Run for Cover

"He pulled the pin."

"What?"

"He pulled the pin!"

"Holy cra-"

"Run!"

Ross didn't need a second order. He took off.

Crash!!! Tables and trays laden with an array of scalpels, forceps, and syringes tumbled to the floor. Bottles of anesthetic shattered on the ground as Ross and his fellow Staff Sergeant bolted to the doorway. They knocked over anything in their path, racing for their lives.

Ross had fallen a step behind. He had been standing further from the door when Staff Sergeant Rogers alerted him, and it had taken him a second to process. Now he was following Rogers full speed through the camouflaged netting and out into the arid Afghan sun.

"Run for cover!" Rogers was screaming at the top of his lungs. All around, those within earshot looked up. Soldiers, civilians, and children took one glance at the two army medics running like madmen and immediately joined the fray. These people had lived here long enough to know not to question, just to react. Quickly. They didn't need to know why they were running, they just knew to run.

Ross was running faster than he ever had in his life. He knew he could outrun the blast. Hand grenades only had an impact radius of about 16 feet. But shrapnel was the real worry. It could tear him apart, pierce his skull, sear his flesh. Every step he took further from the tent would give him a greater chance of survival. If he could make it to the ledge, he would probably escape with little injury. The Afghan landscape was dry, hard, and rocky. Made for minimal cover and increased debris in the event of an explosion. But the ledge provided a few feet of coverage. If he could make it far enough to jump down over the ledge and into the ditch beyond it, he would be fine. Fifty more yards. He guessed he had about eight seconds until it blew. He could make it.

As he ran, he looked around himself, the images barely visible. Everything was broken up, distorted. He saw fragments of buildings, tents, and tanks fly by him. Dust flew everywhere as men, women, and children fled before him and followed behind him. Though his vision was blurred, sounds were clear.

He could hear his heart beating, his boots thumping on the dirt below him, shouts of the troops and local families around him. Above all, he heard Rogers, shouting to everyone to duck and cover. "Don't stop, don't stop!"

Forty more yards. Ross was pushing himself to run faster, harder.

"Get to the ledge, get to the ledge." He told himself, trying to focus. But he couldn't shut out the thoughts. Thoughts about everything. Everything from the last 6 and a half hours, that is. It was replaying in his mind over and over. All the details still clear as day. He couldn't stop it.

"Run! Just run! Quit thinking!" He tried to ignore them. They came anyway. And they kept coming. Fast. So fast he didn't have time to process one before another replaced it. It was like a series of flashbacks in his mind. He shook his head in an attempt to stop it all. It was too much. Too painful. Thirty more yards.

He tried to rid himself of the regret. And then one thought came which didn't immediately vanish. One he couldn't shake. "It's my fault." As he ran, Ross replayed the last few hours in his head. He recalled the reconnaissance mission, his team trekking into enemy territory to gather intel. He remembered the feeling that something was wrong. He remembered ignoring it; thinking it was first mission nerves. And then he remembered the shot. He heard it. He looked to his right in time to see his best friend drop to his knees. "Marcus!" he yelled. He reached out to catch him, only to be met by the numb, vacant stare of a young Afghan boy.

"Keep going!" Rogers' voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned now to his left to see Rogers herding others around him towards the ledge. He had been daydreaming. Sort of. Marcus was indeed gone. But it had happened four hours ago. Right before they were caught in the middle of a fire fight with a group of Taliban soldiers. They killed Marcus. Then, after hours of intense fighting, they retreated. But what had it cost?

Now Ross and his team were the ones running. Twenty more yards.

He was waiting for the sound of the explosion. Any second now there would be a deafening boom, followed by an array of vicious debris traveling at 3,000 feet per second in all directions. "It had to be the med tent," he was talking to himself now. The tent filled with the most valuable and potentially destructive materials on base.

"I'm not gonna make it." Ross muttered to himself as he slowed his pace. What was the point? It was all his fault. What right did he have to live now? He was the one who didn't warn Marcus, his commanding officer. He was the one who carried the wounded Taliban soldier back to base. He was the one who should have checked him for weapons after laying him down in the med tent. He was the one who didn't notice the grenade in his hand. And now, he was the one to blame. He felt so much guilt and despair. He hadn't meant for this to happen. He was only trying to save a life. Now dozens of people were about to be killed or hurt because of his actions. Because he made a mistake. Tears began to form in his eyes as he slowed even more.

They didn't deserve this; but he did. He deserved to me blown to smithereens along with the soldier in the tent. Ross stopped for a moment. Ten more yards. The ledge was so close.

Straight ahead was Rogers, safe behind the ledge and surrounded by others who had also reached the ledge in time. He had poked his head up and was pointing at something and yelling. Ross couldn't hear what he was saying. It was a jumble of unknown words and sounds to him. He managed to turn around towards whatever Rogers was so vehemently pointing at.

There, halfway between Ross the tent was a young girl. She stood frozen to the ground, crying. “No.” In that instant, he pushed away all the remorse and fear in his mind and ran back towards the girl. He ran with all his might.

And then the explosion. There was a brilliant flash of light, a booming noise surrounded him. The ground shook violently and launched him forward. He saw the ground and the sky spin in front of him. He was in midair. Thump! The spinning stopped. Everything stopped. His whole body was matted to the ground. He couldn’t move. And then everything went dark. 

Ross could hear voices. He opened his eyes to see the sun blocked by people. Someone was asking him something. He didn't know what they were saying. Someone else was touching him. It hurt.

"No! Stop it!" He was yelling at them, but they wouldn't listen. They couldn't hear him. "Ow, no, stop, please!" He wanted it quiet, he wanted stillness. He wanted the pain to stop. "Go, leave me!" He shouted. But still no one moved. "Stop, please, no, don't!" It was useless; they kept torturing him. Everything was painful. The sounds, the movements, his body. It all hurt. All he wanted was for it all to stop! To end! To be left alone! Why weren't they listening? Couldn't they see he was in agony? And then, finally, it started to fade. 

The noises died down; he couldn't see anymore. His body felt numb. He was slipping into a state of unconsciousness. But he wasn't scared. It felt good, comfortable. He longed for it. He let it take over his body, his sensed. He gave himself to it, and it took him. And he was gone.