Saving Emmy by Rayne Lewis
Prologue
The midday sun blazed above and beat down on the crude rubble of the village. Houses, if they could be called that, lay in ruins. Decrepit, crumbling stone structures that looked as if they belong to a bygone era lined the dust-clad roads from biblical times. The air hung heavy with earth and staleness, a scent and taste that was indescribable to anyone who hadn’t experienced it. Hundreds of years of death and woe wove its way through the stench of desolation. Though the sun shone above, dust covered the horizon muting the pristine blue skyline and marred it with a darkened haze of brown and orange, matching the unforgiving ugliness of the mood of war.
Moon dust, what soldiers called the fine powder that got everywhere, lined her nostrils, a smell that was constant and always present, collected in every pore and crevice. There was no escape from the grit that clung beneath the necklines, gloves, and tight-laced boots, coating her battledress blouse and trousers a lifeless gray against her normal khaki Kevlar vest. She watched from her perch as the fine chalk dust stirred and swirled, settling beneath the feet of the squad moving in tandem from decimated shack to mud-laden stone shanty, looking for those who weren’t the occupants.
Lying prone on the rooftop, she watched and waited, being the eyes for her brothers below, alert to anything that moved, though the dust lay dormant and dead around the ruins settled in silt from the desert haboob that rained through the day before. As long as she lived, she would never forget the intense sand and ultra-fine dust storms that darkened the summertime day into a haze of a modern day apocalyptic movie thriller. Darkness fell when the dirt bellowed, consuming everything in its wake, only to pass, blown away by the curtailing winds in the hot, dry desert air.
She swallowed the grit lining the roof of her mouth. Sweat trickled from the crest of her brow and stung the corners of her eyes, though she was immune to the urge to wipe it, not chancing any small movement to give away her cover.
A billow of dust rose from behind the abandoned row of houses to the east, resurrecting the bleak, barren wasteland deserted weeks ago. No soul of good intentions marked this godforsaken village. Evil intent bore their presence.
She sighted-in the lone boy, navigating over the rocky terrain and stones of once-there-buildings, tracking his journey and noting his attire. A relic of a rifle slung across his chest and a brown leather satchel held tight to his side. Leaving the rifle to sway and fall, the boy cradled the satchel as if it were a newborn child. Zeroing in on the boy through the refraction of the high-powered scope, she reassessed her judgement noting the boy more resembled a young man—fighting age of ISIS insurgents or those trying to show their allegiance to the terror group. She radioed to the Ranger squad breaching compounds just a few houses to the north of the young man's position.
Dead.
Tracking his movements, he hunkered behind the remains of a burnt-out car.
Crouching, he opened the satchel.
Radioing to base, she got the green light.
Control yourself. Calm yourself. Clear yourself.
Time didn’t exist. Peripheral vision dimmed. The rushing of blood timed to her heartbeat filled the void of nothingness in her ears.
Exhale. Two...Three...Fou—
The sharp crack of air splitting as her round left the gun and parted the atmosphere. The sound coupled with the smell of metallic sulfur—burnt earth if you will—that was a familiar, oddly settling and pleasant scent to her senses.
The lethal bullet marked for the insurgent sailed through the air on trajectory and route to its intended target.
As if sensing its approach, the young man’s head turned in time to meet his demise.
Eyes.
Widening eyes.
Wicked, diabolical eyes scorched her soul and stained her memory.
The body fell, muddying the stale grey dust to a crimson quagmire.
Ember lay prone, on an exhale, in the hot desert sun.