The crimson sun beat wave after excruciating wave of heat down on the top of Floyd’s helmet. His brow trickling sweat down, stinging his eyes. His muscles twitched, begging him to wipe his face, but he refused to move, forcing his hands to stay firmly attached to his gun. His desert brown Army slacks radiated the searing Afghanistan heat throughout his uniform. He glanced down the sights of his rifle, scanning for a target. His ears were still ringing out of his head, the dust drifted through the alley like a brown hazy fog, and the clink of shrapnel and glass echoed around the blast radius of the grenade. The extremist from whence the grenade came exploded from the dust cloud, AK at attention, yelling praises to his god in a foreign tongue. Floyd’s gun snapped in his direction, aiming right for center mass, unleashing a three round burst from his rifle. The rounds found their mark and the man fell to the ground, his radical tongue falling silent forever.

Floyd, after making sure the man was dead, inspected his surroundings, checking to insure his safety. The wall next to him crumbled; imploded inward where the grenade had went off, leaving someone’s bedroom wide open, the bed and ornate carpets covered in debris. The dust settled, giving Floyd a full view of the grotesque and mutilated body in front of him. It was Johnson, his one and only remaining squad member, laying in a pool of his own blood, his arm distorted at an unnatural angle. He had taken point, leading the way through the alley; they hadn’t seen the grenade until it was too late. Johnson took most of the blast, sending him flying into the wall. He laid face down, his helmet blown off to the side, allowing the gentle breeze to flow through his short black hair. Floyd knelt down and respectfully removed his own helmet before taking a deep breath and flipping Johnson over, onto his back. The grenade had been relentless, and Floyd would’ve gagged at the sight of the carnage if he hadn’t seen worse things already. Even Floyd, a hardened Marine, couldn’t help but let a small trail of tears pour out at the grisly look of his fallen comrade. He pulled himself together, yanking the dog tags off Johnsons neck and stuffing them in his pocket with the rest.

The whole mission was a disaster, it was supposed to be a simple breach and clear, take out a high value target and go home, the “Mission to end the war” it was called. The team of six would surprise the terrorist leader Muhammed Al-dubodi in his home, a risky gamble, but, “worth the shot” according to the brass. They walked right into an ambush, two of them were taken out just like that. They couldn’t risk putting the chopper down, so with no way of getting out by air, they had to flee from behind enemy lines, making the long trip back to the safe zone. With no support and the overwhelming numbers of the enemy, they were slowly being picked off one by one. In the four hour trek they had taken, Johnson was hit by the grenade. Rodriguez never had a chance, the sniper saw her first. And Wilson…Wilson didn’t get to cover in time. Floyd knew that he couldn’t spend time to reflect, the noise of the battle would bring them like roaches. He had to move, or it would be his life next.

The sand blasted buildings zoomed past as Floyd sprinted down the street. The sky’s horizon lit up like a ring of fire as the tired sun fell down below the desert, leaving the eerie moon alone with the speckles of stars. Floyd knew he had to rest before he collapsed. Ducking into an abandoned café, he made a quick sweep of the small rooms. After he was positive there were no unwanted occupants, he drifted into a tiny bedroom that shot out from behind the counter of the café. He dumped the contents of a wardrobe onto the ground and arranged the clothes into a haphazard nest. Floyd crawled in, laying his rifle by his side and his combat knife under his makeshift pillow.

Before he let his eyes give in and snap shut, he kissed the crucifix around his neck and sent up a silent prayer that he’d wake up safe the next morning. His last thought before losing consciousness was of hunting with his father as a child, and as he listened to the rabid calls of the extremists in the distance like the wild dogs of Africa, he realized he was the prey this time. The thought terrified him.

*****

When his eyes opened again, the sun streamed through the cracks in the door. With a stifled groan, Floyd sat up. The dirt and sweat on his body had caked on in the night and made his aching muscles even stiffer. When he was done stretching and rubbing his sore thigh, he picked up his gun and knife and peaked through the cracks in the door. Outside, the café was empty; the dust from the street blew in through the open front door. The sound of footsteps and whispered voices ebbed through the door, and from one of the back rooms, two men armed with rifles and grenades strolled out. The one on the left laughed and hit the other playfully on the shoulder, making obscene gestures for their amusement. The other, slightly older and more rugged, chuckled with a cigar hanging out of his mouth, the puffs of smoke escaping from his lips. Obviously in no hurry, they started for the door Floyd was hiding behind. Knowing the only way this could end, Floyd backed up and lined the sights of his rifle to the center of the door.

He waited. He waited for what seemed like hours, listening to the footsteps and voices growing closer and closer. The sound of his own blood pounding in his ears faded away and the cool burst of adrenaline into his body made him feel like the whole world was in slow motion. And as the doorknob began to twist, Floyd took a deep breath and unleashed round after round through the thin wood. After his clip was spent, he rolled out of the way, in case someone returned fire through the door, and reloaded his weapon. When a minute or two of silence had passed, Floyd started inching toward the splintering door.
Grasping the knob in his hand, rifle at attention, Floyd ripped open the door. Both men lay at his feet, covered in blood. The older one, his cigar still burning at his side, looked over to the wall with his dead glazed eyes. The younger one, who could be no older than nineteen, was still alive, his hand clutching a wound on his upper abdomen. He groaned with squeezed, teary eyes as the bullet hole seeped blood at an alarming rate. Floyd grimaced and stepped over the bodies, taking a stride to the front door before sighing and turning back to them. He raised his rifle to the suffering boy, whispered for forgiveness, and ended his misery with one swift pull of the trigger.

Floyd moved as fast as he safely could, checking his corners hastily. The sun was just as unforgiving as the day before, and the heat only made his trek even more miserable. He went over the route he had to take over and over in his mind. The barren streets all looked the same to him, but Floyd knew that if he kept up his pace now, he could reach a safe zone by nightfall. The motivation for safety drove him on, and he swore to himself that once he got home, he would never leave the country again. While running down a narrower back street, something surprised Floyd. He saw it first. The air in front of him transformed and sparkled with a red mist. Then he heard it. A sickening bang, an all too familiar sound to Floyd, but yet one he couldn’t identify. And finally, he felt it as his brain relayed what was happening. A paralyzing white hot pain as a bullet tore through the right side of his chest. Floyd had been shot. His body flew forward and down into the dirt, knocking what little wind he had left, out of him. Gasping, Floyd tried to think, but the pain was unbearable and made even that task impossible. He watched as the grains of sand in front of him soaked with blood, his blood. It was an almost fascinating sight, one that sent a chill down his spine. His mind cleared for a brief moment and Floyd found the energy to reach for his breast pocket, from it he pulled a picture that he looked at with blurry eyes. He let his gaze drift over his wife’s features, her hair, her eyes, her lips. He saw all his memories with her flash by as his eyes drifted farther down. He stared at where his daughters smiling face should’ve been, where it always had been. He drew a shaky breath at the sight of his crimson blood staining the photo, lusting to once again see where she had lost her front teeth. She was so proud that day. And as his lungs drew in one last breath, Floyd let his hand clutch around the photo, and murmured a soft…

  “I’m so sorry…”