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Dark Ponderings

Hendricks, Logan.
Age 23 years and 4 months.
Religious preference: Wiccan.
Single, no dependents.

He liked folding paper and the color orange.

Sarge just sent him to his death, him and that kid from New Alabama that none of us could understand.

Part of me wished Sarge had sent me instead. I was tired of hiking; my feet hurt. I was tired of waiting for the bomb or bullet with my name on it to arrive; my nerves were frakking shot. Frankly, I was tired of living with what I’d seen; my soul was numb.

The other part of me just kept hoofing it for the evacuation node. Orders are orders. Command is command. If it’s not this mess it’s another. Why fight the fighting?

The ground shook. Rocks and dust broke loose overhead, a dirty shower on already filthy men, and that one woman in the squad, not that you could tell by looking at her.

Halfway through some less than Puritan pondering on that, Sarge’s voice broke in, “Head in the game, Gibson! Move! Move!”

I moved. I trudged. I lived on a while longer.

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