Friendly Fire

Muzzle flashes ripped through the dense indigo dusk, cutting the jungle into frantic, jagged snapshots.

Corporal Vance pressed his back against the moss-slick bark of a giant banyan tree, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Hot brass rained around his boots as he slapped a fresh magazine into his rifle. He had no idea who was shooting at him. One minute he was navigating the silent ruins of Sector 4; the next, a lone gunman in scorched tactical gear was trying to paint the trees with his brains.

The attacker was brutal, relentless, and possessed an almost supernatural read on Vance’s movements. Every time Vance tried to flank, a burst of heavy-caliber fire pinned him down.

“Who are you?” Vance screamed into the chaos, but his answer was a three-round volley that splintered the trunk inches above his ear.

Desperation took over. Vance unclipped his last concussion grenade, pulled the pin, and cooked it for two brutal seconds before pitching it over the root cluster.

BOOM.

The shockwave rattled Vance’s teeth. Without waiting for the smoke to clear, he broke cover, weapon raised, and poured half a magazine into the shadowy figure struggling to stand in the crater. The stranger buckled, falling face-first into the mud.

Silence collapsed back over the jungle, heavy and suffocating. Vance stood frozen, chest heaving, smoke curling from his rifle barrel.

He had won.

Cautiously, Vance closed the distance, his boot heels sinking into the wet earth. He used the muzzle of his rifle to roll the body over to inspect his attacker. He reached down and pulled away the cracked, soot-covered ballistic mask.

Vance dropped his weapon. Blood drained from his face as horror seized his chest.

Staring back at him through lifeless, glassed-over eyes was his own face. The same jawline, the same faint scar over the left eyebrow, the same faded tattoo of a compass on the neck. The dead man was wearing Vance’s dog tags.

Before his brain could process the impossibility, a sharp crack echoed through the trees.

A bullet bit into the mud an inch from Vance’s boot. Instinct took over before sanity could—he dove behind a thick banyan root as another burst of fire splintered the wood above his head.

Through the haze and rising panic, Vance looked toward the tree line. Standing in the shadows was a soldier in scorched tactical gear, aiming a rifle directly at him.

Vance raised his hands to scream, to explain, to stop it—but as he opened his mouth, the stranger threw a concussion grenade.

The loop began again. Vance wasn’t fighting an enemy. He was just trying to kill the man who was trying to save himself.

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