“I’m not dying,” the soldier said, his voice stubborn.
“Bullshit,” Andy murmured.
For a moment he didn’t think the soldier would answer, and he wondered if he could chance another step. He imagined the man somewhere ahead of him, propped up against the body of a fallen comrade maybe, the last of his strength used to level the rifle where Andy stood.He heard me approach and loaded the gun while he sang, enticing me on like a siren singing a sailor to his death.Andy felt a surge of pride at the soldier’s presence of mind despite his circumstances. In another world, he thought maybe they might have been friends.
Finally there was a sigh and the stranger laughed, a weary sound. “You thought me dying,” he said, “and you came for my rations, is that it? You’d take the clothes from my back and the shoes from my feet, and help yourself to any money you find, any food I have, my ammunition and weapon, maybe. Anything on me.”