Chapter 36 Game
thirty-six
Game
I’m back in Iraq.
We’re doing a building-to-building search. Tense, not knowing what’s behind the next corner.
Jess is with me. She’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans, no Kevlar. No gun. No helmet. I keep telling her to get back, to take cover. She won’t talk to me, won’t even look at me.
Sniper fire.
I put my body between her and the gunshots. I raise my gun and fire. The sniper fires back. I’m trying to keep track of Jess while I shoot. I hit the sniper. He falls from the top of the building.
Jess screams and runs into the street. I’m trying to stop her, but she fights me off. She kneels beside the fallen man. I see his face.
Stephens.
She’s screaming at me. “You killed him.” She’s holding his body. Blood and sand are everywhere.
She looks like she did in the picture, covered in gray dust. Now she’s a little kid again. I’m trying to carry her out of the street. She’s fighting me. She gets free and runs.
“Jess!”
A sharp knock on the door brings me out of the dream. “Jacob, are you up?” It’s her dad.
I sit up in a daze. My legs are tangled in her sheets. I wonder if I yelled her name out loud. I can guess how that would sound to Mr. Roberts, standing outside the door. Me, yelling his daughter’s name in my sleep.
Tyler is way into this. He stops and examines every footprint, every broken branch, every dropping, like he’s some expert hunter. I’m trying to shake the feeling that I’m back in Iraq. I keep checking for my Kevlar, feeling naked without it.
Mr. Roberts and his buddy went one way. I’m with Tyler. I hope we don’t end up shooting each other in the crossfire.
Tyler taps my shoulder. I look up and see a little herd—three or four deer, just down the slope in a little meadow. They’re too far for a good shot.
“Let’s split up," he whispers. “I’ll head down the hill on the right. You can go straight. If they see you, you'll spook them in my direction.”
“Sounds like a good way to get shot.” I touch my chest again, no body armor.
“I won’t be opposite you, just to the side.” He heads downhill and right.
I head straight down the hill—slow, cautious, trying not to kick up any rocks. The deer don’t see or smell me. I’m almost close enough for a good shot when something spooks them. They take off.
I raise my rifle. One deer goes down. I didn’t hear any shots. It stands, but it’s caught in an old barbed-wire fence. It’s a young buck with little knobs for horns. He’s big enough to be considered game, but not quite an adult.
I raise my rifle level with his head. He turns—rich brown eyes staring back at me. It’s an expression I recognize—the look of a sentient creature who knows his number is up. I peer through my sights at him. The shot would be clean, easy.
I can’t make myself pull the trigger.
Rocks kicked down the ravine spook him. With one desperate tug, the buck frees himself and bounds into the trees.
“What are you doing?” Tyler looks confused and disgusted. “You had a clean shot. Why didn’t you take it?”
I lower the rifle and breathe in. I’m not sure how long I’ve been holding my breath.
I lean against a tree and face him, a little sheepish, a little nauseous. I can’t answer. I breathe again. My heart is pounding. “I don’t feel good, Ty. Let’s go find your dad. You can hunt with him for the rest of the day.”