Page 116 of Walking Wounded

They all got down into the floor of the truck, piled together on top of one another. Another shot tore through the canvas above them, a soft puff of air.

“I thought this war was goddamn over,” Harcourt hissed.

“Somebody tell that to the motherfucking Red shooting at us!” Ski shot back.

“We won’t outrun him,” Caldwell said. “Not with the road in this shape.”

“So let’s don’t even try,” Finn said, and picked up his M1.

///

They should have tried to outrun him. If they’d all kept low, and gritted their teeth, and prayed real hard, probably the driver would have been the only casualty. Probably.

Will would never be sure what spurred Finn to action. There was a good chance the fever had addled him. But a part of him wondered if Finn didn’t want one more crack at the enemy, one more chance to be a Marine, before they went home. Or maybe, deep down, Finn hated what he’d learned about himself over here.

Or…

It didn’t matter, though. All that mattered was what happened.

///

It would all stay with Will forever, in perfect crystalline detail. The door flinging open, the crunch of snow under Finn’s boots as he leapt to the ground. The well-oiled clicks of the rifle, the feverish red of Finn’s cheek as he pressed it to the stock of the gun.

Will hit the ground just behind him and lifted his own rifle. Something metallic caught the sunlight on the other side of the gulley, up on the ridge where the commies were watching them.

They both fired.

Will had killed men up close in this war. He was very familiar with the sound of a bullet penetrating flesh. But he couldn’t believe it, not at first, when he felt the sting in his leg, and knew that he was the one who’d been hit. His knee buckled and he went down in the snow, still gamely clutching his rifle. Something had been severed in his leg, something important that held him up.

Then he heard the sound again. Beside him. And then–

“Finn!”

His friend crumpled, boneless, like so much dirty laundry across the snow.

Will was dimly aware of the rest of the boys spilling from the truck and returning fire on the ridge. For his own part, he dropped his rifle and reached for Finn.

He sat down hard in the snow and rolled Finn toward him, onto his back, dragged his limp form up into his lap.

His eyes were open, rolling wildly. His breath came in quick, wet gasps. The wound was in his chest, and there was blood, so much blood, pulsing red and thick up through the hole in his jacket. Will pressed his palm over it and willed the bleeding to stop.

“Finn, Finn.” His friend’s eyes came to his face and he let out a long, low breath that was almost a moan. But he focused. He locked onto the moment. “Just breathe,” Will told him, stupidly. “Just breathe, it’ll be fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.You’re fine.”

“Hey.” Finn smiled. He coughed and there was blood in his teeth.

“Hi,” Will said back, and his eyes burned. He blinked and blinked, but they kept burning. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“I know.” Finn’s voice was dreamy. His eyes fluttered shut. “You’ve always got me.” His chest rattled and sputtered under Will’s hand.

“Please,” Will whispered, “Finn, please.”

But he took one last, gasping breath. And then he was quiet.

///

The shooting stopped.

“We got ‘em,” someone said, voice seeming to come from a long, long way off.

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