Trauma by Daniel Palmer Page B

conversation with her dad. Neither do I, she realized.

 
    CHAPTER 12
    After prying his eyes open, Steve Abington could not make sense of what he saw. He knew this place intimately, but for the life of him could not figure out how he had returned. The last thing he remembered was—was what? Nothing came to mind. He felt as if he had been living in absolute darkness, the blackest infinity, until this very moment, until light flooded his eyes and he saw again the desolate farm field where it all began.
    Abington tried to stand, but he felt weighed down. It took a moment to realize he was wearing an ILBE pack, one so fully packed he had to hunch over while getting to his feet.
    He also held a rifle, an M4 rifle fitted with an M68 red-dot optic. Where had that come from? And what else did he have on? Cautiously, Abington reached up and felt the Kevlar of an advanced combat helmet. He wore a MultiCam pattern uniform, too. How did that get on him? Why was he here? He thought he was through with all this.
    â€œSteve. Steve, can you hear me?”
    Abington spun in a tight circle, but saw no one. The voice, one he did not recognize, came out of the ether. He circled once more, and this time noticed foxholes, several of them. Nearby stood a makeshift structure, like a tree stand but on the ground. It was covered in green camo netting, and he thought he remembered putting it together. It was a command operation center, which meant this place must be the security outpost for Forward Operating Base Darwin. Yes, of course it was. There was the tree line, a hundred meters out. Beyond those trees, the snowcapped Hindu Kush mountain range cut a jagged tear across an endless azure horizon. If he walked west about two klicks, Abington was sure he’d find the remote roadway his squad had been patrolling. The Taliban were setting IEDs along the MSR—main supply route—and his unit used that road to make a quick exit.
    â€œSteve!”
    That voice again. Bodiless. Everywhere and nowhere. Where was it coming from?
    Lightning bolts erupted behind his eyes, making Abington’s head throb. He trotted over to the nearest foxhole. The sunglasses tinted the world, but shielded his eyes against a steady wind’s peppering of sand and dirt. Inside the spray of dust, thousands of chiggers and sand fleas took flight in search of soft targets.
    â€œSteve.”
    The voice. Was it in his head? Had he gone crazy? Had he never actually left this godforsaken place?
    â€œHello!” Abington called. His voice had the grit of sandpaper, and his throat felt as dry as the ground. So dry. So thirsty . “Is anybody here?”
    The wind swallowed Abington’s words. He crouched and dug his hands into the hard earth. It felt real. He managed to rake up a small pile of dirt using the tips of his fingers. This was how he described the country to anyone who asked: dirt, piles of dirt, dirt everywhere you looked. The soil carried fungus that blew deep into blast wounds to fester and take away limbs that otherwise could have been saved. How was he back in this hellhole? Back guarding FOB Darwin. Had he ever even left?
    Abington remembered. He remembered everything about living here, including his squad. But where was everybody?
    His gaze fell back to the parched earth, and Abington saw a scorpion crawling by his feet. He crushed it beneath the heel of his well-worn military boot with a satisfying crunch. But what he really wanted to crush was the Taliban. A familiar burning hatred boiled up, warming Abington like Kentucky’s best bourbon. There was no better feeling than sending coordinates up the satellite link and watching the ground evaporate where the hardware dropped.
    This was a backward country: no real infrastructure. No proper roads. Nothing here except for dirt, and caves, and Taliban. The only thing the Taliban respected was battle. They trained their young children to kill, and in their downtime played polo with dead