Blarobbarg

He had never intended to run. His buddy Earl had told him going into the village that they were highly sympathetic to the United States.

“They hate Saddam!” he exclaimed happily, clapping David on the shoulder and giving that bucktooth grin of his. He continued in his weird, off-kilter canter that he always got into after a night of uppers and anxiety. “They’ll welcome us with open arms, about-goddamn-time I tell ya, how many days in a row have we been up to our ****ing ears in bullets and mines? Anyway, you and me pal, we’re gonna get in there, we’re gonna find the guys with that good contraband, and you ‘n’ me’ll get wild. And, hey!” He winked mischievously. “Maybe we’ll find ourselves a couple of local girlfriends and have ourselves a good time, yeah?”

David was too exhausted to answer, but he indulged in the first grin he’d had in a long while.

It was all cut short when the truck at the front of the line blew up. Rocket launcher.

It was a blur of lead, blood, and screams. And then—desert. Nothing but sand and regret.

He, once again, outran Death. He didn’t have to run fast—he just had to run faster than everyone else.

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