Blake was checking the perimeter,
the sun having just sunk beneath the horizon.
When he heard the shots, he cut into the field. Finding immediate coverage overruled his desire
to go back for his gear. Instinctually, he
disappeared quickly and silently.
The shots rang out from
the west.
Pop.
Pop.
Pop.
One shot every five
seconds or so. He began to run, steady
and measured. Several minutes later, he
heard another round of gunfire, closer and clustered together coming from the
southeast.
Pop
pop pop pop pop.
He stopped and sank low. The stuttering noise of what sounded like
automatic weapons caused his heart to sink.
He only had his Beretta. However,
even though he was hidden at the moment, crouching near the soft ground, a single
spray of bullets would eventually find him.
He hunched low and began
walking quickly north. Pop pop.
He had to keep moving, only hoping he
was headed in a direction away from the gunfire.
A rigid branch crunched
quietly as he shouldered his way deeper into the field, soft tassels brushing
his cheek.
He thought about the last
time he saw Tommy; he had been coloring at their kitchen table. When Blake placed his hand on his son’s small
shoulder, he looked over and saw the picture was of the American flag. It was messy and child-like, but there was no
mistaking the reds, blues, and blank white spaces marking the familiar stars
and stripes. He could still feel the
softness of the boy’s husk-colored hair, streaks of blonde brightened in the
summer, just like his mother’s.
There was a sharp pain
behind his right eye pulsing with his heartbeat, his vision beginning to blur. Shaking his head and looking behind him, he
saw the field went on and on with rows like black tunnels, bordering high
stalks stretching high and thick.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
He felt the explosions in
his chest, rattling his ribcage. The
early July heat was fierce and unrelenting, his undershirt soaked in sweat. The sky was now black, and the vegetation so
dense and straight and unmoving in the still night air. Suddenly, there was beam of light, quick and
fleeting. It was yellow and artificial,
swinging back and forth quickly, searching.
He decided to run in the
opposite direction, and after fifteen seconds, he heard their voices. They were yelling, high with tongues rolling. He figured they were about a hundred yards away. Because he only had his handgun, he was able
to run much faster than he would have with his rifle and full body armor. But because of this nakedness, he needed to
find somewhere to hide before the band arrived.
Blake cut in and out and between
the high growth of the field, trying to avoid bending any stalks and branches
which would leave a trail. Then he heard
Sara’s voice causing him to stop.
“Blake!”
This happened all the
time. He imagined hearing his wife at
the worst of times, usually deep in the middle of combat.
“Blake! Where are you!?”
It was both distracting
and comforting. He pushed it away and
started running. He couldn’t afford to
be distracted, not when he was this vulnerable.
Pop.
The gunfire sounded
further now and less frequent. Feeling
he was in a good position, he slowed to a walk, his shoulders hunched, his
pistol raised. Suddenly, gunfire was
everywhere. It was closer now, above and
behind him, no more than fifty yards away.
He stopped, unsure which way to run.
There was a snap of a stalk
broken behind him. He spun and fired
once. Nothing. There was only an empty row staring blankly
in front of him.
A searing pain abruptly
shot behind both of his eyes followed by a wave of nausea so intense he doubled
over and nearly fell to his knees. He
tasted char and red meat. Five
seconds. Ten seconds. He was wasting too much time. He knew he had to keep moving, they were too
close, there were too many of them.
Boom.
Pop,
pop.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
His mouth was sour with
sick, his head pounding. Every direction
he ran, it seemed he was running towards a new enemy with the others right
behind him.
His right eye went dark. The pain in his head was so severe he thought
he was going to pass out. He stumbled half-blind, feeling a ridge on either
side of his feet. He didn’t know whether
to trust this path or try and fight his way through the thin trees on either
side.
“Blake!”
He wished his wife’s
voice was real, feeling the tears stream down his face. Something caught his foot and tripped him to
the ground, his face slamming down hard.
His breath caught in his chest, and he wondered if he should just lay
there, waiting for it to be over. He was
so close to giving up.
“BLAKE!”
He flipped over, the
yellow light blinding his remaining left eye, and fired. POP.
The light swayed for a
moment, slightly right then left, then fell to the earth. Blake sat up slowly, and crawled towards the
body. The flashlight was pointing at the
person’s feet. They were small and
narrow, wearing red Keds. He followed
the lean tan legs to a denim skirt, then a white tank top with an American
flag, blood staining and stretching out from the dark hole in the center of the
chest. He couldn’t see her face at
first. Then, it glowed red. Pop. Then blue. Pop. Then green into purple,
pop pop,, and with a deep and
overhead boom, it glowed white. Sara’s eyes were wide, staring up from the
ground of their Iowa cornfield, the fireworks scattered in the sky.
