Another explosion shook the ground under Marc’s feet. He didn’t hesitate this time and ran down the street. He ducked behind the crushed, burned out car. It straddled the curb, the front end smashed into a dented light post. Marc counted to ten and ran out from cover again.
Up ahead at the end of the street he could see the trench the soldiers had dug. A low barricade blocked off the road beyond. Marc saw the bobbing heads of the soldiers as they moved along the trench. One of the men stole a glance back at Marc and waved him over, yelling.
“Medic! We need a medic over here!” he screamed, his voice already raw and tired.
Marc ran forward, staying low with his arms up close to his face. He desperately tried to ignore the snap, whiz sound of bullets passing him. The last few feet Marc slid on his knees and stumbled into the trench.
One of the soldiers, Marc recognized him – Torres, helped him to his feet and directed him to a badly injured soldier. The man took some shrapnel in that last barrage; a jagged gash ran down the side of his neck. Marc quickly shuffled through the contents of his satchel until he found the bandages. He looked at the soldier’s jacket, at the name tag stitched over the left breast pocket.
“Anthony? I need you to look at me, focus on me for a second,” Marc said as calmly as he could. He continued to clean and dress the man’s wound as he spoke. “Are you hit anywhere else? Squeeze my hand. Anthony?”
The man’s eyes stayed unfocused and wide, staring at the smoke filled sky overhead. When he began to convulse Marc and another Torres held his arms down. He was a big man, which made it difficult. Continue reading
