Merik Carlson wasn't even supposed to be in the army. He was fifteen, a year too young, but he'd lied about his age and enlisted the day he ran away from home. After thirty-four years of counter-insurgencies in Africa and wars in North America and Asia, recruiters had long ago stopped asking questions when an able-bodied volunteer showed up.
None of that mattered now. He was the last one of his detachment still alive, and that was quickly changing. He'd been shot. He pressed his face deeper into the dirt and mud of the field as slugs shredded the air above him.
He clutched his stomach where, moments ago, a bullet had buried itself deep. When he pulled his hands away, they weren't red like he expected. In the dim light of dawn, they looked black.
He had regrets. Not about joining the army expeditionaries, not even leaving home, but that he hadn't been enough. That he hadn't been able to stop Paul's face from being churned into a red mess by an incoming round, or Sergeant Hansen's throat from being slit by a shard of shrapnel.
It was his fault, after all. He'd let the enemy scout get away. It wasn't that he hadn't tried to kill him; he just hadn't been strong enough. When he'd tried to pin the man down and drive a knife into his throat, he'd been thrown off. The enemy escaped.
He felt dizzy and cold. He hadn't been able to say goodbye to Hanah. He wondered where she was, if she'd gotten into the Cosmopolitan Medical Institute, and if she was okay.
If only he had been stronger…
The boy died. The briars of a wild rose snatched at his clothes, tearing and clutching his skin as it fought to grow.