The first thing Arthur noticed was that everyone was laughing.
Not loudly. Not happily, exactly. It was the kind of laughter men made when they had spent the last twenty minutes convinced they were going to die and had discovered, for the moment, that they had been wrong.
Twenty-three men came out of the compound.
Arthur counted them twice.
Twenty-three.
Good enough.
Mercer sat on the hood of one of the trucks, cleaning his rifle with the concentration of a man who had apparently forgotten there was a war happening around him.
Cole and Garcia were arguing over whose sleeve had more blood on it.
Bell was eating a protein bar.
Ace was staring down at his boot.
Arthur walked over to him.
"Your foot all right?"
Ace looked up.
"I'm admiring it."
"Why?"
"It's still attached."
Arthur nodded.
"Good observation."
Mercer glanced over.
"Most people check their men before they check their boots."
"I checked my men."
"You counted us."
"That's how I checked you."
Mercer shook his head.
"You ever think about being a normal captain?"
"Constantly."
"And?"
"It seems exhausting."
Mercer laughed.
Arthur smiled.
For a few seconds, everything felt almost normal.
The compound behind them was burning in places. Smoke drifted through the broken walls, carrying the smell of concrete, dust, fuel, and something Arthur didn't want to identify. But they were alive. Arthur pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it.
Mercer watched him.
"Your mother know you smoke?"
"She knows everything."
"That's terrifying."
"She'll probably know I got shot before I do."
"Sounds like my mother."
Arthur took a drag.
"You ever call yours?"
"Yesterday."
"What'd she say?"
"That I sound tired."
"You do."
"I've been awake for thirty hours."
"You sound terrible."
"Thank you, Captain."
Arthur laughed.
His phone was dead. Had been for two days.
He thought about his mother anyway.
He could picture her standing in the kitchen, one hand on the counter, the other holding a piece of gum between two fingers because she had never understood why he liked chewing it while painting.
His sister would probably be asleep.
Or pretending to be.
She always did that when she was worried.
Arthur looked away from the thought.
There were sixteen civilians.
Five of them were children.
The youngest was a little girl with dust covering half her face. Arthur remembered seeing her inside the compound, hiding beneath a table while bullets came through the walls.
Amelia.
He didn't know why he remembered her name.
Maybe because she had told him twice. Maybe because she had been the only child who hadn't cried. The convoy started moving. The road ahead stretched through dry country, pale beneath the afternoon sun. Arthur sat in the lead vehicle with Mercer. The radio crackled. Then a voice came through.
"[Abort extraction.]"
Arthur frowned.
"Say again."
"[Repeat. Abort extraction. You are not authorized to proceed to the designated pickup point.]" Mercer looked at him. Arthur pressed the radio. "Understood. Confirming extraction is cancelled." A pause.
"[Confirmed.]"
The transmission ended.
Arthur stared through the windshield.
Their pickup point was another forty minutes away. The outpost was twenty klicks from where they were. He checked the map. Then the road. Then the civilians behind them. "We're going to the outpost."
Mercer didn't answer immediately.
"You sure?"
"No."
Arthur folded the map. "But it's closer." Mercer nodded. "That's reassuring." The convoy kept moving. For the first ten minutes, nobody said much. Ace sat in the back of the truck, humming. Mercer listened. "What's that?"
Ace looked up.
"What?"
"That song." Ace shrugged.
"Don't know."
"Sounds like a dying cat."
"That's the chorus."
Arthur laughed despite himself. Then he noticed the dog. It lay beside the road.
Dead.
Arthur watched it as they passed. No flies. Very fresh. He looked at the dirt beside the road. Tracks, also very recent.
And with more than one vehicle. His hand tightened around the radio.
"Slow down."
The driver eased off the accelerator. Arthur watched the road ahead. Nothing there was no movement, No vehicles, No people.
Just heat and Dust.
Empty ground.
Mercer looked at him.
"What?"
Arthur shook his head.
"Keep moving."
It was the right call if the road was clear. It was the wrong call if it wasn't. Arthur knew that. He gave the order anyway.
The first vehicle exploded.
The sound hit before the light did. Arthur was thrown sideways as the windshield shattered.
"CONTACT!"
Gunfire erupted from both sides of the road.
The convoy broke apart, men jumped from vehicles. Someone screamed. Arthur hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. He rolled behind a wheel.
Rounds tore through the vehicle above him.
"MOVE! MOVE!"
Mercer was already firing.
Arthur looked toward the civilian vehicles. One was smoking. Another had stopped sideways across the road. "Get the civilians moving!"
The men scattered.
Arthur heard Ace shouting. Then a burst of gunfire. He looked in his direction. (Fuck Ace!)
Ace was down.
Arthur ran. He didn't think about it. He crossed the open ground, grabbed Ace by the back of his vest, and dragged him behind the truck.
He was still breathing but blood ran down his cheek.
"You hit?"
"My pride."
"That's terminal." Ace laughed, then winced. Arthur checked his leg.
Not good that hit his femur.
"You remember that range bet?" Ace asked.
Arthur stared at him. "What?"
"Twenty dollars."
"You lost."
"I hit the target."
"You hit the target after missing twice."
"Still hit it."
Arthur shook his head. "You shot from two hundred feet."
"Two hundred yards."
"Whatever."
"You owe me twenty."
"I'll pay you when we're home."
Ace smiled. "Deal." Arthur looked at him. "We were indoors."
Ace blinked.
"What?"
"The range." Arthur smiled.
"There was no wind." Ace stared at him. "Fuck you." Arthur laughed. Then the gunfire came closer.
"Stay down here"
Arthur rose. The civilians were moving. Good. He ran toward them. A little girl stood frozen beside one of the trucks. Arthur recognized her. "You're Amelia, right?" She nodded.
"Come on, Amelia."
She grabbed his hand and Arthur pulled her along. For a second, her hand reminded him of another hand.
Smaller.
His own, and a warm kitchen floor. Bare feet. His mother laughing while he tried to reach the counter. She had laughed whenever things got too difficult. She always used to say, she had to because if she didn't laugh, she might cry.
A gunshot snapped Arthur back. He shoved Amelia behind the truck.
"Stay here."
She nodded. Arthur turned. Bell was standing beside the vehicle. He looked at Arthur, then down at his chest. Blood spread beneath his vest. Arthur ran toward him as Bell stumbled forward in disbelief.
"Don't let Ace take my truck."
Arthur caught him.
"He drives like shit."
Bell laughed once looked him in his eyes, then his weight went slack. Arthur lowered him just as Garcia crouched beside them. He closed Bell's eyes.
The shooting had began to fade. One burst,Then another and nothing. Arthur stayed still and he listened. The engines sound wasn't there anymore and there were no voices like before nothing.
The enemy had withdrawn.
He looked around.The road was covered in smoke. Two vehicles were burning. Bodies lay in the dirt. Some were theirs, most were not.
Arthur counted. Again. He didn't like the number. He looked toward the road behind them. The ambush had been too clean. They had known the route. Known the vehicles.Known the civilians. Known exactly where to hit them.
And their extraction had been cancelled.
Their communications had gone silent. No air support. No recovery team and again nothing.
Arthur felt something cold settle in his stomach.
"Captain?"
Mercer's voice. Arthur looked at him. "We move." Mercer nodded.They couldn't afford to stay here. They loaded the survivors into the remaining vehicles. Nobody laughed anymore.
They drove toward the outpost.
Arthur kept watching the road. The closer they got, the quieter he became. Then the vehicles ahead stopped. Mercer looked forward.
"What's that?"
Arthur saw them. Americian uniforms. Rifles. A line across the road. Arthur opened the door and stepped out. The soldiers raised their weapons.
His stomach dropped.
Then he recognized the man standing in front.
"Harris." Harris looked at him. For a moment neither spoke. Arthur remembered the village. The evacuation. The argument. Harris telling him they couldn't take everyone. Arthur telling him that wasn't his problem. Later, Harris had bought him a drink. They had laughed about it.
Arthur looked at the rifles.
"You're blocking us."
Harris didn't answer. "Where's the medical team?Did you bring one."
Fucking Nothing.
"Where's the transport?"
Harris looked past him. At the civilians. At Amelia. At the children. Then back at Arthur.
"You need to turn around."
Arthur stared at him.
"There's nowhere to turn around to."
Harris's jaw tightened. Arthur understood. Not all at once. But enough. The radio crackled. For the first time in hours. "[Captain Arthur. Disengage immediately.]" Arthur stared at the radio.
"[Return to the outpost.]"
He didn't move. "[The civilian personnel are no longer your responsibility.]" Arthur looked at the children. At Mercer.
At Ace.
At the bodies in the trucks.
At Harris.
"Copy."
Mercer looked at him. Arthur lowered the radio.
"Get them out." Mercer stared. "You know what happens if we run."
"Yes." "You coming?" Arthur looked at him.
"Yes." Mercer didn't move. Arthur looked toward the civilians. "Go." Mercer swallowed. Then turned. "Move!" The trucks started.
Arthur stayed where he was.
For a moment, he thought about teenage years. From here on out he was would be a déserter.
Of his friends.
Maya laughing at something he couldn't remember. Linh stealing fries from his plate.
Ethan arguing about politics.
Marcus telling him he was going to get himself killed one day. He had laughed. They had all laughed.
Then he thought about painting. The smell of paint, why was he thinking at paint in his hands at a time like this.
The quiet.
The way a blank canvas gave him somewhere to put everything he couldn't say. His mother used to stand behind him while he painted. She never understood what he was trying to make. She always said she liked it anyway.
He thought about his sister.
Her voice.
Her messages. The ones he sometimes didn't answer because he was busy. Or drinking. Or somewhere he shouldn't have been. He thought about all the nights he'd wasted.
All the women he could have had a future with by now. All the parties. All the times he'd convinced himself there would always be another day.
He thought about the Army. The first time he'd put on the uniform. The first soldier who had trusted him. The first man he'd gotten killed because Arthur thought he knew better. He remembered the apology.
He remembered how his family looked at him afterward and he remembered the promise he'd made.
Never leave a man behind.
A goat. For some reason, he remembered a goat.
"The goat."
Mercer's voice echoed in his head.
"It wasn't."
"You kicked it."
"It attacked me."
"It was eating your map."
"It knew what it was doing." Arthur almost laughed. Then the gunfire started, this remembering was reckless, suck a rookie mistake.
Mercer was shouting. The civilians were moving. Arthur felt the first bullet hit his chest. The world lurched.
He fell to one knee. Another round struck him. His hands hit the dirt.
He couldn't breathe.
He heard Mercer screaming his name. Arthur looked up. Mercer was still there. Still trying to reach him. Arthur shook his head.
"Go!"
Mercer didn't listen. Arthur forced the words out.
"Go!"
Mercer grabbed one of the children and pulled him toward the trucks. Arthur watched them leave. One of the little boys looked back. He raised his hand. A salute.
Arthur stared at him.
Then slowly raised two fingers as the boy turned away.
The ground was cold beneath Arthur now. He could feel blood soaking through his uniform. He couldn't feel his legs properly.
His vision was very blurry. The sky looked very far away. He thought about his mother. Her hands.
Paint on her thumb.
Flour on the back of her wrist. A small scar near her knuckle. He thought about the painting he'd left unfinished. He had meant to finish it. He always meant to finish things later.
(I hope she finishes it for me.)
Dust.
Smoke.
Paint.
He was eight years old again, with bare feet moving across the warm kitchen floor.
His mother's voice.
Arthur.
He smiled.