a hot drill. He almost wished to pass out again. But no, not yet.
As gently as he could he released the tourniquet, feeling the blood rush down into his calf. He counted out loud through gritted teeth, waiting until the pins and needles had passed and there was only the stabbing pain of the gunshot. He found the knife where he’d dropped it and cut his jeans away from the wound, finding the heavy material stuck. He debated for a while whether to leave it that way or try to clean the wound out.
He reached out for the canteen and drank, slowly working his pants away from his skin until at last the wound was revealed. It was nasty, red and swollen and raw where the bullet tore in. But it wasn’t gushing blood anymore, and that was a good thing.
He found his flask of whiskey, knowing what he needed to do. He took a single deep breath, set his teeth together and poured, dumping the whiskey on the wound and clenching his fist while every curse he’d ever learned came tumbling out of his mouth in quick succession.
“God-damn-mother-whoreson. . .” And then Jack was gone again, drifting, dreaming . . .
❧
. . . He’s back in Brazil, deep in the jungle. It’s raining and so hot the whole place is steaming. The trees are shadows and smoke, the foliage blurred by mist, and everything runs together like paint on wet paper. He can hear the rain, a hard fast drumming as each raindrop hits something: a leaf, the bark on the trees, branches.
Somewhere ahead is the sound of intermittent gunfire, and he realizes he’s become separated from his squad. He hefts his pack over his shoulder and starts running toward the sound, through the trees and tall ferns and saw grass that cuts at his hands. The gunfire stops abruptly and he runs faster, the trees whipping by in a blur of green, the rain slashing at him.
Suddenly everything is quiet, hushed but for the rain dripping off the trees.
He’s in a clearing now, round thatched huts forming a circle around a central garden dead and blackened from fire. As he draws closer he can see the bodies, faces bloodied and wet from the rain, puddles of blood, death everywhere he looks. This is his squad. There’s Jason Falco and Richie Eldredge. Jonas Hunt is a few meters away, lying face down in the mud but Jack knows him for the tattoos that cover his hands. Next to him is their SatCom girl, Evie Stipe, and Morrison, sitting propped up against one of the huts.
For a secondJack thinks Morrison might be alive until he sees the odd angle of his head and the gash that has nearly separated his neck from his body. The remaining bodies belong to the residents, old men and women, mothers who had tried to shield their children, young warriors with laser spears still clutched in their hands.
He drops his medpack to ground. There is no saving any of these people. They are dead; they are all dead.
A whisper beckons then, soft as the wind, and at first he thinks it’s the wind until he hears it again, calling, saying his name. He turns until he sees her standing in the darkened doorway of one of the huts. She’s maybe thirteen, or fourteen, and she’s reaching out to him, saying something in her own language. He can’t understand the words but he can see the expression on her face; she’s afraid.
As he steps toward her she changes, looking less like a girl he knew and more like Alanna until finally mutating into someone else, someone he doesn’t know. But in the dream he does know her and he knows she loves him more than anything and is trying desperately to tell him something important.
He takes another step closer and a quick rat-a-tat-tat breaks through the quiet even as she calls out to him, telling him to run.
But it’s too late. He’s already falling.
Chapter Ten
East
K atherine stared straight ahead, not daring to look at Will Cushing and not wanting to look at the stupid boy who continued to ogle her. He still had an idiot smile on his face, and a part of her wanted to slap
As gently as he could he released the tourniquet, feeling the blood rush down into his calf. He counted out loud through gritted teeth, waiting until the pins and needles had passed and there was only the stabbing pain of the gunshot. He found the knife where he’d dropped it and cut his jeans away from the wound, finding the heavy material stuck. He debated for a while whether to leave it that way or try to clean the wound out.
He reached out for the canteen and drank, slowly working his pants away from his skin until at last the wound was revealed. It was nasty, red and swollen and raw where the bullet tore in. But it wasn’t gushing blood anymore, and that was a good thing.
He found his flask of whiskey, knowing what he needed to do. He took a single deep breath, set his teeth together and poured, dumping the whiskey on the wound and clenching his fist while every curse he’d ever learned came tumbling out of his mouth in quick succession.
“God-damn-mother-whoreson. . .” And then Jack was gone again, drifting, dreaming . . .
❧
. . . He’s back in Brazil, deep in the jungle. It’s raining and so hot the whole place is steaming. The trees are shadows and smoke, the foliage blurred by mist, and everything runs together like paint on wet paper. He can hear the rain, a hard fast drumming as each raindrop hits something: a leaf, the bark on the trees, branches.
Somewhere ahead is the sound of intermittent gunfire, and he realizes he’s become separated from his squad. He hefts his pack over his shoulder and starts running toward the sound, through the trees and tall ferns and saw grass that cuts at his hands. The gunfire stops abruptly and he runs faster, the trees whipping by in a blur of green, the rain slashing at him.
Suddenly everything is quiet, hushed but for the rain dripping off the trees.
He’s in a clearing now, round thatched huts forming a circle around a central garden dead and blackened from fire. As he draws closer he can see the bodies, faces bloodied and wet from the rain, puddles of blood, death everywhere he looks. This is his squad. There’s Jason Falco and Richie Eldredge. Jonas Hunt is a few meters away, lying face down in the mud but Jack knows him for the tattoos that cover his hands. Next to him is their SatCom girl, Evie Stipe, and Morrison, sitting propped up against one of the huts.
For a secondJack thinks Morrison might be alive until he sees the odd angle of his head and the gash that has nearly separated his neck from his body. The remaining bodies belong to the residents, old men and women, mothers who had tried to shield their children, young warriors with laser spears still clutched in their hands.
He drops his medpack to ground. There is no saving any of these people. They are dead; they are all dead.
A whisper beckons then, soft as the wind, and at first he thinks it’s the wind until he hears it again, calling, saying his name. He turns until he sees her standing in the darkened doorway of one of the huts. She’s maybe thirteen, or fourteen, and she’s reaching out to him, saying something in her own language. He can’t understand the words but he can see the expression on her face; she’s afraid.
As he steps toward her she changes, looking less like a girl he knew and more like Alanna until finally mutating into someone else, someone he doesn’t know. But in the dream he does know her and he knows she loves him more than anything and is trying desperately to tell him something important.
He takes another step closer and a quick rat-a-tat-tat breaks through the quiet even as she calls out to him, telling him to run.
But it’s too late. He’s already falling.
Chapter Ten
East
K atherine stared straight ahead, not daring to look at Will Cushing and not wanting to look at the stupid boy who continued to ogle her. He still had an idiot smile on his face, and a part of her wanted to slap
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