That snaps me out of it.
Rifle in hand, I burst through the flames in the doorway. The barely healing wounds on my back protest every movement, and they burn twice as hot in the flames licking at my clothes and skin. Mason and I stumble out of the train car, and from a couple yards away I assess the damage. The train lies in a field, part of it turned over like downed prey. Fire engulfs the cars and spews out the open windows.
“Private Frank!” I’m shouting at the top of my voice but it’s not loud enough over the fire. Fright pounds through me and my legs give out. The noise in my brain is deafening and forces me to my knees. I will let it pass through me. The little death. And only I will remain. Whatever the saying is.
Do something, Taylor.
Mason shouts as well and drops our bags to the ground. He takes off his shirt—it was on fire—and stomps on it while we continue to call for her between bouts of coughing. She has to be here. She can’t die. I can’t let this stupid fucking war take more people from me. I see Faith, her deep brown eyes staring at me in panic when she realizes she’s dying. She holds me. I hold her. I let her go.
I will not do that again. Pushing myself to my feet, I remain vigilant for potential enemies. Whoever bombed this train may still be around to retrieve any supplies not consumed in flame.
“Private Frank!” I stumble closer to the train and the heat soaks through me. “Cassie!”
“Taylor.”
It’s faint, but I hear her. “I’m coming, hold on.”
She keeps calling me, and I sprint past two cars before I find her. Steel debris pins her to the ground, her back against what was the roof of a car. I drop to my knees in front of her. “Cassie, it’s me.”
Her pupils are wide and unfocused. Blond hair blows around her, burned and messy. The shoulder of her uniform has been seared off and the skin underneath is raw. “This thing fell on me.” Her voice barely reaches me over the sounds of explosions and crackling fire. “It’s really hot.”
The metal is burning her. “Okay, let me get this off you.”
“It’s too hot to touch,” she says. “I tried. Maybe we can wait until it cools.”
She doesn’t believe what she’s saying, but she does believe she doesn’t want me to hurt myself. I shake my head. “I am going to move it.”
Mason finally catches up to me and together, he and I grasp the burning hot metal. I nearly adhere to it on contact, but we cannot back down. With our combined strength, we wrench the metal up and off her body. Mason is able to toss it fully away from us, and the effort to do so nearly spins him around. Whatever hit him in the head might have concussed him.
“Mason, go sit down. I can get us help.”
He attempts to shake it off. “No, I got you. I’m good.”
“You’re not,” I snap at him. “Go sit down, that’s an order.”
Too disoriented to object again, Mason lumbers away from the train and the fire. Cassie’s not faring much better, drifting in and out of consciousness. The metal burned through her clothes and singed her right thigh. She looks like undercooked pork and I have to hold in vomit.
“Can you walk?”
“Yeah, I think so.” Like a good soldier, she struggles to get to her feet. With a bloodcurdling scream, she drops to the ground. “On second thought, maybe not.”
“Okay. Hold on.” Looping my arms under hers, I drag her bodily across the grass toward Mason. We’re not too far from a patch of trees she can rest in. Whatever supplies were on the train may continue to explode and we need to get out of here. I unbutton my top shirt and shuck it off. The heat of summer coupled with the raging fire is ratcheting up the temperature.
“I’ll get us help.”
As I flip my watch open, I hear voices from within the trees. It’s second nature to me, readying my rifle and peering around for enemies. An instinct as easy as brushing my teeth. I don’t move to track the noise; it may be a ploy to bring me away from my wounded compatriots.
“Come out with your hands in the air.” I shout my order into the trees, and the noise ceases. “I am armed and I will shoot.”
To my right, Cassie has valiantly managed to ready her pistol but has passed out in pain. To my left, Mason lies sprawled out in the grass, also unconscious. A tall figure emerges from the trees. It’s a woman. She casually steps out from the shadows with her hands in the air. She’s wearing a bulletproof vest over just a bra, as well as combat pants with armor in the knees. Not one of our soldiers.
I point my rifle at her. “Who are you?”
“I blew up your train,” she replies. “Gonna shoot me for it, Greenie?”
Quick to mockery, so that is rude. It’s a tactic to rile me, and it does not work. “I asked a question. You do not want me to ask again.”
The woman laughs, harsh and cruel. “Oh? I’m quaking in my boots.” I will not be dragged into some hissing contest. It ispointless, and also, I will lose. I’m not good at the hissing, I’m better at the bite. She steps closer. “I’m Captain Finley, who are you?”
