bugging the maintenance guys to get it sorted out for months. I shut my mouth before I'm even conscious of what I'm doing and put my palm on Sophie's mouth so she can't say anything either.
It's the front door, and I know that can only mean one of two things.
Either it's the good guys.
Or it's not.
Chapter Thirteen - Mike
"Hey, buddy."
Jake’s ears perk up. Typical – this dog is ruled by his stomach. Well, I suppose most dogs are, so that's no great surprise.
"You know," I begin with a smile on my face, "it'd be nice if you were happy to just see me sometimes…"
He ignores me and pulls himself laboriously to his feet, spurred on by the prospect of getting a piece of my sandwich – but not too quickly.
"Hey, you take too much time – maybe I'll change my mind!" I say, threatening to eat the last corner. We both know it's an idle threat. He quickly dives into a quick stretch, then leaps up with a little hop of his hindquarters, bounding up to me with infectious enthusiasm.
"Oh, now you’re excited, are you?" I ask as he pads towards me, dragged along by his eager stomach. I throw my walking stick down on the top of my regulation green army issue bed cot and set myself down on it gratefully, my aching leg screaming out for rest and relief. Sitting down feels like removing a hot poker from the depths of my thigh muscles, but even so, it's not exactly comfortable. I'd almost rather be sleeping on the ground than on this cot. Well, not quite – but not far off.
The hard, uncomfortable springs underneath the thin, rollup mattress scream their displeasure each time I have the temerity to so much as shift my position.
"Never thought I'd miss that hospital bed, you know – but I'd kill to go back."
Jake cocks his head, staring at me reproachfully.
"Oh, all right," I say, reaching out to scratch him behind his left ear, digging in to reach the exact spot he likes so much, "I wouldn't kill. You don't have to be so literal, you know – it's just an expression."
He doesn't say anything, not immediately anyway, just butts his head against my bad leg.
"Ouch. What did you do that for?"
He stares deliberately at my hand, not looking away even for a second.
"Oh, the sandwich. You don't have to be so mean about it, though," I say, fixing him with a look of displeasure. "A kind word goes a long way… You know, if you weren't so rude about it, I might be inclined to get you your own helping from the mess. They think I'm a god damn hero down there."
I see his throat bobbing up and down, and know what's coming. He's bored of listening to me. I'm not surprised – the only real shock is that he's lasted this long. He starts whining, scratching the hard concrete floor with his claws.
"Oh, go on then," I sigh, finally giving up and tossing the small crust of leftover bread into the far corner of the room.
Jake flies off, faster than I think he really intended, and I chuckle as I see his legs doing their best to guide him into the corner, but his torso flying off in another direction entirely as his paws scrabble for purchase on the slippery concrete surface.
It doesn't seem to discourage him very much, but because he wolfs down the crust of sandwich in seconds, he runs back to me energetically – and fast.
"WOAH!" I shout, raising a palm out in front of me. It's not a standard command, certainly not one we've worked on the training field, but the message is clear, and thankfully, the big lump of a dog registers it and manages to avoid hurtling right back into my injured leg. I can more or less walk on the thing, but it's not exactly fun.
He flattens his ears, finally getting the hint that I'm in pain. For all his good qualities, and there are loads, the kind of dog that makes it in the Army isn't always the kind of dog you'd get if you were living in a central New York condo. Jake can walk for hours with a pack strapped to his back, and then sniff his way through a hundred cars at some remote checkpoint.
Managing to make it through a few days of whatever pitifully short walks I've been able to give him since I got him back from the pound without going mad, however, isn't one of his strong points.
The pound.
I shiver just thinking about it. Not a lot of things get me angry, but that place was definitely one of them. These dogs risk their lives every day for us, and what happens if they get injured – or if, like me, their handler gets hurt? They just get locked in a metal cage, barely enough food, no exercise, not even any playtime. My fist clenches with anger, and I have to make a conscious effort to calm down, shaking my head to banish my anger.
Jake jumps up onto the cot and puts one heavy paw on my chest, pushing me back down. The cot, woefully inadequate for both my weight and that of an eighty-pound bomb disposal dog, squeals beneath us.
"Alright, alright," I say with a chuckle. I know exactly what he wants; apparently it's bedtime. He's been jittery ever since getting back from the p–, no, that place, and I can't blame him – I would be, too.
I don't bother kicking off my boots or combat pants, figuring it's not worth the hassle – or the pain. The only good thing about the rest of my unit still being out in the field is that even though they've turfed me out of the nice, comfy – relatively anyway – hospital beds, at least I've been stuck somewhere quiet, somewhere I won't get in the way.
Suits me. At least this way I don't have some power hungry lieutenant breathing down my neck asking why I've got a dog lying on my chest.
I would've thought it was obvious.
He's trying to sleep…
I feel Jake squirming next to me trying to get comfortable, and then the comforting weight of his head resting on my chest. I drift off to sleep.
I'm now awake by the insistent butting of Jake's head on my chin. It feels like I've only been asleep minutes, and looking at the cheap watch on my wrist, I realize that that's the case.
"Hey, buddy – what are you doing?" I ask, more sharply than I usually do, but it's been a long day of rehab, walking around, and managing the pain hasn't left me in the best of moods, either.
Then again, Jake's not usually like this – he's usually
pretty levelheaded and rational.
"You need to be walked? Because it's bedtime, Jake…"
No, that's not it, he was as sleepy as I was. Then what?
"You need to go out?"
And then I hear it, and the sound sends Jake into another frenzied attack on my chin. I grab him, squeezing him into a powerful hug, and press my head into his soft, tickly fur.
"Hey, boy. It's going to be alright. It can't hurt you," I whisper reassuringly to him.
I hope it can't, anyway. The truth is, I have no idea if that's the case. After all, there sure as hell shouldn't be gunfire and explosions going off in the middle of America's largest army base in Afghanistan. If that was happening, then who knew what the hell was going on? A dread sensation of terror grips my stomach as I realize I can’t just stay here and ride it out like I normally would – I’ve got someone who’s relying on me to take care of her. Two people, in fact.
I curse, swinging my legs over the side of the low cot, spitting out another obscenity as my injured leg hits the floor, jarring against the unforgiving concrete surface.
"That's how it goes, eh Jake?" I say with a forced smile on my face, gritting my teeth through the pain. "Not enough sleep to be useful, but just enough to stiffen up this fucking leg again."
Jake looks at me with what I take to be concern in his large brown eyes, and pads over to me, licking my pant leg in a long, caring stroke.
"Thanks, buddy. Come on," I say, grabbing my walking stick from the top of the vomit green cot, where I'd apparently been lying on it without noticing, "let's take a look around."
Maybe it's not the most sensible thing to be doing, especially not when I've already got one bullet wound to be complaining about, but I've never been the kind of guy who's happy just to sit around.
So, I decide to head towards the sound of gunfire. And maybe, just maybe, to save my unborn child…
Chapter Fourteen - Katie
"Quick," I say under my breath to Sophie, motioning to one side, "get under the bed." My tone doesn't brook much argument, and she's in no mood to present one. We crawl under the bed. I look up at Sophie's bedside table, where the same drab regulation issue alarm clock that sits by my bedside usually stands, and realize that the ever present red glow of the clock's display isn't, in fact, present.
"I think the power's down," I whisper. It might be the only thing that keeps us out of sight, because trying to fit two of us under a bed that's built for one isn't going to do the trick. Not well enough, anyway – and I'm wearing blue pants, not exactly prime for camouflage.
I reach out an arm towards Sophie and realize she's trembling. "It's going to be all right," I whisper, trying to reassure her. It looks like she's going into shock – and that's the last thing we need right now, especially if we need to make a run for it.
A floorboard creaks in the corridor and my head whips round. I look at the door to Sophie's room and kick myself for not closing it once I'd made it into the room. Another stupid little mistake, but one could get me killed. I weigh up the pros and cons of trying to get to the door and lock it, but dismiss the possibility almost as soon as my brain generates it – too risky.
"There's someone out there," Sophie says, doing her best to whisper, but too loudly, as though she can't hear properly. She's definitely in shock. I turn to her, placing a finger on my lips to indicate that she needs to stay quiet. She nods furiously and closes her eyes, clenching her fists until the knuckles turn white.
But she's right. Someone's definitely outside, and that doesn't bode well for us. The floorboard in the corridor creaks again, and my mind generates a hundred different scenarios – it could be someone coming to save us, or another one of the nurses on this floor doing her best to creep to safety, or – my breath catches – it could be Mike, coming to get me, to save our child. I cross my fingers and hope, but know that that's unlikely to be the case. Whoever is outside, they’re moving too slowly, to cautiously for that.
Another noise, and this time a pair of what look like US Army sand-colored desert boots come into view, at first parallel to the doorway, and then – far more worryingly, pointing inside. In my peripheral vision, I sense Sophie's head turn towards the doorway, and through my arm I feel her tense up once again. I'm staying stock still, knowing that any movement could alert the intruder to our presence. I dig a fingernail into Sophie's arm, hoping beyond hope that she won't yelp in pain, but needing to make sure she doesn't do anything stupid – anything that could risk either me or, much more importantly, my unborn baby.
The thing is, in this state, it might not be entirely under her control. I'm handling the fear better than I thought I might, but not everyone's the same, and definitely not Sophie. She might be unsurpassed at handling stressful situations in the hospital – dealing with simultaneous IED wounded soldiers had never been something that taxed her too much, unlike me – but this time, it was different. This time, she wasn't in control, or even in a position to do anything except hide.
Thankfully, she doesn't cry out. But she prods me, beckoning with her chin at the man whose boots are pointing into her room. She manipulates her mouth, trying to sign something, and I do my best to figure out what she's trying to say, but just end up completely befuddled. I raise an eyebrow, figuring it's the smallest possible movement I can make that will still convey my point.
She tries again, her mouth forming an ‘O’. Soldier, she's trying to say soldier.
I slowly and deliberately shake my head. No, I'm pretty sure it's not a soldier. Not an American one at any rate – and that's even more terrifying. But I can see what she's about to do, even before she does it. I'll see that moment in my head a hundred times, maybe a thousand times, maybe every night when my head hits the pillow for the rest of my life, however long – or short – that might be.
"Help," she says, the sound choking out of her mouth.
"Help."
Chapter Fifteen - Mike
Goddamn, my leg hurts. I can walk on it again without much problem, especially when it's strapped up as tightly as it is right now, but that doesn't mean it's enjoyable. In fact, I'd go as far as to say it fucking hurts.
Still, there are only two things I really care about on this base, and since Jake's right here by my side, I'm heading to make sure the other one's okay.
Katie.
If anything's happened to her, I don't know what I'll do. Other than Jake, she's been the only thing keeping me sane over the past couple of weeks. After Tommy – my breath catches, even the memory of what I've lost is hard to take – after Tommy, she is the only other human I've trusted in a long time. And now I know she’s bearing my child, the instincts to protect her, to save her, have been ramped up in my brain – some age old evolutionary circuit driving me to protect my cubs.
I console myself with the thought that it's pretty unlikely that whoever's attacking the base has made it behind the defenses – the turrets, ditches and fences that make up the perimeter of this enormous base. And hell, even if they have, what are the chances that they'll have navigated to Katie's hut out of all the other hundreds, maybe even thousands of identicle plywood buildings.
Not high.
That's what I'm telling myself, anyway. But I'm not sure if I believe it, not really, because the further I get away from my own hut, the more I'm beginning to realize that the sound of gunfire's coming from the general direction of hers.
I break into a run – well, not really a run, but the best approximation that I can manage.
It's not the pain that's stopping me, that I can deal with, it’s that my muscles won't do what I'm asking them to. I grunt with exertion, but don't stop barreling forward, using my walking stick as a third leg, and making use of my not inconsiderable upper body strength to push me onwards.
Jake's loping along a couple of yards ahead of me, with an easy gait that makes me want to curse him. The sound of gunfire's growing louder, and the growing sense of dread in my stomach is coagulating along with it, because I know
for sure now that we're heading directly towards the section of the base where Katie lives.
I can hear engines springing to life around me, scattered shouts of men startled out of their sleep and probably searching with crusty eyes for their rifles and body armor. I know that's what I'd be doing if I was on duty. In the distance, I hear a radio squawk something unintelligible, and then another, and then it sounds like I'm in the middle of some kind of communications battle as radios in tents and huts all around me go off at once.
That confirms it. Whoever they are, they must have made it through the base's defenses.
Shit.
I turn a corner and look up at one of the hastily scrawled street signs, probably erected by annoyed or lost residents, rather than anyone in command, judging by the disorganized state of them. I'm close. I hear something, a cracking sound, and then see a puff of dust as a bullet pings off a nearby wall.
