“What’s going on?” I asked, but before anyone could answer, a pungent odor of rotten eggs, magnified a thousand times, filled the parking lot, clinging to the humidity in the air. I gagged as the stench filled my nostrils, and the taste hit the back of my throat.
“It’s toxic gas!” someone screamed. “We’re being gassed!” Panic ensued as people started screaming and running in all directions.
My eyes were watering so hard that I couldn’t see who took my arm. Whoever it was, I let them lead me away from the awful stench, stumbling over the uneven ground.
“Down, down,” a man shouted. He was wearing tan camouflage gear and jumped behind a rusty white truck. His top had the name BROYLES over his pocket.
There was an explosion and then another. The screams that followed chilled me to the bone, echoing in the night.
“Gas, gas, gas!” someone else hollered, their voice panicked.
“Dave’s down,” Broyles shouted, his voice breaking. “We can’t leave him there.”
“Broyles,” another man said urgently. “Get your mask on!”
I saw a tall man, also in fatigues, throwing a gas mask over his blurred face as he ran into the street, dragging another man who had burns all over his arms.
“Come on, Dave, man,” the tall man said as he pulled the wounded soldier across the road. “You’re going to be fine. Just hang in there.”
Broyles dragged him around the truck. He took a knife out and started cutting off Dave’s shirt and pants, his hands steady despite the chaos.
“This doesn’t usually happen until the second date,” Dave wheezed, his voice weak but trying to be humorous.
“Shut up, idiot,” Broyles said with a chuckle, though his eyes were filled with worry. “You’re covered in sulfur mustard. Have to get this shit off you before it does more damage.”
“God, it stinks,” Dave coughed, his face contorted with pain. “It’s like someone crapped their pants all over me and in my lungs.” He moaned, the sound raw with agony. “Only, the crap is scalding toxic gas eating my skin off.”
“I need some help over here! Medic!” Broyles shouted, his voice strained. He scraped dirt and dust from the ground, rubbing it all over Dave’s exposed skin and brushing it away. “Hang on, Dave. Help’s coming.”
As I emerged from the vision, Broyles practically carried me to the other side of the road. “Something’s wrong,” he shouted. “We need a medic over here.” His arm was around my back, supporting my weight. “Did you get any gas on you?” he asked, staring into my eyes with horror. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Are you in pain?”
“I’m okay,” I assured him as I regained my balance. “I’m not in any pain.” I looked around. “Where’s Ezra?”
Broyles pointed. “He’s over there.”
Ezra was with a paramedic, helping a woman who had been injured in the rush to escape the church. I worried he was too close to the caustic fumes.
“Do you think it’s sulfur mustard?” I asked Broyles.
His eyes widened. “Why would you think that?”
“I...” Should I tell him what I’d seen in my vision? The man was already skittish around me. Would revealing this confirm that personal privacy wasn’t safe around me? I decided to test the waters. “I had a vision when the odor hit.”
“About the bomber?” His voice was wary.
I shook my head. “About you. It was your memory.”
“Bullshit.”
“You were in combat.”
“Lady,” he ground out sarcastically, “I’ve been in a lot of combat. You don’t need a crystal ball to guess that.”
“There were two explosions, and someone yelled gas, gas, gas. Your friend Dave was in the street. He was burning, you?—”
“Enough,” he said, but the steam had left his tone.
“There was the scent of rotten eggs,” I continued. “You said it was sulfur mustard.”
