Fumes and smoke seared his eyeballs, making it impossible to see. What kind of an IED could have caused this much damage? Scrubbing both hands over his face, he muttered a quick Hail Mary. And then he saw them. All six of them. His men. His friends. Kent. Snakes. Carlton. Robbie. Rick. Garth. Their bodies in pieces and bleeding chunks. He faltered. Who to run to first? Should I run at all?
One second he was debating how to rescue body parts; the next he was kneeling at Corporal Rick Cross’s side, his body stabbed through with a huge shard of metal. So much blood. Harley ripped the dead man’s belt off. Every soldier knows how to wrap a tourniquet. Adrenaline pushed his shaking hands.
“I got you, man. You’re gonna be fine. Promise.” His mouth would not shut up until his ruthless brain engaged and squashed the hope rolling off his tongue.
There’s nothing to tie off.
He backed away, choking at the eerie sensation of déjà vue creeping up the back of his throat. This was not happening. It wasn’t real. Couldn’t be. Rick wasn’t dead—again. Was he? A long lost memory invaded what sure felt like reality.
I am here, aren’t I? Sure smells like Iraq. Sounds like Iraq. But didn’t I already—leave?
Panic sucked the air from his lungs. Like a stupid frog on a hot plate, he jumped to Specialist Robbie Smith next. Blood gurgled from the fist-sized wound in his friend’s neck. Suddenly, Harley was with Corporal Carlton Jenner, still and lifeless on the ground, his body twisted in an impossible-to-live-through position. Without walking or running to get there, Harley crouched over Sergeant Kent Roosevelt, and then Kent’s arm, which until then had been in a black-red pool of coagulated blood a yard away.
He didn’t remember taking a step. Logic failed when he needed it most. He scrubbed the smoke and dust out of his stinging eyes. Dazed. Afraid. Scared he’d lost his ever-loving mind.
Abruptly, Kent’s unattached hand jumped from the oil-covered ground and clutched Harley’s sleeve, tugging him back to his men. “Save us,” Kent snarled with the grotesque lip twitching of the dead.
“What the hell?” Harley crab-scrambled backward, inhaling disbelief instead of air. The dismembered limb fell, four fingers tapping the dusty ground as if waiting for an answer. He shook his head to clear his vision. No way! I’m seeing things for sure.
“You gotta do something.” Bloody words gurgled from the dead man’s mouth. Harley lunged back, but Kent persisted with mercurial eyeballs instead of the once deep browns. His stare brimmed with unsaid accusation. You lived, you bastard. I died, but you got to live.
Just as quickly, Carlton sprang to a ninety-degree angle, his hips twisted in the opposite direction to his shoulders. He cocked his head sideways and taunted. “You gotta save us, man. You got to.”
Harley groaned at the frightening quandary of seeing is believing. Kent and Carlton were obviously dead with a capital D, but they were talking?
Rick joined the ghostly moan. Robbie sputtered. Captain Snakes Flynn growled. Then Corporal Garth Schmidt. Their voices rose in an eerie chorus of condemnation, while six pairs of unseeing eyes stared him down for help. For rescue. For anything. “You gotta save us this time. All,” they chanted. “All. All. All.”
“But you guys are... dead.” Harley was sure of his words, not his eyes. “I can’t save you. You already... died.”
Are you sure? He shook the demon of doubt away. It was lying to him. It had to be. Misgivings prevailed. Why are you talking to them if they’re dead?
“I don’t know,” he answered himself.
“Don’t leave us behind again,” the six-man chorus whined over the hissing fire. Even the twisted carcass of the Humvee groaned in haunting accompaniment. A tire exploded. Hard rubber ripped past his head, leaving stifling fumes and heat in its wake.
He watched the horror show, unable to save the men he loved any more than he could save himself. His dead buddies waited, their tongues flicking over their lips from the same thirst in his mouth. But just in case.... He crawled back to assist.
A veil of fumes descended upon the stage, encompassing wounded and would-be rescuer alike. His windpipe constricted. Harley choked until he could choke no more, spitting to clear his throat. Air would not come. When unconsciousness threatened, he bowed his forehead to the dirt and wished to wake the hell up—or die with his men. Like he should have.
As quickly as it came, the haze lifted. He could breathe, but his friends were gone. Not even limbs remained. No puddled blood. No tapping dismembered fingers. Nothing.
It dawned on him then. The Iraqi’s fought dirty. Saddam was a bastard. They’d used nerve gas on him. Either that or his men really spoke to him. No. Nerve gas explained everything. It had to be.
Thunder shook the ground. Shrapnel and bullets pinged too close and personal, pushing him to act. So that’s the way it was, under fire and his men had been forced to leave him behind. He was alone. Instinct kicked in. Training took over.
Move it, soldier. Move it. Move it. Move it!
He steeled his jaw, stiffened his spine and secured his belt around his own bleeding leg, padding it with a rag from the dirty ground. The chemicals in the smoke provided an acid eyewash that would not quit. He could barely see to stagger away. His feet would not follow. No matter. He carved a drunkard’s path into the desert and away from hell. One more step. Then another. Time and distance. All he needed now. Three things were sure. He wouldn’t be
