He blinked hard, the noise still ringing in his ears. For a second, everything felt wrong. The smell. The weight. The sound of air catching in a throat that should not breathe.
He wasn't in Iraq.
The tent walls came into focus, the faint hum of the lantern, the cold biting through the canvas. The man on top of him was not an enemy. It was Andrei.
His skin was gray, veins black beneath it, mouth opening and closing without sound. Teeth scraped the air inches from Malcolm's face.
He froze, realization cutting through the fog. Then instinct caught up.
Malcolm shoved the body off him. Andrei lurched, arms flailing, legs kicking against the dirt. Malcolm drove a hard kick into his chest and sat up. The body hit the ground with a heavy thud, twitching, head rolling to the side, jaw still working in that dull rhythm.
The tent flap rustled.
"Malcolm," Kyle's voice cracked, confused.
"Get out," Malcolm said, not turning.
