Recoil

11

An AK fired a rapid burst from behind him, and the guy piled into me, arms outstretched, flattening us against the mud.

I struggled free.

Tim lay behind me, fighting the pain after dragging himself off the cot. He still gripped the weapon, his face showing the same grim determination with which I held on to Sunday’s bony little wrists.

I knelt down and held his face between my hands. ‘It’s OK. You’re safe.’ I smiled. He stared back, not understanding a word. But maybe he felt it.

Sam was going ballistic. ‘Where are you, Nick? Come on!’

I threw Sunday over my shoulder, and legged it back to my position. I wasn’t going to let him feel abandoned.

Sam was firing forwards and bodies were piled in front of him. His tracer didn’t even have time to ignite as it hammered into others, less than a hundred away. His gun pointed down the knoll and he was almost lying across the front of the trench to get the line of fire.

I dropped Sunday into the trench next to me.

Sam sprayed another burst into the frenzied incomers. ‘We’re losing it, Nick!’

I grabbed the sat phone. ‘Lex, you still got your fuel on board?’

‘Always, man.’

‘We got them a hundred away and closing. Listen in.’ I told him what I needed.

‘Roger that, man. Orbiting right. Coming in from the west.’

‘I don’t give a shit about that, mate – just get here.’

They scrambled up the slippery knoll. Some still fired weapons as they climbed, others brandished gollocks.

I killed men and kids in wellington boots and trainers, jeans and shorts. All of them screamed, so high and so loud they seemed oblivious to our guns. We dropped them like targets in a video game, and as soon as they fell, others immediately took their places.