Dean leads his Tactical Recovery team Topside. One by one, they disappear into daylight. The rest of us wait in shadows below, guarding East Hatch in case we must lockdown the URE one more time.
I pray.
Please. Please bring him back. Please don't let this be an ambush—let there be nothing up there but bodies and cement. Please don't take him away from me. Please. Keep him safe.
The words form naturally in my mind as if the ability to make them mean something has been there all along. I cling to them, wrap my hands around them, and exult in feeling them bulge through my fingers.
As the TR team pulls the casualties into the ground, the VIPERs and I guard East Hatch. Their eyes fixate on something innocuous in the distance. They don't move. With the exception of McCroy, whose chest hitches in barely perceivable jerks, they all make a solid, immovable fortress to separate the civilians with their morbid curiosity from the procession. The hardened glare I send the boy softens as I catch his glassy eyes.
There were twelve of them out there. There are always twelve of us on rotation at any given time—they were unlucky enough to be at the wrong station on the worst day.
When Dean returns to Level 1, he reaches out to touch my hand when brushing by. He's heavier like a boulder at the bottom of a hydroponics tank. New lines form on his brow and around his eyes.
I reach out, but miss contact.