Page 13 of Secrets in a Sandstorm

“You were a tough, mean bastard who’d do anything for your mates. You deserved better.” I say, even though he can’t hear me. It’s not quite a prayer, but if God is sitting by watching this shitshow instead of stepping in, he doesn’t deserve them.

The little faith I had left before I came here has died in the sand like everything else. I’m going to hell no matter what I do. I glance at Teddy and can’t believe that’s true. He’s not damned.

“There may still be a shooter, but if we don’t move now, we may not make it to the caves.” The swirling sand is going to make every step that much harder, and I’m exhausted. The heat and fear are sucking me dry. It’s tempting to lie on the ground and wait for death.

I made the wrong call, and everyone is dead. But which one was the wrong one?

Was there a different one I could’ve made?

Teddy watches me like I have all the answers. Like he expects me to find a way out of this mess. All we can do is run and pray, and the latter is useless because no god is listening.

I don’t want to see that admiration tarnish because I want more than heated glances. “See that rock? I’ll go; you cover. One bullet at a time.”

Teddy nods. “It’s not far. A couple of hundred meters.”

I huff out a breath. “That’s a marathon under fire and in a sandstorm.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

1942

CYRIL

My arms and legs pump as I run to the rock, waiting for the sting of a bullet and wishing I ran as fast as Teddy. I make it to the safety of the rock and crouch before readying my rifle. Teddy sprints toward me weighed down with gear. He’s almost to me when he jerks and stumbles and falls.

My heart lurches.

I turn, and there’s a fucking Italian soldier kneeling near the rocks not ten meters from me. Rage bubbles through me. How dare he. We were so close to safety. I yell as I open fire, not caring about conserving bullets. I empty my clip, but he’s dead before I’m done.

“Fuck!” The wind snatches my voice away. I toss my useless rifle aside and run over to Teddy, hoping that he’s alive. That he’s not bleeding out. That whatever injury he has isn’t fatal. “How bad is it?”

He lifts his hand from his side. There’s not much blood on his palm. He stares at his hand and then at me. “It’s just a nick. Bloody Italians can’t shoot straight.”

He laughs, and I join in as I haul him up.

His mirth turns into a pained groan. “That pinches.”

“It’s okay. I’ll have a proper look in the cave. Not far now.” I can barely see the body of the Italian, and the wind is pushing me around as I try to support Teddy. I’m not losing everyone.

I can’t lose him.

“Walk in the park,” Teddy says.

“Exactly.” Heads down, we press on while the wind tries to drag us back into the storm’s embrace. The first crevice is far too narrow. Another is only two feet high.

Third time lucky, we step into the narrow shelter, and I sigh with relief. I want to sink to the ground and rest, but I can’t. Not yet. Being out of the direct wind and the abrasive sand scouring my skin makes it easier to think.

“We need to go deeper.” Teddy points to the much narrower back of the cave.

He’s right. We’re too exposed, and if the wind changes direction, we’ll be trapped. “I hope we fit?”

Or does it lead nowhere?

“Only one way to find out. Flip a coin?”

“No. I’ll go first in case there're animals or soldiers.” I imagine the cave full of Italians, all armed to the teeth. Will they kill us or let us wait out the storm as captives?

I shimmy into the gap and ignore the press of rock that makes me feel like I’m being buried alive.Don’t dwell on it.

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