Jurassic War

Thirty-Seven

Dawson awoke to his body jouncing about. He found himself slung over someone’s back in a fireman’s carry. A scent of cigarette smoke wafted in his direction. Bishop had managed to haul him off the battlefield.

The sound of waves lapping across the sandy beach made him realize they were approaching from the rear of the garrison. Someone had thought to put the Imperial troops in a crossfire. He figured Bishop had come up with the strategy, taking a page out of Dawson’s playbook. An old hunting ploy, he hadn’t even learned to do it as a lowly rifleman in the Marine Corps.

He loved the Marines for this very reason. The improvise, adapt, and overcome creed was fully embraced by enlisted jarheads. Coming from all walks of life, everyone had something to add to the mix, a contribution, and they often encountered unanticipated situations. Such a small branch of the military, without the resources for an expansive officer corps, enlisted Marines often found themselves in the field without the brass instructing them what to do. They simply had to improvise to get a mission accomplished, whether in combat or completing routine training and maintenance tasks stateside.

Waves gently slapping the beach and combat boots trudging through the sand were serene compared to the explosions and shooting they’d left behind. Muffled gunshots resounded through the bush, a harbinger of what lay ahead.

Dawson spied the gas flames rising from the fuel tanks, soaring above the treetops. The sight reminded him of the bout with death he’d had with the dinosaur. It had trampled into the jungle ablaze. A multitude of scavengers and carnivores had chased after the Japanese troops. Many of them had run down a path stretching parallel to the beach.

He gulped. Where are the creatures now?

Glancing around, he considered if any of them might be lying in wait. But he didn’t see the yellow orbs, and nothing lunged at them from the brush.

Bishop’s footsteps were heavy from the weight of his load.

Dawson’s leg throbbed; the pain was unbearable.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he said after a moment.

“Look who’s with us again.” Bishop chuckled.

“Finally came around,” Simmons added.

Then, Bishop halted. He crouched, allowing Dawson to scoot to the ground, while Simmons stood by, anxious. A fierce battle enraged in the distance.

Settling on the beach, Dawson inspected his leg for the first time. A rough impalement had torn his utilities open and cleaved back the flesh. Loose scraps of muscle were shredded along with his ripped trousers. The meat oozed with fresh blood, but nothing gushed forth.

A web-belt was cinched around his thigh above the wound, serving as a tourniquet to cut off blood flow. He loosened the buckle.

“What are you doing?” Bishop said, alarmed.

“Just checking to see how bad it is.”

“That’s a good way to end up dead.”

Dawson shook his head. “We need to know if the femoral artery is damaged.”

“What for?” Bishop sounded peeved.

Ignoring the jarhead, Dawson glanced at the wound and was relieved to find that blood wasn’t flowing out. “We’re in business,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“The claw ripped my leg to shreds, but it didn’t cut through a major artery. I’ll be able to give you a hand when we reach the garrison.”

Bishop frowned in the pale moonlight. “Not a chance. You’ve done enough for this mission. I plan to get you home to your girl.”

“But I can help.”

“We are going to set you down somewhere safe.”

Dawson shook his head, disagreeing.

“Put you somewhere safe, then come back to collect you.”

“I’m better off joining the fight. What if something happens to you?”

Bishop thought about the comment. “Good point. But Captain Roosevelt is supposed to sweep the area with his unit, taking a second pass to collect the casualties.”

“We’ll settle this later. Give me your canteen.”

“The matter’s settled,” Bishop said, handing over the canteen.

Dawson took a long swig. The water was warm, but it went down smooth. His throat was parched and needed the liquid. “The smoke must have been worse than I thought.”

“No kidding. You’ve been talking with a gravelly voice.”

“We’ve already polished off most of the water,” Simmons cut in.

Pouring water over the wound, Dawson winced in pain. He’d meant to wash out any dirt, but the simplest contact aggravated the injury.

“Hurts, don’t it.” Bishop chuckled.

“It’s not funny.”

“Well, it’s a little bit funny now that we know you’re not gonna die.”

Dawson inhaled and poured more water over the serrated flesh. Pain spiked through his thigh. He flinched. The moment passed and he dug out his first-aid kit. “You did a hell of a job bandaging this thing up.”

“Hey, I was just trying to stop the blood flow and clear out of there.”

Simmons stepped over and looked at the wound. “We planned to patch you up better once we got to a safe location.”

“What took you so long?” Dawson grinned.

“Didn’t want to disturb you,” Bishop griped. “Thought you could use the rest.”

“Yeah,” Simmons added. “Like when your body shuts down to heal.”

Dawson handed the canteen back to Bishop. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”

Then, he tore his utilities further open, treated the wound, and gingerly placed the scraps of flesh back into place. He bandaged it up. Pulling the gauze tight, he had Bishop tighten the dressing so it wouldn’t come loose.

“You going to put the tourniquet back on?” Bishop pointed at the dressing.

Dawson handed the belt to his comrade. “You take it. Might come in handy… keeping your pants on during the next firefight.”

Simmons laughed at the joke made at the jarhead’s expense.

A frown crossed Bishop’s face, then he laughed and took the belt. He put it on and checked over his Browning, making sure the magazine was full. He cleared dirt and debris from all working mechanisms to ensure it wouldn’t jam during combat.

“Guess it’s time to join the fray,” Dawson said, rising to his feet.

“Let me carry you the rest of the way,” Bishop said.

“You need to save your strength.” Dawson shook his head. “I can lean on my rifle, or use your shoulder if necessary.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve worn yourself out enough.”

Simmons stepped over. “I’ll carry you for a bit.”

He had a Browning slung over his shoulder and carried a Thompson. Various ammo belts and equipment dangled from his shoulders and war-belt.

“You’re weighed down enough.”

Simmons shrugged. “Can always handle more.”

“Spoken like a true Marine.” Dawson started down the beach, using his rifle for support. He’d grabbed it by the barrel and pressed the butt into the sand, walking like an invalid with a cane.

“Guess that settles it,” Bishop concluded, starting after him.

Pain radiated up and down the injured leg, as Dawson trekked from the beach through underbrush towards the commotion. The limb functioned, though. He figured they’d put down the enemy quickly and be headed back to the beachhead within a few hours.

The sounds of a chaotic battle grew louder, as they drew nearer to the target.

Stepping from the edge of the jungle, at the rear of the garrison, the clearing in front of the building came into view. A calamity like nothing he’d ever seen or anticipated lay before them.