Page 16 of Shadow Blind

Lurch, the squad’s sniper, suddenly charged his bickering teammates. Dimly, it registered that Lurch, his teammate most proficient with rifles, had left his M4A1 carbine hanging.

“Lurch!” Aiden roared, putting every ounce of command he could muster into his shout. “Stand down!”

In unison, Grub’s and Squirrel’s rifles turned toward their attacking teammate. They bypassed his chest, which was protected by ballistic plates, and aimed at his face. Between one breath and another, rifle fire lit the exfil site.

Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

Lurch flew back, a cloud of brains and blood where his head used to be.

No! Aiden’s scream was silent and useless.

Grub and Squirrel turned their weapons on each other.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

They knew where to target for maximum damage. Above the armor. Below the helmet. Both men’s heads reared back, and vanished in a mist of blood and bone. Their bodies dropped to the ground.

Thump. Thump.

What the hell…what the hell…what the motherfucking hell…

Aiden sucked in a choking, wheezing breath. He rocked back on his heels as the ground seemed to buckle beneath his boots.

This can’t be happening.

“What did you do to them?” Hutch screamed.

Aiden pivoted. The movement felt slow…clumsy. Like his body was two steps ahead of his mind. Everything was happening so fast. Too fast.

“Alpha One, Sitrep! Sitrep!” Montana’s voice thundered through his headset. “Someone give me a damn Sitrep!” Like the bastard wasn’t watching this shitshow through those damn cameras.

Hutch had pulled off his balaclava, exposing his red, sweating face, his lips, eyes and fingers twitching. There was a blind sheen to his bloodshot gaze, the same sheen Grub and Squirrel had worn before they’d killed each other.

“You killed them! Why did you kill them?” Hutch screamed, spittle spraying from his mouth. He lifted his rifle, targeting Aiden’s face.

Aiden dropped to the ground. The muzzle of Hutch’s rifle followed the movement. He rolled.

Crack.

A stinging pinch hit Aiden’s left thigh. He rolled again. Hutch shook his head, slow to respond, slow to re-sight.

“Drop it! Drop it!” Aiden spun onto his knees, ignoring the screaming agony in his left leg the movement unlocked.

He lodged the rifle stock against his shoulder, steadied the M41A with his right hand on the rear grip and his left on the fore stock, only to hesitate.

No. No. Don’t make me do this.

Images of barbeques and birthdays flashed through his mind. Glass bottles clinking at The Bottoms Up Tavern. The slow stretch of Hutch’s lips as he said, “One more rotation behind us.”

Hutch’s chin lowered. His blind gaze locked on Aiden’s face. The muzzle of his rifle dropped.

No.

Crack. Crack.

Hutch’s face disintegrated. He wavered on his feet for a moment, then fell backwards.

His breath lodged in his throat. Still on his knees, Aiden trembled. His rifle wobbled. Had he pulled the trigger? He didn’t remember pulling the trigger.

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