Page 1 of Proof Of Life

My skin feels as dry and rough as sandpaper as it scrapes across my sac.

You would think with as much as I sweat, it would feel softer, but the arid desert has a way of sucking the moisture from your body until you’re as wrinkled and parched as a prune.

Reaching under my pillow, I grab the bottle of lotion I keep stashed there. The supply chain doesn’t carry lube, and it’s not a common item in care packages. Soldiers existing in this wasteland have to make do with whatever they can find. I've seen some creative solutions with this being my second tour. Sunblock, cooking grease, shampoo, petroleum jelly—hell, one guy used shoe polish. His dick was tinted black for a week.

Unfortunately, the Army doesn’t always recruit the smartest people.

Two pumps are enough to fill my palm and I rub my hands together, smearing the lotion between my fingers and over the backs of my hands before sliding them back inside my briefs. It feels cool and slightly sticky but eases the glide considerably. Snatches of conversation filter through the thin metal walls of the containerized barracks, but I block them out. Feels so good. Closing my eyes, I take a slow, deep breath and cup my balls, rolling them between my fingers as the natural heat of my skin warms the slick covering my hand.

The sound of my beating heart booms in my ears as my breathing evens out. Coarse curls tickle my hand as I stroke the thick skin, tugging at the heavy weights dangling between my thighs. I’m not in a rush. This is the best time of day to steal thirty minutes of privacy. Thirteen-hundred is chow time. Soldiers rush to get in line while the food is still lukewarm, not that it improves the flavor much.

I can wait. The pleasure of rubbing one out in peace and relative quiet is well worth the cost of eating reheated food.

Taking hold of my shaft, I squeeze as I draw upward, milking the first drop of precum from my slit. Rubbing it around the dry head of my cock, feeling the stickiness of it moistening my skin, always gives me a small thrill of satisfaction.

Did Brandt have a jack-off ritual? Was that a thing? I’d have to ask.

The muscles in my stomach clench as I draw my hand back down the rigid length. Fuck, that feels good. Up and down, the easy rhythm stokes a fire in the pit of my belly. Bucking my hips into my fist makes the fire burn hotter. I drift my left hand down under my balls, passing over my taint. Maybe just the tip of my finger in my ass would get me–

The door to my barracks slams open and bangs against the wall with an echo. “Wardell!”

Fuck! I snatch my hands out of my pants too late. His left brow arches. Fucking busted. My spine stiffens as I scramble to sit up and offer him a sticky-handed salute.

“Yes, Sir!” John Bannon is a real prick on a personal level, but he makes a decent Squad Leader.

“Go wash your fucking hands and report to Command. New orders.”

He disappears before I can reply.

The Street Sweepers are the best Fire Team on this base, in my completely unbiased opinion. That’s why we always get called up first. Up ahead, I see Brandt heading to the mess tent. Sneaking up behind him, I grab him around the waist and knock him off balance, laughing. He clings to my shoulders before he realizes it’s me and shoves me away. The dust we kick up burns my eyes.

“Fucking dick.”

“Always be prepared,” I warn, wiping away the grit from my tear ducts.

“That’s the Boy Scout motto, not the Army,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes.

My laugh dies as I straighten his shirt, catching a whiff of sourness over the smell of detergent. It's the damn washing machines here; they're never cleaned properly. Everything comes out smelling musty. Clearing my throat from the dust, I snap, “Round up the team. We have new orders and we’re heading out in two hours.”

Brandt looks less than thrilled, his broad shoulders slumping. “Fuck. I was looking forward to playing cards tonight and getting drunk.”

Slapping him hard on the shoulder, I tease, “Night’s not over, sweetheart. There’s still plenty of time for that.”

We both know that’s bullshit. We would never drink in excess on base knowing we could be called up at any moment, like now. But out on the road? On a mission? There would be no alcohol, not even the smallest drop. We’re already gambling with our lives. Not one of us is interested in lessening the odds.

Brandt’s dark blue eyes travel up and down the length of my body before settling on my face. “I’ll get the guys together and meet you inside. Save me a biscuit.”

The base doesn’t offer much in the way of convenience and luxury, but it beats sleeping rough on the side of the road. We have a gym, a commissary, an Internet café, if you can call it a café because they sure as hell don’t serve refreshments, and a laundromat—we even have a coffee stand, run by privately contracted Russians. Everything is constructed of plywood or pallets with armored roofing, or made of repurposed metal shipping containers.

No matter what time of day we receive new orders, Brandt and I have a routine we follow to the letter. A hot meal and a lukewarm shower because neither is something we will ever find roadside, and we never know how long it will be before we get to experience such luxuries again.

Making my way into the chow hall, I’m waylaid by several people I recognize that stop to slap my shoulder or give me a high five or just a head-nod. With over a thousand soldiers stationed here, it blows my mind how many of their faces are familiar to me. Grabbing two trays, I make my way down the galley line, cherry-picking two of anything that looks semi-edible. It looks like they’re serving meatloaf today. This shit isn’t even brown, more like a faded gray, and the consistency of dog food. It contains so much water that it doesn’t even hold its shape. They are basically serving us reconstituted MREs. No, I take that back. The chili mac MRE beats this meatloaf any day.

Fucking delicious. There goes my hot meal.

Wisely skipping the meatloaf, knowing we wouldn’t have access to a toilet tonight, I go for the apples, granola bars, garlic bread, then add a little dessert—a handful of oatmeal raisin cookies, and two cups of yogurt. The drink dispenser looks like something you would see in a fast-food restaurant, but with different choices. They offer apple, grape, and orange juices, although none of them tastes good. Reconstituted from powdered mix by people who can’t get the consistency right, it was more like drinking flavored water, or sometimes fruit-flavored sludge. I skip it and fill two cups with water.

After making a circuit of the room, I choose a seat at an empty table so that we can discuss our plans without being overheard. Minutes later, Brandt joins me. Stretching his long legs over the bench, he folds his six-foot frame into a seated position and grabs his tray.

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