“I think I’m blind,” he says, blinking slowly. Half of what I say ends up sounding like a grunt, but that’s fine with me. My voice is in the basement end of the register, all gravel and boom. He’s still not looking directly at me, and it dawns on me right then that maybe he can’t see. “Soldier?” he says, like he doesn’t know who I am. When he finally turns to me, his right eye looks blankly somewhere over my shoulder, and there’s no expression on his face. Hell, even I’d be tempted to cry a little if some asshole blew a hole in my head. The wound’s gotta hurt like hell, but this is the Sarge. Up until this point, the Sarge’s been staring off to the side, his face tense, not saying a word. HeBA, or Hexa-Benactryl Almeanotroxene, is a synthetic compound that’s part homegrown and part alien the fact that the shit is bright fucking pink gets me thinking that the squinters and grinders that make it were actively hoping for the nickname. I jab it into his neck and sit back to check if any of this goddamned blood is my own while I let the painkiller work its magic. I pop open a compartment in my hip and take out a pin-sticker of hubba bubba. There’s nothing I can really do about it he’ll have to get it replaced at the chop n’ change at HQ, and that’s a half-hour hike that might as well be on the other side of the planet as long as the sun’s still up. Thankfully, it’s cauterized some, so the bleeding is minimal.
His left eye’s completely gone it’s just a big, wet red hole where the charge went in. Down on my knees in mud made from equal parts dirt and blood, I survey the damage done to Sarge.
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