Page 14 of Resuscitation
Blake opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt like sandpaper. The nurse offered him a sip of water through a straw. As he drank, memories of the ambush flooded back. His eyes widened with sudden urgency.
“My squad…Rodriguez…Johnson…Miller,” he croaked.
The nurse’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. You were the only survivor from your squad.”
Blake felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He shook his head in disbelief. A flash of memory came to him. “No…that can’t be right. I saw Miller…he was alive…”
Just then, one of the medical team members came by, his face grave. “Sergeant Harrow, I’m Captain Kwan, one of the surgeons here,” he said, glancing at the nurse, who excused herself before moving away. Kwan took a chair next to Blake’s bed. “I was told that Private Miller was brought in alive to Lagman, but his injuries were too severe. I’m sorry to say, he died shortly after arrival.” He cleared his throat. “That was three days ago. The combat surgical team at Lagman stabilized you and transferred you here. You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness since arrival.”
Blake closed his eyes, squeezing them tight, as the reality of what happened crashed over him. His squad and his friends were all gone. All dead. And he was still here. Still alive.
Kwan continued, “Do you remember anything about what happened?”
Blake kept his eyes closed. Shook his head, releasing a fresh wave of pain. He felt more than remembered flying through the air, the blast wave slapping him down, but mostly…Miller’s face. “No.”
“That’s to be expected. We’ve had this conversation several times since you arrived, so don’t be alarmed if you forget it again—it will take time. You’ve sustained several superficial shrapnel wounds and the tissue of your right thigh had some deeper damage, all easily treated. However, our main concern is that you’ve suffered concussive brain trauma.”
Blake opened his eyes and gazed blankly at the curtain surrounding his bed. “Concussion? That’s nothing. Send me back in, coach.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. The CT scan hasn’t shown any bleeding around your brain or swelling severe enough to require operation.” He almost sounded regretful that he hadn’t had the opportunity to slice open Blake’s head. “But your symptoms and our scans show signs of deeper damage. Brain contusion—a bruise, you might say. I’ve arranged for you to be transferred to Landstuhl tomorrow. They have more advanced imagining capabilities and can design a course of rehabilitation before you’re sent back home.”
Blake barely registered the doctor’s words. Except the last one.Home.A concept that now felt so foreign. How the hell was he supposed to go home when his brothers-in-arms would never see their families again? Reality seeped in, and he felt a numbness spread across his body. “You’re sending me home…for a brain bruise?”
“Sergeant Harrow,” Kwan began gently, “your injuries may not be visible, but trust me, they are serious. There could be lasting effects on cognitive function and memory.”
Blake’s head pounded with a dull ache, the doctor’s words washing over him. Forgetting the look on Miller’s face…that might be a blessing. But somehow it felt more like a betrayal. After all, Blake was the only one left alive to remember Miller and the others.
“Concussive brain injuries are the most difficult to treat,” Kwan continued. “The damage is microscopic. Tearing of the tiny blood vessels, shearing of the brain tissue. Nothing I can operate on. No quick fix. But we do have therapies and with time and rest, you will see improvement.”
Blake stared at him blankly, the surgeon’s words echoing, slipping through his grasp, yet oddly familiar. They’d had this conversation before, hadn’t they?
Kwan sighed and stood. “Get some rest, Sergeant. I’ll check back later.”
He left and the nurse returned. “Did Dr. Kwan explain everything?”
“Yeah,” Blake muttered, his tone laced with bitterness. “Everyone’s dead except me.”
ChapterSeven
Friday,February 13th, 8:04 P.M.
Mercer’s visiondanced with red spots as he squinted at Watts’s form silhouetted by the spotlight on the landing above. Watts was now in his seventies, but he aimed the shotgun with a steady hand.
“Mercer.” Watts didn’t sound too surprised. Given his home-grown defenses, he’d clearly been expecting someone. Had he spotted Mercer during his earlier recon visit? “Thought you was locked up. Where you belong.”
Mercer held up one hand to block the spotlight exposing their position. “We came for what’s rightfully ours. Hand the rubies over, and we promise we won’t hurt you, old man.”
Watts snorted with derision. “You don’t know the half of it. Well, come and get them, if you can!”
A gunshot sped past Mercer, but he wasn’t the target. The slug splintered a two-by-four braced against a large, eight-foot-high bookshelf packed with cinderblocks and small appliances. The whole lot suddenly collapsed, burying Brick in an avalanche of junk.
Mercer fired up at Watts’s position with a rapid series of cracks, shredding the wooden banisters before finally hitting the spotlight and plunging the house back into darkness.
“Connor, get him outta there,” he ordered his brother to help Brick while Mercer got back on the radio. “Alpha to Beta. What’s your goddamn status?”
A reply crackled back. “We’ve made a way through the kitchen. Found a back staircase.”
“Hold your position in case he tries to escape that way.” Mercer repositioned his night vision googles. “Where’s the thermal imager?”
