This is Just a Dream

Chapter 9

The ringing in Garrett Hanson’s ears was a high, sustained shriek, the aftermath of a mortar round that had struck far too close to the ridgeline. The air was thick, choked with the acrid, metallic tang of cordite and the dusty, suffocating fog of disturbed earth. Through the haze, he moved with the predatory, focused grace of a man who had forgotten what it felt like to be afraid, he was the shadows' most dangerous weapon.

"Garth!" he barked into the comms, his voice sounding hollow and distorted. "Garth, report!"

There was no reply, only the frantic, fragmented shouts of his squad and the sporadic snap of outgoing fire as the ambush disintegrated into a chaotic, messy retreat. Garrett vaulted over a ridge of jagged stone, his boots finding purchase on the slick, shale-covered ground. He saw Smith first, hunched over a figure in the dirt, his hands slick with crimson, his movements frenzied and rhythmic as he fought a losing battle against the mechanics of human mortality.

Garrett slowed, the adrenaline draining out of him, replaced by a cold, leaden weight that settled deep in his gut. He knew that posture. He knew the specific, frantic way a medic’s shoulders moved when they were trying to hold a soul in a broken body.

He reached them in two long strides, skidding to a slide beside his broken body.

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

Adam was there, his chest rising in shallow, stuttering hitches. The tactical gear he’d been wearing—the vest that was supposed to be his fortress—was shredded, a ruinous tapestry of Kevlar and blood. His face, usually so defined by that stubborn, youthful optimism, was gray, the skin tight against his cheekbones, speckles of blood splattered against his lips and cheek.

"Smith," Garrett said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative rasp. "Status."

Smith looked up, his eyes wild and shimmering with unshed tears. "I can’t—Commander, the trauma is too extensive. Internal hemorrhaging, rapid shock. I’ve done everything I could."

Garrett didn't acknowledge the report; he didn't need to. He looked down at Adam. The boy’s eyes were unfocused, tracking something in the sky that no one else could see. Garrett reached out, his hand—a hand that had held a weapon and taken lives for nearly a decade—resting gently on Adam’s shoulder.

"Garth," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "Adam. Look at me."

Adam’s eyes drifted, the light in them flickering like a candle caught in a draft. He seemed to pull himself back from the edge, his focus sharpening for a fleeting, agonizing second as he recognized his commander.

"Commander..." Adam’s voice was a whisper, a thread of sound so thin it was almost impossible to catch. He tried to move his hand, his fingers clenching tight against his chest.

Garrett watched, his own breath hitching in his throat, as Adam slowly pulled something from beneath the ruin of his tactical vest. It was a photograph, its edges soft and frayed from thousands of touches, the glossy surface creased and marked with dark, drying smears of blood.

It was the picture of Eden.

Even in the final, agonizing moments, Adam’s grip was absolute. His bloody fingers were curled around the edges of the print, shielding it, protecting the image of the girl who was his purpose, his future, his entire world.

"Eden," Adam whispered, the words bubbling up with a hitch in his breath. His gaze moved past Garrett, back to the horizon, to the vision of a porch and a life that would now never happen. "Tell her…i love her. Tell her..." he didn't finish his sentence, he lost what he was going to say.

“Eden,” he barely whispered. No one could hear, but the seasoned, hardened Monster could hear him. He knew exactly who was helping him cross over into the afterlife.

He didn't finish the sentence. The tension in his chest seemed to snap, his posture suddenly and irrevocably slumping into the dirt. The shallow, stuttering breaths ceased. The silence that followed was so absolute, so heavy, that it felt like the very earth had stopped rotating.

Smith sat back on his heels, a broken sound escaping his throat, but Garrett didn't move. He stayed there, his hand still resting on the boy’s shoulder. He felt the cold already beginning to seep into the uniform, the transition from a vibrant, living soldier to a memory already underway.

The scene felt timeless, a tableau of the true cost of their existence. Garrett looked down at the photograph still clutched in Adam’s hands. He saw the girl—Eden—laughing in a park, her hair windblown, her smile so bright it seemed to mock the c*****e that surrounded them. She looked so young, so untouched, and so tragically unaware that the world she had built with Adam had just been incinerated in a dusty wadi halfway across the globe.

Slowly, with a reverence he hadn't felt in years, Garrett reached down. His calloused fingers brushed against Adam’s stiffening hand. He had to exert force, a gentle, insistent pressure, to pry the fingers back, one by one, until the photograph was free.

Adam’s hand fell, limp and still, into the dust, the photo was his lifeline.

Garrett held the picture for a moment, the blood of the boy who had died for his teammate staining his own palms. He looked at the girl in the photo, then up at the indifferent, jagged mountains that rose around them like jagged teeth.

He made no sound. He didn't cry. But within the quiet, iron-wrought fortress of his own heart, Garrett Hanson made a vow. It was a silent, solemn oath that felt as ancient and unyielding as the mountains themselves.

I will get this back to her, he thought, his jaw tightening until it ached. I will bring the news. And I will protect her. I will build a perimeter around her grief, just as you tried to build one around her life.

He stood up, his joints aching, his body feeling suddenly fragile. He tucked the blood-stained photograph into his own inner pocket, placing it close to his heart—a talisman of a promise he was now bound to keep.

"Smith," Garrett said, his voice back to the clipped, emotionless register of command. "Get him out of here. Bring him to the collection point. And keep this quiet until we are clear of this sector."

"Yes, sir," Smith whispered, his voice thick with grief as he signaled for help.

Garrett turned and walked away. He walked back toward the ridge, his stride steady, his posture rigid. Around him, the remnants of the battle continued to unfold—the sound of medical evacuation helicopters thumping in the distance, the smell of burning fuel, the low, mournful voices of his squad.

But for Garrett, the world had fundamentally shifted. He was no longer just a commander of infantry. He was the bearer of a ghost, the guardian of a promise, and the man who would soon step into an ordinary, mundane girl’s life to deliver the most devastating news imaginable.

He didn't know how he would do it. He didn't know how he would look at Eden and explain that the boy who had been her everything was now just a flag-draped box on a plane. But as he looked out over the barren, scorched landscape of the valley, he felt a strange, chilling sense of purpose.

He had lost much in his life. He had seen the best men he ever knew disappear into the earth, their stories ended by bullets and bad luck. But he wouldn't let this end here. He would carry the weight of this loss, and he would carry the girl in the photo, and he would ensure that Adam’s last act—the act of sacrifice, the act of protection—was not forgotten.

He walked into the fading smoke, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his hand pressed firmly against the pocket where the photograph rested. The vow was made. The mission had changed. And as the sun began to set, casting long, mournful shadows across the valley, Garrett Hanson marched toward a future that was darker, colder, and more burdened than any he had ever known.

He was a monster, but now he would be a monster with a purpose other than killing.

He didn't need to be told what to do. He didn't need orders. He only needed the memory of the boy in the dust and the image of the girl in the picture.

The smoke continued to rise, a silent, drifting ribbon of gray against the vast, blue sky. And beneath it, in the heart of the valley, the story of Adam and Eden came to its brutal end. But for Garrett, the walk back had begun. The long, agonizing road to the girl with the smile.

He was coming, Eden, Garrett vowed, he would bring Adam home to her one way or another.