I don't know what the signal was supposed to be. I didn't care. I did know that over planning and fussy shit had messed up more ops than the enemy had. I came up over the lip like one of my ancestors did in the trenches of Verdun with a lot more success. I was still alive 20 paces later and picking up speed.
I thought running along the base of the mesa was good. This was a 100 times better. This was like drinking a bottle of cold clean well water after a couple weeks of boiled, treated, and not made any better by the addition of mint leaves liquid that poured and tasted brown.
"Oh fuck yeah. Thank you Freya you bitch," went through my head while my eyes read every window, door, and ripple in the flow. It was rippling, no, it was twisting. The images I had locked away until now were hammering away at the doors. My shadow self grinned and began unlocking them for me without asking. Shadow self knew it was time.
She is four. She is scared. The man with the gun tells her, "Stop the crying kid or I'll give you something to cry about." He grins. His grin scares her even more. She cries louder. She is terrified. He scowls, lets his rifle go and the 3 point sling catches it. He moves toward her, bends down, grabs her feet and dashes her brains out against the wall.
I am howling. The sand of the field should be slowing me down. It isn't. I am flying. My feet make contact for a blink and I cover yards.
He doesn't want to go into the back room. Pain lives there and their smiles don't fool him. They made him shower today and he knows that is a bad, bad sign. He is prepared. His friend, the one they took last time, whispered to him about the room. He isn't going there. The piece of glass he found is fished from his pocket. He tells himself it won't hurt that much. It doesn't really. He has hurt worse more times than he can remember. He hopes his mom will remember him.
In the background the Barrett booms. Good. Start up the drums and let the music begin. I can't see the center of the two buildings anymore. We are running at an angle now to the big building. The kid building. The machine gun is pumping out its staccato beat. Oh yes. Let it begin! Other instruments begin playing. I fade them.
We're against the wall. Miller is swinging his sledge. Both of them now are slamming the iron heads into the cinder block. They have done this before. Their rhythm is perfect. "Faster!" I scream. At least that is what I wanted to scream. What came out was a roar of longing, hate, and unfulfilled desire to make the men behind that wall die.
They each are cutting a line, in the middle between them the cinder block is crumbling, trembling, waiting to be shoved aside. I step back ten paces and run full tilt into it. Almost. Back. Again. I'm through.
It's time to hunt.