A Damned Reunion

Chapter 1

"Logan".

A hand racked at the sandy earth, the other arm hanging useless by his side.

"Logan!"

Bronze eyes, once gleaming with mischief and strength, were now filled with helplessness as Rorke dragged him away.

I reached out to him, to Logan, to my brother. No, no!

"LOGAN!"

"Logan!" I cried, jerking awake and jolting to my feet. My legs tangled in the sheets and I fell, my ass slamming on the wooden floor with a thump. Seconds later, Kick burst through the door, gun at the ready.

"Hesh, what happened? I heard banging", he said lowering the pistol. I cringed at the sight. It was a 96 magnum, like the one that Rorke had used in our final fight just under two months ago.

"It was just a dream", I mumbled. I caught Kick's look of sympathy and I scowled. I didn't want his sympathy. I deserved the Ghosts' anger or their rejection, not their kindness. After all, it was me who lost him. It was me who just laid there and watched as he was taken. Me, the one who promised to have his back. What a brother I turned out to be.

"What time is it?" I asked him.

He checked his watch, "0-six hundred hours". I nodded; I knew exactly what time it was. There was a digital clock on the desk near the window. I just wanted to fill the awkward silence that had fallen. I climbed to my feet, rubbing the sore spot on my ass. Note to self: don't throw yourself out of bed. Kick shifted on his feet and grimaced at my dishevelled appearance. I glanced down at myself; dark grey cargo pants and a khaki coloured singlet. Both had seen better days. Dirt had caked around the ankles while the shirt was covered in holes and sweat. I strode to the desk, wiping away the dust with my forearm and revealing my reflection in the wood. Man, do continuous nights without sleep ruin your badass façade! My usual buzz cut hair had grown and was matted to my head in greasy, brown waves. Underneath my hazel eyes were deep, black bags that refused to budge even as I rubbed them. I looked like a disgrace, nothing like a member of the notorious Ghosts squadron.

"Hesh", Kick started. I waited. I knew where this was going. "You need to stop this mate. I've had your back all through this, and I've convinced Merrick to give you a break. But mate, it's been two months." Kick placed a hand on my shoulder, and I shrugged it off. "You're wasting away here. You need to get out, help us on a mission or two. Get some meaning back in your life."

"I'm wasting away? I'm wasting away? What about Logan, Kick? Don't you think he's wasting away right now? In a pit with nothing, no hope of escaping?" I spun to face him, his blue eyes full of grief. He was hurting too, all of us were, and each word I said drove that pain in deeper. Just then, I didn't care. "While you go off on some 'heroic' mission that's does nothing to end this stupid war, my brother is rotting in a hole, probably being tortured right now. When you have some news about helping him, then I might consider helping you." I turned away.

"At least we're doing something, Hesh" Kick retorted, anger lacing his words. "At least we're trying." He stomped to the door. "Your father would be ashamed, David Walker. You've given up." He left, slamming the door behind him.

I stared at it, those final words ringing in my ears. You've given up.

Had I? Had I given up on Logan? No, I don't think I...

You've given up.

Two months have passed with no sign. Then again, what have I done to find him?

You've given up.

Nothing. I had done nothing to help him. Merrick and Keegan and Kick were all out there, fighting against the men who did this. And what was I doing? Sulking about, pitying myself. Kick was right; Dad would be ashamed.

I hated myself then, for letting myself become like this; a scruffy, self-pitying fool. And then I took that hate and anger and aimed it at the real cause of all of this mess. I refined it into determination and purpose; to save my brother and finally act revenge on that prick Rorke.

I had given up. But never again.

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Pain.

That's all there was. Pain. And sorrow.

My vision was returning. It was a blurry mess. Darkness was always there, at the edges. Beckoning, teasing; offering peace. But I couldn't reach it. They wouldn't let me.

These are the worst times, these disjointed moments of awareness. When I could see them coming. When I could smell the blood. When I could feel the things they did to me.

Then there would be more pain. Burning, stinging, throbbing, searing pain.

Then oblivion, for a time.

But only for a time.

Then it would begin again.

And again. And again.

Until there is nothing left to break.