Роберт Уилсон - Days Since... - Thomas - Day 758

“Hey!” A stern voice called out from the woods. Thomas and Riley snapped their rifles level and spun toward the camp, backing steadily toward cover.

“Where’s he?” Riley whispered—their shoulders touched as they peered out from either side of a large tree.

The night vision placed the man near the tents on the north side of the camp. “A good ways out. He’s got his rifle hanging from the sling.”

“What are you doing? Crappin’?” The guard raised his voice. “Turn your damned flashlight on, so we’s can see ya out there, or I’m comin’ to check on ya.”

Riley dove toward the body, and Thomas followed—the two of them scrambled for the light. “Where the hell is it?” Riley muttered, clearly struggling to find it among the twigs and debris of the forest floor.

“It’s got to—”

“Here.” Riley switched it on and waved the flashlight’s beam toward the guard as if his arm had turned to rubber.

“Alright! Alright! Just hurry it up already.” The guard seemed satisfied enough, and Thomas watched him stagger off into a nearby tent.

“We have about ten minutes,” Thomas said. “Bring that light over here just a bit. Let’s check this guy out real fast, but be careful not to shine us.” Thomas took hold of the shoulder and rolled the body toward him. The light cast a slight glimmer upon the face, revealing what immediately made his heart sink. A lump swelled within his throat. Scotty… Lost within the vacant stare of his eyes, the scar across his cheek, he tried to clear the obstruction but couldn’t. He never stood a chance with this crew.

Around Scotty’s neck, dirt caked the blood leaking from a well-placed laceration—the throat sliced from ear to ear. Riley took to the young man’s pockets again, completely unfazed by any of this. An iron man. A man without emotion. I don’t want to be like that. Thomas grabbed hold of Riley’s wrists. “Shut off the damn light.”

“What?” Riley asked. “Cause he’s a kid?”

“No, it’s just—” The night hid Thomas’s true feelings as he took his hand across Scotty’s eyes. This poor kid. I can’t… Thomas stopped himself. These weren’t the thoughts of a Soldier. Death would become part of his everyday life. Hell, it already had. Get over it! This isn’t you anymore. You can’t care for everything and everyone. He let one last silent breath escape from his lips. Never again will you feel like this. Moral killing is your duty now. “Don’t worry about it,” he snapped. “You find anything on him?”

“Just the flashlight.”

“Sure he didn’t have a weapon?” Thomas stood from Scotty’s side and swept his foot over the immediate area. “He had an AK earlier.”

“He didn’t have one, not even a pistol on him.” Riley patted along his body once more just to be sure. “Yep, nothing.”

“James… James…” Thomas hissed into the woods behind them. “James… get up here.”

“Yeah,” he whispered back, unexpectedly standing with them. “We ready?”

“Give it a second.” Thomas eyed the camp. Only occasionally did any sign of life emerge, a shadow here and there, passing before the flames in the distance. A still silence—the moans and laughter that floated through the camp earlier in the day were gone. Everyone, either asleep or occupied with tending to their post, left the site in peace for the moment. “Alright.”

The three formed up like they had before and beelined toward the middle of the camp. It took shape as they drew near. The lines of tents. The gazebo. The trucks. Fortunately, from this distance, the camp produced no additional concerns. It was still as it appeared from a distance—a few unattended campfires.

Thomas raised his fist, halting the advance. He carefully slid the ruck from his shoulders and onto the ground. James and Riley knelt down with him as he pulled the Molotov’s from inside. A deep breath. He handed two of the bottles to James. “Those there,” Thomas whispered while he pointed to a cluster of tents just outside the treeline. “I got these here.” He swallowed. “And nothing anywhere near the women’s tents to the left of that blue one there. Riley, you’re with me. We have three minutes. This is it. James, keep your eyes on me. I’ll flick my lighter on as the signal. Respond with the same, then we light and throw.”

“On it.”

James slid off to the right, and Thomas and Riley moved straight ahead. Behind that little raised area will be perfect.

Once their position was secured, they waited for what Thomas believed to be a sufficient amount of time for James to get to his. Here we go. His thumb popped the lid to the Zippo, producing that self-gratifying clink, and he struck the wheel. His flame held reliably, but there was nothing from his counterpart. What the hell? Maybe I don’t have the angle. Thomas took measured steps toward where James should have been. Finally, another flicker in the distance. Here we go!

Like clockwork, they lit the rags, and the bottles soared end over end into the sky one after the other. The spiraling flames were hypnotic, up and then down, down against the earth. A rush of flame as the bottles burst—a blue pursuit of heat across the ground as the fluid spewed forth, saturating the tents and surrounding grass and brush with fire. Two distinct gunshots rang out south of them and several more from the west. The camp had been ripped from its slumber.

Holy Shit! Thomas held for a moment, watching the devastation of the Molotov’s engulf their intended targets. The tents deflated, melting and trapping some of the guards within them while others rose from this hell as tormented bodies wrapped in flames. “Hold this line!” Thomas shouted, his voice challenged by the panicked cries tearing through the night. Smoke lifting from the curling grass and nylon tents provided a foul-smelling screen of concealment for James and Riley as they went straight to work. Their rifles sounded, and the muzzle flashes danced through the tree line as they broke up their shot pattern. They got this. On to phase two.

Thomas took his ruck, swung it wildly onto his back, and raced to connect with Delta team as the sound of gunfire followed him deeper into the woods. Know that you’re not alone out here. Sign. Hawk. Countersign. Dove. He repeated it with every step until it became his cadence along that overgrown trail he took earlier in the day. Flashes of familiarity guided him over a few fallen trees—ducking between twigs and brush as best he could in the dark. As he neared the ridge that overlooked the western service road, he stopped and took a deep breath in an attempt to collect himself. Getting close. A few more shots ahead of him, measured in their spacing, precision shots, but not effective enough to prevent the barrage that countered. Delta team hasn’t pushed through yet.

Another volley. A bullet buzzed past, and Thomas slammed his body against the nearest tree. Two more shots toward him. He took his rifle into a crook where the branch met with the trunk to return fire, but there was nothing. Crack!The bark ripped from the tree just overhead. Thomas’s face met with the dirt. Delta’s shots are coming from downhill! He hugged his rifle and rolled headlong down the face of the ridge as more shots peppered his last position. He high crawled, taking the soggy ditch that paralleled the road over a slight hill that descended toward the rear of the guard post. Crack! Crack!The muzzle fire gave away Delta team’s position, but the Butcher’s men were overwhelmed and in no position to view it.

Thomas watched them through his scope, zeroing in on the guards as they panicked, unsettled. One of the men tilted on his knee, his other leg extended, quite possibly hit from an initial shot. Despite that, both of them managed to prop their rifles over the barricade, pulling their triggers with no eyes to observe where the bullets struck. The crude tactic seemed to be working as Delta team thus far had been unable to meet their objective.