Page 3 of Resuscitation
Mercer flipped on his NVGs and strode to the front door, MP5 at the ready. Connor and Brick followed close behind. Mercer tapped the door with the butt of his rifle, then slammed his boot against the wood, crashing it open without resistance. The fancy electronic locks, now without power, had been rendered completely useless.
“Careful,” Connor blurted, but Mercer was already stepping over the threshold.
He stopped abruptly once inside. “What the fuck?”
Pile upon piles of junk filled the foyer, reaching almost to the second floor. Bathtubs, bicycles, chairs, tables, shelves, old TVs, and appliances had all been thrown together, turning the interior into a literal dumping ground. Who knew what booby-traps could be hidden in the haphazard hoard that blocked passage to the staircase? Connor and Brick came alongside him, eyeing the flea market carnage.
“He’s on the move,” Brick muttered, tilting the angle of the display on the imaging camera to show Mercer. The man-shaped blob of heat seemed to ooze above them, headed toward the east wing of the house.
Static buzzed in Mercer’s ear. “Sierra to Alpha. We’re in the kitchen, but it’s blocked. There’s shit everywhere. Over.”
Before Mercer had a chance to respond, the world turned white. An intense, bright glare frazzled his eyesight. He ripped off his NVGs and squinted, rifle raised toward where the blob that had to be Watts had last been.
A voice boomed out from above. “Stop! Don’t move or you’re a dead man, Andy Mercer!”
He froze. Gradually Watts came into focus, crouched next to a giant spotlight positioned halfway up the stairs. The old man held a shotgun aimed directly at Mercer’s head.
ChapterTwo
Friday,February 13th, 5:58 P.M.
Blake Harrow rolledover in his bunk and opened his eyes to the digital clock. It read 5:58 p.m.
He waited until the alarm went off at six, then slammed the button to kill it. This routine of waking before the alarm happened every evening. A habit born years ago in basic training and, later, Ranger School.
The cabin’s window revealed swirling snowfall as howling wind rattled the ancient glass panes. The temperature inside the rough-hewn log cabin had fallen several degrees since he’d gone to bed seven hours ago, but he wouldn’t be here long enough to worry about it.
Another night, another dollar.
The thought was laced with satisfaction rather than contempt.
Truth was, he loved his job as an EMT. It’d allowed him to finally create a stabilizing rhythm, a foundation, as he slowly rebuilt his life, one day at a time. Or night. He worked the graveyard shift, eight p.m. to eight a.m., because that’s how he liked it. He didn’t have to see or speak to anyone when he was at the cabin, but he still got some social interaction with his colleagues at work.
Blake reached over, switched on the bedside lamp, and stood. Then he began to make up the bunk quickly and expertly, as if ready for inspection.
Making your bed as soon as you got up somehow fostered that sense of discipline and set a positive structure for the rest of the day. That’s how Blake saw it anyhow, although no doubt younger souls, Gen Z or whoever, would laugh in his face.
He rolled out his exercise mat in the sparse yet immaculate room, in front of the double doors leading out to a small deck which usually held a commanding view of the lights of Eastfork down in the valley below. However, tonight the snowstorm obscured it. Sitting cross-legged on the mat, Blake took a deep breath and felt the cool air fill his lungs.
One, two, three, four.
He held the air in for another four seconds, then exhaled slowly before continuing the cycle. The rhythmic box breathing calmed his racing heart, a technique he had learned in therapy to manage his PTSD.
The whistling wind outside the windows ebbed, flowed, and began to echo the Afghanistan sandstorms that were etched permanently into his mind. His thoughts inevitably drifted to his comrades, his friends, lost to the IED that had ripped through them in a split second. Despite his best efforts, the familiar surge of anxiety chipped at his heartbeat, and he tutted, growing frustrated at himself.
You’re losing concentration, Blake.
Their faces. He needed to remember their faces because they got further away from him every day, and there was no way he was ever going to forget his brothers.
Never.
Before he realized it, he was on his feet, rummaging through his army-issue trunk. He found the photo, the only one he had of his squad. The image was slightly pixilated, printed from a digital phone many years ago. He rubbed his thumb along the edge and nodded to himself, feeling his heartbeat calm. Each of their faces told a story and brought back snippets of memory: a joke he had shared or that time he got his ass kicked at cards.
Private Miller.
Blake often replayed that short conversation with the young soldier, turning it over and over in his head. The kid had been mentally struggling with the whole shit-show. Who wasn’t?
Blake himself had been close to the edge, even before the IED. Miller hadn’t wanted to go out that morning, like he knew something bad was destined to happen. But good-ole Sarge that he was, and Blake had bucked him up, pushed him to join the convoy.
