Dwelling Read Free Page A

against the gunner’s platform below. He saw nothing, only white, burning light. Outside, he could hear the crackle of gunfire faintly against the ringing in his ears, like fireworks in a neighborhood a block away.
    People were shouting. His squad mates, maybe. Language seemed beyond him at the moment. He could smell sulfur and the awful hint of something else… like overcooked meat on the grill , he imagined, dazed and numb. Through the broken window he watched the battle of Al-Hurriyah with disbelieving eyes.
    Another explosion struck somewhere nearby. Pebbles or chunks of the police station perhaps rained down on his truck. The radio was abuzz with noise, fire direction, casualties. Someone yelled through the mike, “Death Blossom.” Death Blossom…? Are we under attack…? Yes…Ricky called it out, didn’t he? His head rung with the battle cry.
    Johnathan shifted his weight. One of his legs fell from the strap he used as a seat, the other felt strangely dead. He looked. Among the yellow dust and stars that filled his eyes, he could see, though blurred, the gnarled remains of what was once his right leg.
    “Shit!” he screamed, clinching at his thigh. I can’t look. I can’t look. Ricky. Ricky? “Smith? Ricky? Are you okay, man?” he winced, straining to get a look at his friend.
    No answer.
    More rattling pinged off his truck. Someone nearby yelled, “Got you, you fucking bastard!” Another voice screamed in language not entirely unfamiliar.
    Must be some of the Iraqi police, he thought vaguely caring. Death Blossom…those assholes are going to ping someone in the back…
    Something was pinching his neck. He reached and felt warmth and something hard. He dug whatever it was out and pulled his hand to see. He glared dumbfounded at what looked like a tooth.
    Not mine , he thought, testing his teeth with his tongue. He looked at Ricky, but his form was covered in haze.
    Gunfire continued to crackle outside, but in the broken and torn Humvee, the world felt like a tomb.
    He could see Ricky now, lying awkwardly in his seat, one hand still clutching the radio receiver. Smoke wafted from his body. He didn’t move. And the smell…the smell was terrible.
    Johnathan blinked. Not real. Not real . “Ricky, you son of a bitch, answer me! Are you okay?” he yelled. Hot adrenaline coursed through him like a drug, pooling in a venomous sundry of dreadful sorrow and hate, lumping together in his heart, stealing his breath. Maggie’s face flashed in front of him and then Karen’s, but he pushed them away.
    Please, God. No.
    “Ricky!”
    Still no answer.
    Loud pings ricocheted off the Humvee. Johnathan angled to get a better look at his friend. Outside, he could vaguely see the remnants of Renegades pressing the attack, a few trucks pulled in front of his, protecting him. Finally, his other leg fell from the strap, or what remained of the mangled meat. The malformed limb came down hard against the gunner’s platform in a wet and grotesque thud.
    “Shit!”
    He clutched his thigh. Eyes clamped shut. Stars filled his vision again. Biting his lip. Blood tasted like iron. The agony burned, shooting up his body like a lightning bolt. His head fell back.
    Lightheaded and heavy, darkness began to cover his vision. No! He fought to stay awake. Ricky! He fought against the clammy coldness prickling his skin. He fought against the gaseous feeling in his gut. He fought against the terrible pain, and horrifying thoughts of his friend.
    Is he…? No! He’s not. Can’t be. Not him. He’s married. Maggie is waiting. Maggie and Moxie. Bobby and Jake. We’ll get together, grill some burgers. Nope. This isn’t real. Ricky’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. Right? This can’t happen to me, to us. Not us.
    “Smith? Steele?” yelled someone from outside. The gunfire had faded away. Smoke clung to the ground like a vapor of death.
    Johnathan was fading, but he could hear voices. They were distant, as if miles away,