Page 2 of Lost Lyrebird
We both freeze at the sound of movement.
“Jesus!Ahh… my leg!My fucking leg!”
Our heads snap to the back of the Humvee.Larsen is sitting upright.He’s covered in blood and soot.
“Damn, Lars.I thought you were a goner,” Rivers says, crawling into the back so he can reach him.“Hey—calm down.Don’t touch it,” he scolds.
“My fuckin’ leg, Riv.”
Rivers digs through the supplies and gets to work, trying to stabilize what’s left of Larsen’s leg.It’s a goddamn mess—barely held together.This is just a stopgap, and we all know it.
At one point, Larsen hisses, “Just leave me.”
“Shut up,” Rivers snaps, not looking up from his work.“None of that shit.”
“I’m seriou—”
“We’re all getting out of here,” I cut him off.When that doesn’t stave off Larsen’s panic, I add,
“Nico and Sasha.They need you, man.You give up now, you’re giving up on them.Don’t you want to see their faces again?”
Larsen’s eyes meet mine and hold.He sucks in a long breath, then nods rapidly to Rivers.His nostrils flare as his pain-fueled despair slowly subsides.“Okay, do what you need to do.”
Seeing the will to live come back into his eyes floods me with relief.And though it hurts like hell to move, I do.I push through the pain to get closer to him and clasp his hand with mine, and pour every ounce of my strength into him.He squeezes my hand in a death grip to make it through the worst of it.
Rivers works fast as Larsen curses him out, all the while muttering, “Push through, Lars.We’ll get you back to your wife and kid.”
When Rivers finishes, he patches me up, and then we address the next problem.He can’t carry both of us, and neither of us can stand, much less walk.I tell him to take Larsen first and come back for me.He doesn’t like it, but he follows my orders.
Rivers gears up, loading himself with weapons and ammo, then drags Larsen to the doorway and prepares to make a run for it.Before they disappear, he looks back over his shoulder, and his blue eyes lock with mine.“Hang tight, Sarg.I’ll be back for you before you know it.”
I nod and say, “Go.Get him out.”
To Larsen, River says, “On three.I’ll be your legs.You fire every round you’ve got at those motherfuckers.”
The second they’re gone, I start praying—hard—that some guardian angel is watching over them, helping them dodge the bullets I know are coming.Then I sit alone in what feels like a metal coffin surrounded by the dead, and hope like my life depends on it that I don’t become one of them.
I wake to a fog—real or in my head, I can’t tell.
Did Rivers get us out?
I force myself to sit up fully, testing my body for damage.Pain ripples through me—sharp but also distant, like a knife buried too deep for too long.My legs tingle, my muscles still scream in protest.But it’s duller, as if I’m numbed from it.
Off-balance and trembling, I manage to get to my feet.
“Finn.”
I shiver at the sound of the voice.I tell myself it has to be off due to the echo.But why is he talking so low, so quiet?And why is he using my given name?
“I’m here, man.Where you at?”
“Finn.”
“Yeah, man.Right here,” I call out again.
The more I focus on the voice, the clearer it becomes.The deep, raspy baritone strikes an old chord, triggering memories.This isn’t Rivers.And I have no business hearing this voice, because the man it belongs to I buried only a few short months ago.
My senses scramble to make sense of the thick fog around me, searching for movement, something to orient myself.I try clearing the mist with a sweep of my arm, but each time, more haze fills the space.
