A Boy and His Horse

By Patrick M. Fitzgerald

Jeff blinked at the sun, wondering where his shades had gone. Dust settled around him to the tune of ringing in his ears.

The Jeep rumbled in vain. He shut off the ignition. Considering the hood was ripped open like a sardine can, it probably wasn’t going anywhere.

“So much for an easy supply run,” he muttered. He unlatched his harness and staggered out. His left leg buckled with a screaming pain and he tumbled to the ground.

As he looked himself over, the shard of metal sticking out of his thigh seemed to be the only damage. The Jeep wasn’t so lucky. “Looks like this was our last ride, old buddy,” he said with a sigh.

Wincing, he wiggled the fragment out. Blood gushed, and he slammed the heel of his palm against the wound. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. Carefully, he inched his way back to the Jeep for the first-aid kit. Wrapping his leg, he took another look at the road. He hadn’t seen it coming. Not at all.

The dirt road was little more than a trail between Army outposts. That made it uneven enough that the telltale signs of recent digging could be easily missed. Especially if the minelayer was careful. This one apparently had been.

The sun was high over the hill, beyond which lay Jeff’s post. They’d probably send a recon team out if he didn’t return by tomorrow. Smartest thing to do would be hunker down until they picked him up.

Except where there was one bomb, there would be others.

“No sense looking back.” He patted the dash of what was left of his Jeep. “Can’t let this happen to someone else.”

Clutching a bundle of red stake flags, Jeff climbed back out of the Jeep. His increasingly damp trousers slurped as they pulled away from the seat leather. When he put weight on his leg, his vision went white and he toppled over.

He woke to moisture on his face.

There was a noise that felt so out of place, it almost didn’t register as a whinny.

His eyes shot open and his hand went for his sidearm. The horse tilted its head and stared at him.

Jeff brought the pistol up slowly. He blinked. What am I doing, anyway? Without a rider, it’s no threat. The horse bowed its head and started licking his hand. Obviously.

“Okay, buddy. Are you just going to lick me all day, or help me out?” All this sweat, he must taste like a salt lick.

The horse snorted and turned away. Its saddle and Kevlar body armor confirmed its domestication. As if that weren’t already apparent.

He gripped the stirrup and pulled himself up. Fire shot through his leg from thigh to ankle, and he dropped to his knees.

“I didn’t luck out and find a bomb-sniffing horse, did I?” Jeff asked as he crawled to the next IED.

The horse gave him an inscrutable look.

“Didn’t think so.” Jeff tugged at the stirrup. “Over there, bud.”

From the ground, it was easier to spot the subtle shading difference in the freshly dug dirt. Whoever planted these was skilled. There was barely a ridge where the hole had been.

His leg was soaked, but the bleeding had mostly stopped. The pain was constant. “Just gotta keep going. Don’t think about it.”

It wasn’t easy to guide a horse from this angle, but this guy was well trained. He crossed the treacherous ground with cautious precision.

Planting a flag, Jeff tapped the horse’s side. “On to the next one.”

Jeff dropped into a belly crawl as the stiffness crept through his leg. He lost count after the sixth bomb. How many didn’t matter. Only the next one. The one after that would be his problem later.

As he flagged each mine, the world around him faded into a blur. All that existed was himself, the horse, and the road. All that mattered was the next task.

“That’s the last one,” Jeff croaked out in a ragged whisper. “I think.”

The horse neighed and straightened with his ears perked. Jeff followed his line of sight to a soldier standing at the crestline, silhouetted by the setting sun. Jeff clutched at his empty holster and swore under his breath.

The soldier strode forward casually, as though he were anywhere but a war zone. His uniform was American, at least. Each time Jeff blinked, the man covered more ground. Each time, he watched him through a mistier haze.

The man’s faded jacket rustled in the wind. His winged medic’s patch flashed like polished silver. Dusty boots that must have trod countless miles marched ever closer.

The soldier stopped to rub the horse’s neck. “Good boy. I almost missed this one.” He knelt next to Jeff and opened his pack. His eyes glistened with a veil of tears that refused to fall. “Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not.” Jeff winced, half from pain, and half from this greenie thinking he would be afraid. “Just glad to have an extraction.”

The medic slowly pulled off the old bandage. It didn’t hurt as much as Jeff thought it would. In fact, the fresh bandage felt like silk against his raw skin. The bleeding had all but stopped at this point, anyway.

“Are you all done?” the man asked gently.

Jeff nodded. “It should be safe now.”

The horse knelt and the medic swung up in a smooth motion. “Let me get you to a better place.”

Jeff stood, surprised that the pain in his leg was gone. He took the man’s hand and climbed up behind him.

“Hold on.” The man gave him a wry grin. “And don’t look back.”

“I never do.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Patrick M. Fitzgerald writes speculative fiction and suspense from his home in Missouri. Inspired by the epic science fiction of Isaac Asimov and Frank Herbert, he creates thought-provoking tales of new worlds and their unique denizens. His work has been anthologized in Warriors Against the Storm as well as Havok’s Bingeworthy and Sensational.

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