Merik Carlson wasn't even supposed to be in the army. He was fifteen, one year too young, but he'd lied about his age and enlisted the day he ran away from home. After thirty-four years of counterinsurgencies in Africa and wars in North America and Asia, recruiters had long ago stopped asking questions when an able-bodied volunteer showed up.
Now he was the last man in his detachment still alive.
Merik pressed his face deeper into the dirt and mud of the field as slugs shredded the air above him. He clutched his stomach where, moments ago, a bullet had buried itself deep. When he pulled his hands away, they weren't red like he expected. In the dim light of dawn, they looked black.
Merik had regrets.
Not about enlisting, not even leaving home, but that he hadn't been enough. He'd let the enemy scout get away. When he'd tried to pin the man down and drive a knife into his throat, he'd been thrown off. Because of that, Paul's face had been churned into a red mess by an incoming round, and Sergeant Hansen's throat slit by a shard of shrapnel.
He felt dizzy. Cold.
Merik hadn't been able to say goodbye to Hannah. He wondered where she was, if she'd gotten into the Cosmopolitan Medical Institute, and if she was okay.
If only he had been stronger…
Merik tried to crawl toward cover, his hands slipping from under him. The briars of a wild rose snatched at his clothes, thorns biting into his skin.
His vision narrowed.
Gunfire echoed somewhere far away.
Then the world went black.