It goes great until it doesn't.

After reviewing Scarlet’s map, you realize you weren’t just at her contact point by the second hour but had walked somewhere in the middle where they didn’t get to. You pestered her about visiting the area over the radio every time you checked in. Scarlet, too familiar with the location, denied you. You had a sinking feeling she was right about you not going here, but you felt a strong desire to search and clear the spot anyway.

No Slack was knelt close by, keeping a close eye on a small rock formation. That marked an entrance of a natural trench. You stationed No Slack there and had Hard Print stray on top of an overlook position about 100 yards away, give or take, anyway.

There were no mysterious signs other than someone being wounded, but a lot of ammo was exchanged here; that much is found in just a few seconds of searching the sands of the desert.

You wondered about their supply situation as you picked up two handfuls of spent brass. You and the other contractors had a base to return to and a steady supply of ammo and parts to replenish equipment losses.

It was obvious where your base was, and the activity could have been easily spied on day in and day out… How about these guys? You felt the empty brass and studied it in the moonlight, probably a .308 or whatever pre-NATO equivalent. What else was apparent was the lack of discarded magazines and stripper clips. Unless they were buried in the sand, you didn’t see any hardware on the ground, adding a conflicting suspension that they weren’t well-supplied.

You stood up and surveyed the area as best you could, but the task was incredibly difficult without a proper light source; you looked at your watch, the glowing arms indicating that a full hour and some had elapsed since your last call to Scarlet, so you grabbed your radio and pressed the talk button. “All quiet,” you said, turning the volume up only slightly.

“Heard,” Scarlet says, and then nothing more.

You clasp the walkie-talkie back to your belt and proceed forward, spying onward for further evidence of who your targets are. That’s when one shot boomed behind you.

There was no thought or moment of hesitation for you to drop to your knees and dive straight for cover as No Slack returned fire at what he had decided was the attacker. His muzzle flash blinks in the sea of darkness as several more flashes near the mouth of the entrance respond. You don’t have to guess; you just know. No Slack just got his ticket punched, and now you’re left to run 100 yards back to Hard Print, who’s probably rapidly scanning the darkened area, more clueless than you are.

You kick sand as you scatter for another nearby rock. Hard Print finally responds, and it makes the attackers of the area scramble, too. You can gather from your hunched area that there are many of them. Probably six, likely more from all the voices you can still hear shouting and cursing.

“Get the fucker!” Someone says, just over your rock.

“I’ll take these two and flank their sharpshooter. Keep Voltar near you and get Rustor on the MG.”

More scrambling. “Aramark, Cainor. On the double! Front stage!”

“Aye, wait! What about that other guy that here?!” Someone else barks.

“Probably running up! We can’t let that son of a bitch escape!” The owner of the previous comes back, and this time he’s closer.

You shoulder your submachine gun and brace against the rock as you release a steady stream of lead down the chaotic, dried drainage.

RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT

The recoil from your Mexican MPL rattles against the rock as it gently reciprocates, expanding your magazine until it slams home without reaction. You fall to your knee behind the rock and reload. The sound of your gun dulls your ability to hear, but there’s a screaming on the other hand and an immediate call for reinforcement. These were not the same guys that you ran from while with Scarlet.

“Fucker’s still in here!” One of your adversaries curses but then yelps as Hard Print strikes him. “Flush that mother fucker out! Rustor!”

“NADE OUT!” Someone, you assume, Rustor shouts as the grenade is already air-bone. You feel boots vibrate as something heavy and solid lands on the sand. YOu glance down, seeing the fuze and flare of the grenade fizz out as you kick it away.

The ground quakes like the air itself because it is hostile towards you. You feel your chest lurch as you fall to your back, the air bursting out of your chest like it’s just blown up. It’s a surprise, though. It's shocking that they’re so willing to expand their firepower on you quickly.

You roll to your side, blinking out the stars to make out the figure running down in the kicked-up earth. Still in your hands was your sub gun, which you squeezed and let roar. The figure falls lifeless like a bag of hammers, dragging a few inches towards you.

“Rustor’s hit!” Another voice, perhaps Voltar, yells. “Clear the area. We’re fucked!”

“Hold! Back’s upcoming!”

“Sir!”

“Back up is coming, Voltar! Keep your head on straight!”

You wiggle out from the ground, slithering towards a rock opposite. Your head is ringing so loudly you can’t hear the machinegun ripping towards Hard Print’s location—the red-hot tracers shoot outward like falling stars, streaking the atmosphere in the darkness.

There’s no reason to take stock of your bad situation getting worse for you, so you balance on the rock and realize the exact second you’re wounded. Your right leg doesn’t respond, and your right arm doesn’t want to function. “Fuck,” you curse, feeling the surge of panic shoot through your body like a phantom bullet. Right Leg… the same leg you used to kick away the grenade that threw you to your ass. How much shrapnel did you eat? “Fuck….”

Your movements are slow but steady. You manage the sands and flora like a careful drunk as you try to flank the machine gun position, praying that Scarlet hasn’t just heard this hellish situation but can also spot it. Has she tried to call you? Is your radio muted? You grimace; your radio is gone, probably broken by the shrapnel that’s making you bleed.

You brush through a bush, but a tall figure bumps into you. You fall in the shadow of the bush as moonlight paints your bumper in crude blue light. Dark eyes stare down, wild with adrenaline. “Voltar!”

It’s not a fight fit for a movie; it’s a quick, albeit awkward, twist as you wiggle your small firearm forward and fight him off with a numb arm and weak leg. The burst of the firefight is tight and does nothing to help your headache recover. The man sputters and grabs you, striking your face with his closed fist and knocking you down.

He tries to get on top, but you keep him at a distance with your good leg while you unload the rest of the magazine. Blood and something else warm sprayers out of him as the recoil of your submachinegun rattles up and out, spitting his head and all of his contents out in a gorey shower of teeth, brain matter, and hair.

Voltar, late to the 5-second party, rushes in and scans the area with a grunt. “I can’t see you!”

You follow the voice beneath your dead attack and aim at your best guess using your sidearm. Your efforts reward you with a curse and then a stream of semi-automatic fire toward you. You feel the body on top of you jiggle as bullets strike it, somehow (and thankfully) not penetrating. You throw the limp corpse off and rush forward with your handgun dangling in your off-hand as you charge towards your attacker as he reloads. The AK-style magazine flies outward, and the flash of the blue metal reflects off the moonlight before you are stuck with it. Your bad arms take the brunt of the strike, but you’re welding your pistol with your support hand anyway, so you don’t panic into stillness.

BLAM-BLAM-BLAM!!

Voltar gasps and falls backward, the last bullet of your handgun bursting his heart, ceasing his resistance in a blink.