Reyes didn’t know what the motherfucker thought he was doing. He strode over and kicked him. He flinched a little but didn’t move. Reyes immediately regretted doing that, it was a little harsh. But they had to keep moving, and the fucker was sitting on the ground, cross legged like a little kid in kindergarten. He kicked himself on the inside for calling him a fucker, but he supposed that was just because he was scared and tired and his mind was being an asshole. He tried to reason with himself how people use all sorts of language when they’re in tight situations. Then he kicked himself again for wasting time trying to explain his actions to himself. There were more important things going on right now. They had to keep moving. He could cross examine himself later. He nudged the sitting man with the butt of his M-16.

“Johnson.” he said, and nudged him again, a little harder. Johnson just moved with the nudge, and then went back into place. Like a little kid ignoring someone poking them. Reyes looked around. The rest of their unit was moving further away through the wreckage and bodies. The place stank of blood. Reyes could feel time running past him, he knew they had to catch up with their unit. Enemy soldiers would begin swarming through any minute.

“Dammit, Johnson, get up!” he said, and shouldered his gun. He moved forward, about to grab Johnson, but before he could take another step Johnson finally moved. He looked back at Reyes. When Reyes saw the look he had on he stepped back. What he saw in Johnson’s eyes was the absence of emotion. He cursed. He figured Johnson had gone into shock. In many ways this kind of shock was much more dangerous than the physical kind. Some soldiers never really recovered from what they saw out here. And for the rest of their lives they lived normally, but haunted, everyday things triggering old memories. Reyes was worried about this, but what he really cared about at the moment was hoping that Johnson would snap out of it, otherwise he’d have to help him back to base and that would make them easy targets. He looked up again. Their unit was making a lot of ground, and the distance between the two soldiers and the rest was growing rapidly.

“Wait up!” he shouted, hands cupped around his mouth, as loud as he could. He didn’t watch to see if they’d heard him. He had to get Johnson up so they could get going. “Dammit, Johnson,” he said again, when he saw that Johnson’s gaze had turned back downward. “Zach. We have to go.” He could feel the clock ticking away. We don’t have time for this. Something caught Reyes’ eye, and he cursed again. There was blood all around Johnson, and he saw that there was some on his uniform too.

“Shit, Zach. Are you hurt?” He moved around to the front of him, intent on kneeling to check for injuries. When he saw what was in Johnson’s lap he nearly fell over.

“Shit,” he breathed. Cradled in Johnson’s arms was the body of a little girl. Part of her face was gone, and there was blood all over her. He realized it wasn’t Johnson who was hurt. “Zach,” he said softly. “Zach, you have to leave her. We have to go.”

Johnson spoke up for the first time. “I...” He paused. “Look at her.”

Reyes looked. She was a pretty little girl, with shining dark hair. She couldn’t have been dead for long. Johnson stroked her hair gently. When he did that all the blood rushed to Reyes’ face, not out of embarrassment but out of fear. His face grew hot and his heart started to pound. He knew why Johnson was acting like this.

That was the way he would trace the picture of his daughter.

His daughter was four years old. She was a pretty little girl, with shining dark hair, like her mother. Johnson would show them her picture and talk about how she was learning her alphabet now, how she was making new friends at school, how she was exploring the back yard and playing soldiers with the neighbor kids. A little daddy’s girl, with a daddy so far away.

He knew what Johnson was thinking. He wasn’t crazy, yet, so there was no way he was mistaking this little girl for his daughter. But she was reminding him of her, and how much he loved her. And the little girl in his arms must have had parents too. Parents who had loved her as much as he loved his daughter. Parents who were either dead or missing their little girl. What was getting to Johnson right now was empathy for a family he didn’t even know.

“Zach,” Reyes tried again. He didn’t respond. Reyes realized he had to do something, and now. Time was running out and their unit was nearly out of sight. They had to go.

He pulled the little girl gently from Johnson’s arms. He closed his eyes briefly, but didn’t resist, and Reyes sighed inwardly with relief. Johnson opened his eyes to watch him. He watched as Reyes placed the little girl on the ground. He looked at her small dark form, laying in the hot sand. But he took Reyes’ proffered hand and let himself be pulled into a standing position. He took one last look at the little girl. Then he broke into a jog, heading in the direction of their unit. He stopped and looked back, once, and made a big “Come on!” gesture with his arm at Reyes, who was still standing in the same spot. Reyes’ eyes moved from Johnson to the little girl to all the rest of the bodies and the wreckage and the sand that was already drinking up the blood. The two men stood still for a second; they gazed at the ruins and their eyes told volumes on the horror of war. Then Reyes turned and caught up to Johnson and they ran like hell for their unit.