Brett Battles - Little Girl Gone

Daeng got the lower.

Since the train would be making stops throughout the night, they agreed to split the time into two-hour shifts so that one of them would always be awake. Logan had first shift, and took a train-length walk every thirty minutes to keep his focus.

It was odd how quiet everything had become. With the exception of his new Irish friends, it seemed like the whole train was asleep. Even the porters and the people who’d been working in the now closed restaurant were nowhere to be found.

The three from Ireland—Barry, Brian, and Saoirse, pronounced Searsha —were camped out on one of the lower berths.

“Kicked out of the dining car when it closed,” Brian told Logan. “You can walk through, but you can’t sit there any longer. Who closes a dining car at ten?”

Every time Logan passed, they’d offer him a beer, and try to coax him into sitting so they could talk about the places they’d visited, and the ones they were still planning on seeing. The beer he passed on, but a couple of times he stayed for a few minutes to pass the time.

The only cars he avoided were the front two first class ones, in the closest of which was Aaron and the others’ cabin. No sense in pressing his luck.

When the train stopped at a station, he always made sure he was at least two cars deep in second class, so that when he stepped onto the platform—not much more than concrete slabs in front of most of the station buildings—he would be less noticeable if the others stepped out, too.

When midnight came, he switched with Daeng, and tried to get a little sleep.

It only felt like seconds, though, before Daeng was shaking his shoulder, and they switched places again.

At the sink, Logan splashed water on his face, then started his walk.

The Irish backpackers had apparently decided enough was enough, because the curtain was pulled over the berth they’d been sitting in, and the area was quiet. Logan half wondered if they’d knocked out on their own, or if it had been “suggested” by some of their neighbors that they might want to curtail the conversation, and get some shut eye.

Whatever the case, he was left alone.

He decided to use the time thinking over everything again, retracing his steps, rerunning conversations, and trying to make sure he hadn’t missed something that might be important.

As he was remembering Elyse’s apartment, he started thinking about the paintings on her wall, the same girl in each image always on the edge of the action. In some, she seemed to just be watching, while in others it was like she wanted to join in but was waiting. Then there was the winged girl in the tree, alone but smiling like she had a secret. Even so, there was an innocence about her, a life on the verge of being lived.

It was only natural that he then starting thinking about Carl and Afghanistan and the day everything changed.

The heat of summer hadn’t taken hold of Afghanistan yet. Which was fine by Logan. Unlike Carl, he wasn’t a fan of the heat. They’d flown over to meet with a group of their men who’d been sent in to serve at a checkpoint just outside of Kabul.

Easy stuff, really. They just had to run a few assessments, and make sure the men were up to speed on everything required of them.

It had been going well. Very well, in fact. The guys were in good spirits, and their physical condition exceeded expectations. Unless something unexpected happened, Logan and Carl would be home by the weekend.

Ironically, both things came true.

It was Carl’s idea, but it could have just as easily been Logan’s.

For the first time in years, Carl had a serious girlfriend. Her name was Brenda, and they’d been going out for nearly four months. Every time he and Logan traveled somewhere he made sure to pick her up something interesting.

On this trip he’d heard from some security guys who’d been in the country for a while about some tablecloths that were supposed to be big hits with the wives back home.

Tablecloths, of all things . Logan still couldn’t believe that.

That day they finished early, freeing up most of their afternoon. So Carl had talked their Afghani guide into taking them and a few other Forbus guys to the shop where these cloths were sold.

Technically, they weren’t really supposed to be in that part of town. But they were there, and, because they never went anywhere in country without their weapons, they were armed, too.

Logan could have stopped the trip from happening. He even suggested to Carl that maybe they should wait until they could get an official escort.

“Relax,” Carl had said. “It’s not that big of a deal. You’ll buy one for Trish, too. She’ll love it.”

Logan knew even then he should have stood his ground and insisted, but Carl had been acting kind of distracted for the previous couple of weeks, and it was nice to see him excited about something again. So Logan simply said, “Okay,” making everything that happened afterward his fault, at least from his point of view.

The ambush caught them two streets away from the store. The gunfire seemed to come out of nowhere. One second they were driving, and the next their guide was dead, and their vehicle had crashed into a wall.

Then there was the little girl in the street.

Logan found out later she was only four. Where she had come from, he never knew. But suddenly she was there, running in the wrong direction, toward the flying bullets. Most of the guys had gotten out of the other side of the vehicle and were returning fire. That meant Logan and Carl were the only ones who saw her.

Carl reacted first, but only because he spotted her first. Logan was running right behind him.

They were halfway to the girl, when the bullet caught Carl in the chest, spinning him to the ground. The shooter was on the roof of a building across the street. Logan immediately brought up his gun and got off two quick shots before the guy could train his rifle on him. The gunman staggered toward the edge of the roof, then fell into street, dead.

“You’re going to be okay,” Logan said, as he grabbed Carl’s shoulders, and pulled him out of the line of fire.

As soon as Logan was kneeling beside him, Carl whispered. “The girl. Where’s the girl?”

Logan looked around. He spotted her walking along the tan wall, tears streaming down her face, but still moving toward the firefight.

He looked at his brother-in-law. Carl was bleeding badly. If he was going to live, Logan needed to stay with him and do what he could.

Carl must have seen the agony in Logan’s eyes. “Get the girl,” he whispered.

But Logan hesitated, not ready to desert his best friend.

Carl coughed, then said a little louder, “Get the girl.”

He was right, of course. Logan stood up. “I’ll…I’ll be right back.”

He raced down the road to the wall, expecting a bullet to pierce his skin at every step. As he neared her, she saw him, then started to run away, moving into the street.

“No!” he yelled.

He sprinted after her, and scooped her up.

Chaos surrounded them as he ran with her in his arms back toward Carl and the safety at the end of the road.

He had no idea when it happened. In the over two years since, he’d gone over it in his mind, step-by-step, but he still couldn’t figure it out. The only things he knew for sure were that when he picked her up, everything had been okay, but when he reached the end of the street, a bullet had already cut its path through her abdomen.

Three Afghani women came running out of one of the homes, screaming at him and crying. They took the girl from him, leaving behind only the blood that covered Logan’s hand and clothes. He had no idea how long he stared after them before he remembered Carl.