Help Wanted Read Free Page A

out a new cartridge from his fanny pack and clipped it in.
Easy,
he thought. He began to once again pepper the hole.
    The vet returned fire at Michael, and then swung around as Turtle came running toward the hole. They each shot at the same time, and both let out a chorus of "Ahhh."
    Michael waited before he approached them carefully.
    "You're both out?" Michael asked.
    "For now," the vet answered. He was examining the red stain on his T-shirt. He had gotten hit two times.
    Turtle was looking at his shoulder, where he had taken his hits. He seemed mad at himself. He dropped cross-legged and took a water bottle from his pants pocket.
    Michael left the two and moved down the hill. He walked slowly, each step from heel to toe, as he headed
toward the flag. When he was twenty yards from the flag, he heard Trung talking in Vietnamese. He thought he was addressing his brother or his brother's friend, Tran. But he was crowing with one of the Vietnam vets, who knew the language of his enemy.
    "Weird," Michael muttered. He hurried over to Tran, who was sitting back and tossing corn nuts into his mouth. His gun was at his side, along with a sack of cartridges.
    "What are they saying?" Michael asked.
    Tran noisily chewed his corn nuts, swallowed, and rolled his tongue over his front and back teeth. "They're talking about where they bought their guns on the Internet," he answered. He tossed back a few more corn nuts.
    Michael was confused. Was it okay to talk to the enemy?
    Then there was firing from both sides. Tran was hit in his shoulder.
    "Uhha!" Tran screamed, a half-chewed corn nut falling from his mouth. Michael thought at first that it was one of his teeth. He was going to ask if it really hurt when paintballs burst at his feet. He scampered down the hill and jumped behind a rock. He was breathing hard and sweat was washing over his face. His heart was thumping like a rabbit.
    "I need a drink of water," he muttered to himself. But his thirst disappeared when he sensed movement
in a bush. He turned and, without thought, shot a round. He saw an enemy—an adult, bending over in pain, holding his stomach. Between his fingers leaked purple paint.
    "It does hurt," Michael remarked. The man had a gut that wobbled like Jell-O, and Michael figured that if the fat around
his
middle hadn't softened the blow, then how would Michael stand it? He touched his stomach. He wasn't looking forward to getting hit there.
    He retreated halfway back up the hill, and rested for a moment as he looked down on the fighting. When he heard footsteps behind him, he galloped once again into the valley. He stayed hidden in a bush while the paintballs began to fly at one of his other squad members. He took off his goggles, something he had been told not to do, and wiped the sweat around his nose. He quickly put them back on—a sniper had located his position. He scrambled out of the bush to his right, where he believed Trung and True were battling.
    Someone said something in Vietnamese. He knew it wasn't Trung or his brother because the voice belonged to a man. From behind a rock, he saw the enemy, those who had been knocked out, and a few of his squad members. He swallowed. On the ground, not too far from the flag, were Trung and True. Both were facedown, splatters of paint on their backs and around
their armpits. A hawk swung in the sky, and its shadow touched both of them.
    "Trung," Michael muttered under his breath. He squeezed his eyes shut. He imagined a vulture on Trung's back. The vulture was pulling a strip of flesh and raising his beak to get it down his throat. But Michael's eyes sprung open when he heard a branch snap. He saw movement in a bush. He rose to his feet and ran toward the figure, firing. The figure jumped from the sting of the paintballs, then dove into the cover of the bush.
    "I'm down," a voice called from the bush. He sat in the dust.
    Michael was breathing hard, sweat fogging up his goggles. He took them off quickly, wiped