The Farther Shore by Matthew Eck (books for students to read TXT) 📕

My head throbbed, and as I struggled to get up I realized that there was another body on top of me. I could taste blood, but I couldn’t hear anything other than a loud ringing. I felt someone kick my head and I tried to grab the foot. Another kick, and then another.

I tried to free myself from the body on top of me. Someone punched the side of my face and pried the M-16 from my hands. Then I felt someone trying to take my 9mm out of its holster. I finally pushed the body off and drew my 9mm from its holster. My rucksack felt incredibly heavy, and I struggled to stand up.

There was fire everywhere. The body I’d pushed aside had left a sticky mess of skin on my uniform and hands, but the man’s face was unblemished. He probably never knew what hit him.

Black smoke scrolled around me. People appeared out of the smoke and then disappeared just as quickly. They were looting the bodies, fighting each other for the possessions of the dead. I fired a shot into the air. I couldn’t hear it, but I felt the weapon’s kick.

Several men ran at me, wanting the 9mm. I shot the first one that reached for it. He was a little old man. The others stopped. I pointed the 9mm at them and they slowly backed off.

The truck was burning behind me; I could feel the heat. I coughed and choked. I didn’t see Zeller or Santiago. I went from body to body, calling out for them.

The looters left me alone and went about picking over the others. They dug through the flaming debris of the truck and pulled the men out, stripping their bodies of anything of value. Suddenly the anti-aircraft gun started burping its rounds off randomly. It must have been set off by the heat.

An old woman took my arm, hurried me down the road, and helped me into a ditch. There were several people there, and one of the men was submerged to his waist in standing water.

The old woman took off my helmet and wiped blood from my face. Then she showed me the rag, put it in my hand, and pressed it to the side of my head as a reminder.

I asked, gesturing, if they’d seen my friends. They looked at each other, confused. “The other two,” I screamed. A man directly across the ditch from me smiled strangely.

The old woman wrapped a young girl in a wet dress and said something to the others. Suddenly everyone except for the man across from me stood and left. When I stood to go, the man stood as well and put his hand on my shoulder, obviously hoping to use me as a kind of crutch. He looked disappointed when I tossed the rag aside, put my helmet back on, and stepped away from him.

Rounds cooked off from the burning truck and bullets rang overhead with weak whistles. The ammunition can in the truck exploded and one of the rounds landed next to me, green and glowing.

I climbed up out of the ditch and walked back into the burning wreckage, looking for Santiago and Zeller. They must have been killed in the blast, I thought. You never know where to stand in a war.

The helicopters hadn’t seen us; they wouldn’t have fired if they had. But the fact that they had been here meant there was probably a base nearby.

I couldn’t find Zeller or Santiago anywhere. It was as if they had vanished. Not knowing what to do, I stood there looking at the corpses littering the earth around the truck for what seemed like forever.

When I finally composed myself, I realized I was all alone. The smell of burning flesh and metal drove me from the road, and I stumbled off into the desert. I knew that I should be careful, but I had no idea what to look out for.

As I walked, I tried to remember my survival school training. Santiago would have told me not to think so much. That was all I could remember. I hadn’t really listened to the rest. I hadn’t really cared. At the time I never would have imagined I’d have to go it alone.

Dead tired before long, I found a rock and sat down. I turned back and saw the road in the distance. I took out the clip in my 9mm. Just five rounds remained. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my rucksack, and with it the other two clips of ammunition.

I thought of the man I had shot on the road, and shook my head. I didn’t need that memory now. I’d been threatened, after all. I was in real danger. But it didn’t matter anyway.

I thought again of Santiago and Zeller. I watched the road for a long time, hoping to catch sight of them.

Puddles of water spotted the desert, but other stretches seemed very dry. The sun came out, casting its uncaring light on my blackened boots and pants. I slapped my legs and watched the reddish dust rise.

I had minor wounds in several places, and the blood had dried and turned dark and crusty. I took off my helmet and wiped my face with what was left of my sleeves. Then I put my helmet back on and started walking, turning back often to look for Santiago and Zeller.

I walked for hours without seeing anything, until eventually I came across a dirt road that looked to lead back toward the city. I thought for a moment of heading in that direction, but decided against it.

I was in bad shape when I heard the unmistakable sound of a whistle and stopped, bewildered. It was only then that I saw a small compound less than a half mile ahead of me. Suddenly an American soldier stepped from behind a small tree and grabbed me.