Trauma

CHAPTER 12

After prying his eyes open, Steve Abington could not make sense of what he saw. He knew this place intimately, but for the life of him could not figure out how he had returned. The last thing he remembered was — was what? Nothing came to mind. He felt as if he had been living in absolute darkness, the blackest infinity, until this very moment, until light flooded his eyes and he saw again the desolate farm field where it all began.

Abington tried to stand, but he felt weighed down. It took a moment to realize he was wearing an ILBE pack, one so fully packed he had to hunch over while getting to his feet.

He also held a rifle, an M4 rifle fitted with an M68 red-dot optic. Where had that come from? And what else did he have on? Cautiously, Abington reached up and felt the Kevlar of an advanced combat helmet. He wore a MultiCam pattern uniform, too. How did that get on him? Why was he here? He thought he was through with all this.

“Steve. Steve, can you hear me?”

Abington spun in a tight circle, but saw no one. The voice, one he did not recognize, came out of the ether. He circled once more, and this time noticed foxholes, several of them. Nearby stood a makeshift structure, like a tree stand but on the ground. It was covered in green camo netting, and he thought he remembered putting it together. It was a command operation center, which meant this place must be the security outpost for Forward Operating Base Darwin. Yes, of course it was. There was the tree line, a hundred meters out. Beyond those trees, the snowcapped Hindu Kush mountain range cut a jagged tear across an endless azure horizon. If he walked west about two klicks, Abington was sure he’d find the remote roadway his squad had been patrolling. The Taliban were setting IEDs along the MSR — main supply route — and his unit used that road to make a quick exit.

“Steve!”

That voice again. Bodiless. Everywhere and nowhere. Where was it coming from?

Lightning bolts erupted behind his eyes, making Abington’s head throb. He trotted over to the nearest foxhole. The sunglasses tinted the world, but shielded his eyes against a steady wind’s peppering of sand and dirt. Inside the spray of dust, thousands of chiggers and sand fleas took flight in search of soft targets.

“Steve.”

The voice. Was it in his head? Had he gone crazy? Had he never actually left this godforsaken place?

“Hello!” Abington called. His voice had the grit of sandpaper, and his throat felt as dry as the ground. So dry. So thirsty. “Is anybody here?”

The wind swallowed Abington’s words. He crouched and dug his hands into the hard earth. It felt real. He managed to rake up a small pile of dirt using the tips of his fingers. This was how he described the country to anyone who asked: dirt, piles of dirt, dirt everywhere you looked. The soil carried fungus that blew deep into blast wounds to fester and take away limbs that otherwise could have been saved. How was he back in this hellhole? Back guarding FOB Darwin. Had he ever even left?

Abington remembered. He remembered everything about living here, including his squad. But where was everybody?

His gaze fell back to the parched earth, and Abington saw a scorpion crawling by his feet. He crushed it beneath the heel of his well-worn military boot with a satisfying crunch. But what he really wanted to crush was the Taliban. A familiar burning hatred boiled up, warming Abington like Kentucky’s best bourbon. There was no better feeling than sending coordinates up the satellite link and watching the ground evaporate where the hardware dropped.

This was a backward country: no real infrastructure. No proper roads. Nothing here except for dirt, and caves, and Taliban. The only thing the Taliban respected was battle. They trained their young children to kill, and in their downtime played polo with dead animals. Pure savagery. Neanderthals with guns.

Abington searched the horizon for any signs of life. This was a Tier 1 area, no civilians allowed. Any person with a full beard and loose-fitting robes could be legitimately engaged. But the landscape was as barren as the surface of Mars. He was alone. All alone.

“Do you see it, Steve? Do you see what’s happening?”

Abington readied his rifle and trained the weapon in all directions. His eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth like cobra fangs. He could see nothing but dirt, trees, and the mountains in the distance.

“He must be seeing it,” the voice said.

“I … I don’t see it.” Abington’s voice came out as a whisper.

“It’s there, Steve. You can see it. You can see everything.”

Abington glanced at the foxholes and caught a flash of movement from inside one of them. Was it just his shadow? How could that be? The sun was in front of him. Could he have imagined it? Abington moved cautiously toward that foxhole, his weapon at the ready.

“Is anybody in there?” Abington called out. “Hello!”

Abington took another step forward, then another. He could see a shape now. The silhouette of a figure, but it shimmered like a mirage. Abington advanced a couple more feet.

From out of nowhere, a tracer whizzed above his head. In an instant the air erupted with the sounds of gunfire snapping all around him. Bursts from a Russian PKM machine gun crackled in Abington’s ears, rattling his teeth. Bullets pocked the earth, and shattered rock sprayed in all directions. Abington heard a whistle above him, like a screech from a bird of prey, followed by a loud thud somewhere to his back. An ear-splitting boom came next, causing the ground to shake beneath his feet.

Abington turned and saw two billowing dust clouds no more than twenty yards away. This was Afghanistan. One moment all was quiet, and the next it was chaos.

From the foxhole somebody shouted. “RPGs! RPGs!”

Abington broke into a sprint. The foxhole was safety. As he neared, a different shadowy figure lurched up from another hole, and flashes exploded from his rifle. A second later several mortars landed close by and Abington heard shrapnel bounce off the heavy armor of some parked trucks. Wait, had those trucks been there before? Not now. Questions for another time.

Abington dove headfirst into the closest foxhole. He hit the hard ground and felt the breath leave his body. Shockwaves from gunfire and erupting mortar punctured the air and echoed across the bleak landscape. The foxhole had room for two, and the man Abington had joined returned fire with his M16.

“Steve! Start shooting! Unless you’re hit, put that gun to use, hombre!”

Hombre. Only one person called him that. Abington squinted and his eyes strained. He could not see the man’s face clearly, but he recognized the thin build and knew that reedy voice anywhere. PFC Rich Phillips — Roach — who, like the bug, couldn’t seem to be killed. Eventually the man came into clear focus, and the specter with the M16 was his best friend, all right. The same guy whose guts Abington had stuffed back into his blown-open stomach right after an RPG struck their foxhole.

“Steve? What is it? What are you seeing?” The disembodied voice again.

“Look at his face,” another voice said. “He’s right there.”