The cab rattled with a steady, bone-deep vibration as the box truck chewed through the empty highway.
All I could hear was the engine noise, tires humming, the occasional rattle from the cargo in the back, and sometimes the faint groan of a lone walker somewhere out there.
That was it.
No traffic like the old days.
No distant horns.
No life.
Rick sat beside me, one arm resting against the door, his eyes forward but never still—scanning out of habit.
Tree lines, overpasses, abandoned cars.
Even with the road mostly clear, he didn't relax.
Good habit.
Atlanta's silhouette was starting to rise in the distance.
Dead.
Waiting.
"You said you were military, right?" Rick said. Not a question—a statement.
I kept my eyes on the road, keeping my hands steady on the wheel. "Yeah."
A beat passed, then—
"What was it like?"
There it was.
Every civilian asked it eventually.
Didn't matter the world, didn't matter the situation; sooner or later, it came out.
What was it like?
My grip tightened just a fraction on the wheel, not because I didn't have an answer, but because I had too many—and most of them didn't fit the face I was wearing now.
I exhaled slowly through my nose, my eyes still tracking the road ahead.
"Hot," I said.
Rick glanced at me briefly, waiting.
"Hundred and ten, easy," I continued. "Sometimes more."
"Blistering heat that sticks to you, gets under the armor, into your lungs. You breathe and it still feels dry."
The memory came with it.
Not just images—sensations. Weight, heat, pressure.
"Body armor's about sixty pounds," I went on. "Helmet, plates, gear. You don't notice it at first. Then you do—glaringly so. Then you stop thinking about it again, because you have to."
Rick said nothing, just listened.
"Ramadi," I said. "2006. First time I was deployed, fresh outta the academy."
A pause.
Silence sat heavy between us.
"I had just turned nineteen then. Private Second Class. We arrived just after the Second Battle of Fallujah. We ran Clear and Hold ops. Push into a neighborhood, clear every structure, every room from insurgents... then we had to hold it. Defend it from more insurgents that came seeking to reclaim it."
I shifted slightly in the seat, one hand adjusting on the wheel.
"We had to move slow. Deliberate. Every doorway's a coin toss. Every pile of trash could be wired."
My hand gripped the wheel so much it whitened. "Some of my fellow soldiers learned that the hard way. IEDs didn't sound like much when they armed," I said. "Just a… clack."
Rick's jaw tightened at that.
"You hear that," I continued, voice even, "you don't think. You react, or you don't get the chance. I spent eleven months in that hell hole. You can see what it does to a person."
Silence filled the cab for a few seconds.
Just the engine.
The road.
"Sadr City," I went on. "2007. My second deployment. The only difference then was that I wasn't just a foot soldier anymore. I was promoted to a Non-Commissioned Officer, which made it harder for me, because I had a team to watch out for then. Four guys."
The skyline ahead grew a little larger.
"We did the same thing. Clear, hold, repeat. Streets tighter. More bodies. More eyes watching from windows you couldn't see into." I blinked once, slow. "By then, you stop trying to read faces," I added. "Everyone looks the same through a scope."
Another pause.
"I lost half of my team in that year to sniper fire."
Rick's expression changed subtly.
Pausing, I exhaled slowly through my nose before I continued.
"Taji, 2008."
The words came easier now.
Not lighter, mind you, just… practiced.
"My third and last deployment. I wasn't directly involved in the battle that time. I was assigned to convoy security, guarding the lifeline of the army. Ammo, supplies food... Constantly moving supplies while under the threat of ambush."
Glancing at him i continued, "You learn to read the road whether you liked it or not. What's new? What doesn't belong?"
I let out a quiet breath.
"You stop seeing places," I said.
"You start seeing patterns."
Rick shifted slightly in his seat, still listening, still taking it in.
I kept my tone flat.
Professional.
"You do that long enough…"
I trailed off for a second, then finished, "…it sticks."
I didn't look at him.
Didn't need to.
I could feel it anyway—that shift.
Rick's reaction wasn't loud; didn't need to be.
It sat in the space between us—quiet, solid, somber respect.
Rick shifted slightly in his seat, one hand dragging across his jaw like he was grounding himself in something solid.
"You…" he started. "You got through the worst time of the war, huh?"
"The worst," I echoed. "Yeah, you could say that. But that part's where… you don't get to think. You just…" I gestured vaguely. "React or die."
I paused for a bit, then glanced at Rick.
"So you gotta accept the hand that you were dealt, take it like a man, and move on."
Rick nodded in agreement.
Silence followed.
(To be continued...)