The War After Armageddon

Pumping blood, he yanked his weapon around to shoot his attacker. The last of them. But his trigger finger was missing. When he managed to get another finger in place, the magazine was empty.

The Jihadi cut the air with the sword again. Somehow, Bratty managed to cling to the slimed carbine, to slap it up to meet the blade. Then, with all the strength left to him, he jammed the stock into the Jihadi’s neck.

The man staggered. Before he could lift the sword again, Bratty plunged his bayonet into the center line below his ribs.

The Jihadi looked at him in astonishment. Open-mouthed. Bewildered that life was what it was, and no more.

Bratty had stabbed him so hard that the command sergeant major couldn’t extract the bayonet before the Jihadi collapsed. The dead man pulled the weapon and Bratty after him.

Shoving his boot into the dead man’s rib cage, Bratty yanked on the carbine. His hand slipped. The weapon was slick with his own blood. Coated with it. Two stumps where his right index finger and middle finger had been leaked blood at an impressive rate.

“Shit, goddamnit,” Bratty said.

He managed to free the carbine in time to reload and shoot a restless wounded man in the face. It wasn’t a night for random acts of kindness.

Except for sporadic shots, the firefight was over. The voices calling out spoke English now. His side had won. No. Prevailed. The mess around him hardly counted as a win.

Bratty sat down with his back to a shot-up tire. Clumsily, he dropped his ban dage pack into the dust. After he got it open, he balled up the cloth and pressed it against the stumps of his fingers.

A sergeant major without a goddamned trigger finger. The stuff barracks jokes were made of. And his guitar-picking days were over. He’d never really hated the Jihadis before. He just did his duty and enjoyed doing it well. But now that they’d taken two of his fingers, and his trigger finger at that, he damned them to Hell.

He could already hear the jokes. “What do you call a sergeant major who has to pull the trigger with his pinkie?” “How does a sergeant major lose his trigger finger?” The possibilities were endless.

Captain Butts walked up to him. The last firing had ceased.

“Taking it easy, Sergeant Major?”

“Just relaxing my ass off, sir. You?”

“Never been better. I enjoy these quiet nights.”

“Shit, sir.”

“Yeah. Shit.”

They looked at the dead Jihadis and the two dead Americans. With burning vehicles as a backdrop.

“I hope you downloaded those suckers,” Bratty said.

“You were right about the security, Sergeant Major.”

“Nothing to do now, sir, but keep on marching. Any sense of how many—”

“Jesus Christ! Your fingers. Medic!”

But the lone medic still alive was busy. Bleeding from the fore-head himself, the BMO knelt down and used his own ban dage to tie off Bratty’s stumps as best he could.

“That hurt?”

“Naw. It just pisses me off, sir.”

“You and me both.”

“I was talking about my fingers. But I’m pissed about the rest of it, too. Go and get this clusterfuck organized. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Roger.”

“Sir? You know what this means, don’t you?”

“It means Bayonet Six isn’t going to have many of his down-for-maintenance ponies back in the race tomorrow.”

Bratty nodded. “And it means that the J’s are working our weaknesses, sir. They’ve cracked the code that our repair sites are prime targets, that we’re fighting with over-the-hill vehicles that are higher maintenance than a rich man’s junkie daughter.”

The BMO smiled. Or tried to. “What would you know about rich men’s junkie daughters, Sergeant Major?”

“Plenty. I married one.” Bratty shrugged. His shoulder hurt as if a steel plate had dropped on it. “That was a couple wives back. Just before the waitress with the broken heart. Pitch ’til you win, Captain.”

“You’re right, though,” Captain Butts said, standing up. “They’ve figured out our weak spot. Unless they picked us by dumb luck.”

“They didn’t.”

“I suppose I’ll have to figure out new security arrangements.”

A soldier in mechanic’s overalls jogged up to them, paused for a second at the sight of the spread of corpses, then said, “Sir?”

“Just a sec, Hunsicker. Sergeant Major? You know you’re going to take some razzing about that trigger finger, don’t you?”

HEADQUARTERS, III (US) CORPS, MT. CARMEL RIDGES