The Devil’s Mercy

The sky burns. Tracer rounds carve red lines through the darkness as the sandstorm howls, swallowing the screams, the explosions, the chaos. The world around me smells like gunpowder and blood. The ground trembles with every blast. “Medic! We need a medic here!” The shout cuts through the static in my earpiece. My heart kicks into overdrive. I grab my field kit and sprint toward the sound, boots sinking in the mud, bullets snapping past my head like angry insects. A soldier lies face down near a crater, his leg mangled by shrapnel. I drop to my knees beside him and drag him behind the remains of a burned-out Humvee. His name tag reads Reed. He’s barely breathing. “Stay with me, soldier.” My voice shakes as I tear open his vest and press a field dressing against the bleeding wound in his abdomen. The blood gushes between my fingers, hot and endless. “Vitals dropping,” my partner, Cooper, calls from behind. “We’re losing him!” “Not yet,” I mutter. I clamp the artery with trembling hands, slide a morphine auto-injector into his thigh, and dig for a vein. “Come on, come on…” A rocket lands nearby, throwing dirt and metal over us. My ears ring. I bite back the urge to scream. My hands don’t stop. “Pressure!” I order. Cooper leans in, applying force while I slip the IV needle into place. Reed’s breathing stutters, then stills. “No, no, no—” I grab the defibrillator paddles from my kit. One, two shocks. Nothing. My chest tightens. I strike again, screaming against the storm. “Come on, Reed!” A faint beep. Then another. He’s back. I exhale shakily, my eyes burning from the smoke and the relief flooding through me. I look down at him — pale, blood-soaked, but alive. “He’s stable,” I whisper. “Evac him now.” The radio crackles: “Chopper inbound. One minute!” As the helicopter descends, wind whipping my hair into my face, I stay kneeling beside him, my hands stained red. Around me, chaos reigns — screaming, fire, orders shouted through the haze — but all I can hear is his pulse, steady and defiant beneath my fingers. And yet… There’s nothing. No joy. No pride. Only a hollow echo in my chest. The next morning, the war is over for me. My thoughts snap back into place when the door opens. I straighten my posture, inhale, and walk toward the gray-haired man whose eyes have always held more command than warmth. The man I once called Dad. Today, to me, he is only General Jenkins. He steps aside so I can enter, then shuts the door behind us. “Take a seat, Sergeant.” I obey instantly. He circles his desk and sits across from me, studying me like another soldier in his command. “I’ll be honest—your performance has exceeded expectations. I never thought you would advance through the ranks this fast, much less deliver a Medal of Honor that will have the President calling my daughter a hero. Do you understand the weight of that, Sergeant?” “Yes, sir,” I answer, voice flat. “They’re already processing your promotion. As a lieutenant, you won’t have to return to the front unless you choose to. After what you’ve accomplished, you’ve earned the right to step back from combat.” He keeps talking, but my thoughts drift somewhere else—back to sand, blood, screaming radios, and the weight of bodies I couldn’t carry out. I became a medic to save people. Not to line them up in my head like ghosts. I shake my head to push the images away. There’s nothing. “Something wrong, Sergeant?” he asks. I look down at my hands. They look steady. Clean. None of the blood or shaking or fear shows on the surface anymore. You won’t kill again. I inhale, slow and steady, then meet his eyes. “I’m finished,” I say, firm. His brows pull together. “What did you just say?” “I’m done, General. I’m leaving the Army.” “You can’t be serious,” he snaps. “Mia, this is insanity. You’re on the edge of a new rank. Your career has barely started.” I stand before he can give another order. I remove my dog tags and drop them onto his desk without hesitation. “You like titles so much? Keep them. You said I fulfilled my duty to this country. That means what comes next is my choice.” I turn toward the door, hand already reaching for the handle, when his voice hits me like a command. “Walk away now, and don’t expect to have a father to come back to.” I stop. The smallest smirk pulls at my mouth, humorless and tired. There’s nothing left. “I stopped being your daughter a long time ago,” I say calmly. “Goodbye, General.” Then I open the door and walk out without looking back. Two Years Later The call comes in while I’m fastening an oxygen tank. Phoenix hasn’t cooled in weeks; kids are practically living in public pools just to survive the heat. Which means drowning calls… yeah. They’ve been climbing. Pediatric drowning. Recreation center. My stomach drops. It always does with pediatric calls. “Let’s go,” I tell Matt. He’s already grabbing the airway bag. We don’t talk on the way. No dramatic pep talk. Sirens, heat, sun beating on the windshield, and both of us trying not to think ahead. Calls with kids pull something out of you whether you want them to or not. We turn the corner and chaos hits. Parents crying. Lifeguards pacing. Children huddled near the fence, whispering. This isn’t the kind of silence that comes before panic — it’s the one after everyone realizes panic didn't help. A lifeguard rushes forward, holding a small boy in his arms. He’s shaking worse than the kid. “Here, here— please,” he stammers. “We pulled him from the deep end. I— I didn’t see him. I don’t know how long—” “I’ve got him,” I say, taking the child. He’s limp. Dripping. Too still. Blue lips. Wet hair stuck to his forehead. The mother rushes toward me, eyes wild, mascara streaked. “Please! Please save him! That’s my baby, please!” “I need space,” I say firmly, already kneeling on the wet concrete. “We’re working.” Matt sets the bag valve mask beside me. “Airway ready. Say when.” “Check pulse.” He touches the carotid. Shakes his head. I don’t hesitate. Hands on sternum. CPR starts. “Matt, ventilate.” He squeezes the bag. Oxygen goes in. Water bubbles out the boy’s mouth. “Come on, kid,” Matt whispers under his breath. “Come on.” The mother sobs behind me. “He was just playing— he was just playing— please don’t let him die—” “I need her back,” I snap, without looking up. Someone pulls her away gently. I keep compressing. Counting in my head. Pushing because sometimes pushing is all you have. Water splashes with every movement. My knees are soaked, my arms burning. “Should I take over compressions?” Matt asks. “No.” My voice is flat. Focused. “Keep ventilating.” He does. His hands shake slightly. He hates pediatric calls. We all do. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Everyone around us is holding their breath except the mother, who breaks over and over again. “Anything?” I ask between compressions. Matt checks rhythm, voice tight. “Nothing. Asystole.” I nod once and keep going. You don’t stop because the heart monitor tells you to. You stop when hope leaves the room — and sometimes hope is stubborn. Twenty-five minutes. Thirty. My arms burn. My shirt sticks to my back. The boy still doesn’t move. No gasp. No cough. No fight. The father suddenly lunges forward. “Do something! He’s five! He’s FIVE!” His voice cracks so hard I feel it in my chest. Matt steps in front of him. “Sir, please—” “Switch?” Matt asks me quietly. I shake my head. I'm not ready to stop yet. I press again. And again. And again. But at some point, there’s a shift — the kind that isn’t physical. The kind you feel in your bones. My hands slow. I breathe. Not because I’m tired — because reality finally catches up. I stop. Silence hits first. Then the mother’s scream. I don’t look at her. I can’t. “Time of death,” I say, voice steady even though inside everything feels too tight and too numb at once. The father drops to his knees. The lifeguard covers his face, shaking. Someone starts praying. Someone else pukes. The world keeps moving, even when a child doesn’t. I sit back on my heels. My heart pounds, but it doesn’t break. It used to. Now it just… keeps going. Because someone has to. Matt swallows hard. “You okay?” No. But I nod anyway. “Yeah. Let’s clean up.” There’ll be another call. There always is. I don’t think you ever get used to death. You just learn how to stand in front of it without falling apart.