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“Burgie,” Eugene whispers as quietly as he can. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up with the distinct feeling that someone’s watching him. “In the bunker.”
He heard something, he knows he heard something, he isn’t crazy. There’s a voice coming through the slats in the concrete, a hollow echo that he can’t quite make out over the thundering of his heart in his ears. It’s so hot; his skin is clammy, every single inch of his body dripping in sweat under the stiff fabric of his uniform, but his mouth is dry and cracked. It hurts to speak.
Burgie tilts his head the way Deacon does when he’s trying really hard to listen to something. His blue eyes shine unnaturally bright in their sockets. There’s a bloodstain on his side that’s growing steadily, blooming black against dark green. He doesn’t pay it any mind.
He knows he’s heard something, but it’s completely quiet now. Whatever is in the bunker is taunting him.
Burgie shakes his head. “Get a grip, Sledge,” he orders with an air of finality and turns back to the half-assembled mortar.
This isn’t fair. Eugene turns around to get some support from Snafu, but he’s not there where he usually is; instead it’s just Jay with a white-knuckled grip on his rifle and tears streaming down his dirty face.
Mouth half-open, a plea stuck in his throat, Eugene whips his head around in search of his squad member. They’re completely alone in the field, he realizes with cold dread taking hold of his chest, alone and vulnerable. Skinny tree trunks swing in the slight breeze and there’s no one there for miles, Jesus Christ, where’s the rest of their company-
“Gene,” a voice echoes from behind him. He turns back fast enough to give himself vertigo, blinking the stars out of his vision in order to stare into that black crack in the bunker.
He’s not crazy, he’s not crazy, he’s not. He knows what he heard.
He puts his hand on Burgie’s shoulder, desperation rising in his throat. “Burgie,” he urges his squad leader. Please listen to me, we’re alone out here- “I’m sure.”
Burgie’s mouth is pressed into a thin line as he considers Eugene. Blood runs from his hairline down his temple. Eugene nods and holds his breath.
Slowly, his squad leader rises to his feet and stalks towards the bunker, gravel crunching under his boots. He crouches in a safe place beside the shooting slat, smearing blood on the concrete behind him. Eugene strains his ears and hopes beyond hope that whatever it is in the bunker speaks again.
It’s quiet. Too quiet. Something’s wrong.
There’s a thud inside the bunker.
“Son of a bitch!” Burgie yells, jumping into action immediately; he’s firing into the bunker before Eugene can even blink, then the adrenaline kicks in and he runs for cover on the roof. He doesn’t have time to feel vindicated, the butt of his rifle pressing against his cheek and rocks biting into his knees. The world explodes into chaos, the ground shaking beneath him as shots are fired from inside the bunker.
Jay joins him, digging frantically in his bag while Eugene covers for him. Burgie jumps up with them and then they’re trapped on a concrete island with no backup, waiting for their enemy to come out and face them.
“Did you get anyone?” Jay asks breathlessly. His bag is empty; he throws it away in disdain.
Burgie shrugs.
Footsteps echo beneath them. They’re so, so screwed. Eugene looks down the barrel of his rifle and aims towards the entrance of the bunker, swallowing hard. The wind blows dust into his eyes but he can’t blink, can’t even breathe, finger ready on the trigger and mind radio silent.
Someone bursts out into the open, a short man in Marine uniform and a bloodied Kabar in hand; there’s a split second where Eugene registers curly dark hair and recognizes sea-glass eyes filled with hatred before reflexes and training kicks in and he’s squeezing the trigger, nausea rising in his throat because it’s Merriell, God, shit, no-
He jolts awake with a cry stuck in his throat, bolting upright in the dark.
His body is covered in cold sweat and there are searing hot tears spilling down his cheeks. He’s shivering so hard he can feel his teeth chatter, mouth full of an acrid sour taste. Light streams in through the window and he’s home, he’s home and safe and it wasn’t real; his ribs ache against the pounding of his heart.
“Genie,” Merriell says beside him. It sounds too much like that ghostly echo that’s still playing in his brain; Eugene can’t help the way he startles, instincts sharp under his skin.
Curly hair, sea-glass eyes filled with worry and empathy and absolutely zero hatred. He’s still terrified. His blood is spiky in his veins. Those images will continue to flash in his eyes whether they’re open or not; he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Frustration bubbles in his chest, warring with the terror still there for dominance. He’s so tired of this.
A warm hand rubs over his shoulder blade, sure and familiar. He can’t bring himself to look at Merriell, not after what he just saw, and he hates himself for it. There he is, the only person who can possibly understand him and the love of his life right next to him, and he can only muster the energy to stare at the wall in front of him and let the tears run down his face. He hates himself.
“It’s okay,” Merriell says, voice mellow and comforting like he’s talking to a spooked animal (which he is).
He’s so tired all of a sudden. Eugene lets his head drop between his shoulders, body no longer able to hold it up. The sheets are twisted between his fingers and dotted with teardrops. He’s so tired of this; he’s been in this situation too many times. It’s never going to end.
“It’s not,” he whispers. It’s all he can bring himself to do. “It’s not.”