The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters) by Sheehan-Miles, Charles (reading well .txt) 📕

both dead. What the hell happens after this? I don’t know. You don’t know. So just leave me alone!” Her voice rose to a shout at the end.

I grimaced. “Sarah ... we’re going to be fine. Both of us.”

She shook her head. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything. What I know is I’m fucking pissed. I’m not even eighteen years old yet. And it’d be nice to get a chance to have a life.”

A flash of anger ran through me. Anger about Weber and Roberts and Kowalski and all the others we lost. Anger at this spoiled rich girl who somehow thought her life was better or more valuable than theirs. Totally misplaced and wrong, but there it was.

“Sometimes we don’t get that chance,” I said. “You want to hear the truth? Well, here it is: you’re right. I don’t know shit. I know I’ve seen close friends blown all to hell. I’ve seen people I cared about with their lives ripped to shreds from bullets and bombs, and the survivors turn on each other like fucking rabid dogs. Life is cheap, Sarah. So maybe it’s over. We had our chance.”

She backed away from me as I spoke, her eyes avoiding mine. Finally she just turned and started to walk away, following behind Jessica and Carrie.

Crap.

“Sarah!” I called.

She ignored me, so I called louder, “Sarah, I’m sorry.”

She stopped, then finally turned around, and looked at me. Her eyes were cold. “Just because you’ve been in a war doesn’t mean you’ve got a monopoly on shitty situations. And this is a shitty situation. So back to what I said before—don’t tell me what to do.”

With that, she turned back around, the skirt of her dress swirling as she turned and walked away.

Anger gone as quick as it came, now I just felt like an idiot. Not that this was the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

Then again, it just might be. I followed after her, but slowly. Part of me thought I should find the operating rooms. See how things were actually going. But then again, maybe that wasn’t such a smart idea. Not to mention I couldn’t exactly stop and ask someone for directions. Would my being there screw with the electronics? I had no way of knowing. Not to mention the thought of seeing my own body being cut open and operated on ... that seriously freaked me out. I’d seen people’s insides before, of course, but my own? That took a special kind of courage, courage I didn’t think I had.

When I finally caught up, Sarah was sitting in the far corner of the room, arms across her chest, and she was staring at the floor. The waiting room itself was fairly large, with plenty of seats, and it was crowded. At the nurses’ station, the EMT she had molested was standing across from a nurse. Carrie and Jessica were right behind him.

I decided to let Sarah wait. I’d get back to her in a few minutes. I stood beside Carrie, wishing I could reach out and take her hand.

The EMT said to the nurse at the desk, “I just wanted to check on a patient we brought in earlier to the emergency room. Name is, um ... Sarah Thompson.”

I felt Carrie tense beside me, as the nurse looked up Sarah’s name. “I don’t have any information yet, she’s just gone into emergency surgery.”

The EMT nodded, looking a little glum.

Carrie reached out and touched him on the arm. “You brought in Sarah? I’m her sister.”

The guy’s face tightened a little, and he said, “I’m so sorry about the accident. I’m Eddie Vasquez. I just ... sometimes I want to know how it comes out. She’s awful young.”

Jessica just stood there, looking numb, and Carrie said, “She is.”

I took a deep breath. I think it was a breath. If I’d actually been here physically it might have been, but I wasn’t, so I don’t know what the hell it was.

The EMT—Eddie—took Carrie’s hand. Who names their kid Eddie? He said, “I’m sorry if I’m intruding. I usually try to not let this stuff get to me. It’s just … she’s so young. Bad accident.”

Carrie nodded, her face stressed, and said, “I appreciate you checking on her. If ... if you’ll give me your number, I’ll call when we hear something.”

Eddie stared at her then said, “Sure.” Then he reached over the desk, grabbing a pen and a sheet of paper, and wrote down his number. “I’ll understand if ... if you don’t call. I’m not like a stalker. I’m in college actually, pre-med. This helps pay the bills.”

Carrie took the paper, looking a little lost. She didn’t have her purse on her and didn’t seem to realize it until this moment.

 Jessica took the paper from her hand. “I’ve got it, Carrie.”

She had a concerned expression on her face as she looked at her older sister. And no wonder. Carrie always had it together. Always. Right now it was like the blind leading the blind, a couple of shell-shocked sisters just hanging on to each other. More than anything, their vacant, exhausted expressions reminded me of the guys in my squad the afternoon Kowalski threw himself on the grenade. Dylan, Weber, Roberts ... they looked ... hollow. As if there was nothing left.

Within 24 hours after that day, Roberts was dead and Dylan was crippled. Weber lasted maybe another month before a sniper picked him off. I remember when Weber died. Hicks’ fire team took point that day, because I was still babying along three fresh replacements. Hicks and I didn’t get along too well, but we didn’t need to. He was reliable and had a good team.

As a bonus, all of his guys were still alive.

We stopped at one point, spread out along the trail, five meters between each of us. I had just hunkered down on my haunches, trying to keep from getting mud soaked through my uniform, which was a futile effort, and