Page 63 of The Art of Dying

I pulled Abrams to his feet, putting his arm around my neck while shots rang out in the next room. Martinez called for more men to lift Kepner—the largest man in our platoon—and carry him out.

“You think Trex and Harbinger are good?” Abrams asked.

“He wouldn’t have brought Harb without a plan,” I said, helping him out and down the steps.

“Coming up behind you!” Trex called. “Fall back!” he yelled to the lower levels. “Moving!”

We descended to level one, setting up at the entrances where everyone else was returning fire to the soldiers outside. They took cover behind their trucks but had yet to pick anyone off.

“Set!” I yelled.

“D’you get him?” Abrams asked.

“Kushayb is down,” Trex said. “What’s our casualty status, Martinez?”

“Three K.I.A., Kepner’s critical, Abrams is walking wounded.”

Trex began eying a group of trees. “You see that? There’s a smaller river that feeds into the White Nile just on the other side. A couple hundred meters west is a bridge.”

I pulled at my flak vest and then yelled to the others. “Frag!” I threw it into the mess of vehicles, and once it detonated, Trex advanced. “On me! Go, go, go!” he yelled, leading his men to the trees.

We fired our weapons as we ran, but still every sound filling in the half second between gunfire seemed too loud; multiple pairs of boots stomping against gravel and then our pants swishing through tall grass and snagging on brush. I brought up the rear, covering Abrams and the men who were carrying our wounded. We didn’t stop at the trees, moving straight west toward the bridge. The few vehicles that were left started up and began to give chase.

Carrying Kepner and assisting Abrams, we moved slower than we needed, but Trex was methodical, gauging the distance needed to travel with how quickly the jeep and trucks were gaining ground. He tossed frags and guided us over ground that forced the enemy off our tail.

Trex gave the signal for us to pause in some thick trees and vine to catch our breath before making the final push to the bridge. With his hands, he directed our attention to the next rendezvous: a farmhouse nearby surrounded by three outbuildings. We didn’t have long to make it to the bridge before the trucks were within target distance, so the captain stood and directed Harbinger to push ahead as he hooked Abrams’s arms around his neck.

“Trex,” Abrams growled.

“Don’t even say it. Don’t waste my fuckin’ time, Abrams, just move!” Trex said.

Just as Trex said we would, we reached the bridge before the trucks, paused for thirty seconds while we watched the trucks get back on-road, and with the last bit of energy we had carrying Kepner and helping Abrams, pushed to the farmhouse.

Less of a house and more of a large shack, with dirt floors, a tin roof, and crates for tables and chairs, but there was a family inside, and they startled the moment we forced our way through the door. Parents, a grandmother, and four children were inside, in the middle of cooking before we’d interrupted. In typical Sudanese style, though, they seemed more curious than concerned.

“It’s okay! It’s okay!” Abrams said to the children, balancing on his good leg, his rifle in his hand. He looked to Trex, wiping the sweat pouring from his wet hair. “We can’t stay here, sir. They’ll light up this whole place.”

“Next building over is abandoned, let’s move!” Trex said.

We fired for cover as we crossed from one shack to another, finding ourselves a concrete room full of animal feed and scrap metal. Martinez had Kepner on the floor performing CPR. Trex, Harbinger, Sloan, and Abrams were standing next to me against the wall.

“What’s the plan, Captain?” I asked.

Trex thought while he caught his breath.

Abrams looked up at laughed. “Naomi is gonna love this story.”

I frowned. “Mack won’t.”

Trex looked at Sloan. “How many in the trucks?”

Sloan wiped the perspiration from his brow on his sleeve before taking a quick look through his scope. The world stood still while he counted. “Six in one, five in the other.”

“Frag ’em,” I said.

Trex shook his head, still breathing hard. “Get high, Sloan. Take ’em out. We lift those trucks and take this road south, cross the river, and rendezvous back at the church. We have to get Kepner airborne.”

Martinez sighed and sat back. “Kepner’s gone, sir.”

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