This is Just a Dream

Chapter 8

The dawn broke with an eerie, deceptive stillness over the valley. The dust had settled, leaving the air crisp and clear, but the silence didn't feel like peace; it felt like a held breath. Adam shifted his weight, his boots crunching softly on the shale. His squad moved with the practiced, fluid silence of men who had done this a hundred times before.

They were traversing a narrow, winding wadi, the steep rock faces on either side casting long, jagged shadows. It was a textbook patrol route—familiar, unremarkable, and supposedly secure.

"Miller, watch your six," Adam murmured over the comms, his voice low and steady. "This terrain is too narrow. Feels like a bottleneck."

"Copy that, Garth," Miller replied, his machine gun scanning the ridge line with rhythmic precision. "Everything’s quiet. Maybe the locals are still sleeping."

But the valley wasn't sleeping. It was waiting.

The first hint of trouble wasn't a sound, but a vibration—a sharp, high-frequency hum in the air that preceded the world tearing itself apart. Then, the silence shattered.

CRACK-THOOM.

The lead element of the squad was hit by a coordinated volley of small arms fire and rocket-propelled grenades from the high ground. The sound of the initial blast was deafening, a physical wall of noise that knocked the breath out of Adam’s lungs. Dirt, rock, and fire erupted in a geyser of chaos.

"CONTACT! CONTACT! WE’RE AMBUSHED!" Adam roared, already diving behind a jagged boulder as rounds began to ping and spark against the stone.

The wadi, once a path, had become a slaughterhouse. Men were shouting orders, the air filled with the terrifying snap-hiss of incoming sniper rounds and the guttural roar of automatic weapons. Adam’s heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, adrenaline-fueled rhythm. He didn't think; he reacted. All of his training, the hours of drills, and the weight of the promise—it all condensed into raw, lethal efficiency.

"Miller! Suppression fire on the ridge! Davis, move your ass to cover!" Adam commanded, shifting his weapon to his shoulder and engaging a target that had emerged from the brush.

He saw Smith, the squad’s medic, struggling to crawl behind . But they were exposed, caught in the crossfire of a brutal, cross-pattern ambush. A burst of enemy fire raked the ground inches from Smith’s feet, spraying rock shards and sand into the air.

"SMITH, MOVE!" Adam screamed, but it was too late. An enemy position had pivoted, their sights locked on the medic.

In that split second, Adam saw the inevitable. He didn't calculate the risk. He didn't consider the future or the ring or the promise. He simply moved, his brother in arms was in danger.

He launched himself from behind his cover, a desperate sprint across the open ground. He reached Smith just as a fresh barrage erupted from the ridge. Adam slammed into the medic, tackling him behind the shelter of a discarded equipment crate, using his own body as a shield.

“Garth, that the f**k are you doing?” the commander shouter.

He felt a searing, incandescent heat rip through his shoulder and side. It wasn't like a punch; it was like being struck by lightning. His vision sparked with white, blinding light, and the roar of the battle faded into a dull, pulsing thrum in his ears.

He hit the ground hard, the breath forced out of him in a ragged gasp. He felt the wet, heavy warmth of blood spreading rapidly across his chest.

"GARTH! GARTH, YOU’RE HIT!" Smith’s voice sounded miles away, thin and panicked.

Adam tried to move, but his limbs felt like leaden weights. The chaos continued to rage around him—the shouting, the fire, the sheer, unrelenting violence of the war—but everything seemed to be happening under water.

He clutched his side, his fingers fumbling as they encountered the jagged, ruinous path the bullet had carved. He knew the anatomy of the injury; he had seen enough of them in the training manuals. He knew the damage. He knew the odds. He was torn, he vowed to come back to eden but he also made a vow to make a difference and he had saved his team mates life.

As the darkness began to press in at the edges of his vision, his thoughts didn't turn to the pain.

They turned to a porch. They turned to the smell of rain in the valley back home. They turned to the flash of a smile and the steady, unbreakable promise of a life that felt a million miles away.

Eden.

The name wasn't just a word; it was his entire existence. It was the only thing holding his consciousness together in the midst of the c*****e. He felt Smith’s hands working on him, the sharp sting of a tourniquet being tightened, the desperate, clinical urgency of the medic’s ministrations.

"Stay with me, Adam! Look at me! You’re going to be okay, do you hear me? You’re going to see her!" he slapped Adams face, “Hey, stay with me buddy, you’re going to see your girl!” Smith said.

Adam looked up, his gaze fixing on the brilliant, indifferent sky. He couldn't hear the gunfire anymore. He couldn't feel the cold. He couldn't feel the weight of his gear. He only felt the overwhelming, singular truth of her love, and a small smile graced his face.

He tried to speak, to tell Smith that it was alright, that he had done what he was meant to do, but his voice was a broken whisper.

The world was fading. The sharp, jagged edges of the battle were softening, blurring into a hazy, muted landscape. He made a difference, he saved a life and he loved Eden with every fiber of his soul.

As the sounds of the struggle finally began to diminish, drowned out by the incoming support fire of their own side, Adam’s hand slipped from his side. His gaze stayed fixed on the sky, a calm, terrifying stillness settling over him.

“GARTH,” Commander yelled as he slid to Adams side “Garth, stay with me! You got to go to your girl!” he shouted.

Adam slowly, with the last bit of effort he found pulled Edens picture from his vest pocket and held it to his chest as his sight grey hazy and grey, she was all he saw.

“Soldier, stay with me!” Commander shouted.

“Eden” was the last words that whispered across his lips, in his broken fractured tone.

He was a soldier.

“f**k!” Commander shouted.

And as the last of the light bled from the sky, the only thing he felt was the faint, phantom warmth of a hand in his—a hand he knew, a hand he loved, a hand that was waiting for him at the end of the long, dark road.

He didn't know if the light he saw was the end, or if it was the beginning of the journey home. He only knew that he had kept his word.

He had protected his own. He had finished the mission.

And somewhere, in the quiet, fragile spaces of his soul, he was already there. He was home.