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Eli’s squad was six boys. The oldest, Private Finch, was fifteen with the eyes of a fifty-year-old. The youngest, “Mite,” was barely eight, a scavenger who couldn’t hold a rifle but could crawl through gaps no man could fit. There was quiet Pod, who carved wooden birds when he thought no one was looking. The twins, Sour and Sourer (no one remembered their real names). And Eli.
He had three seconds. Maybe two.
The brass buckle of Corporal Thorne’s belt was the only clean thing in the mud for a mile. It caught the dying sun like a taunt, and thirteen-year-old Eli found himself staring at it instead of the Corporal’s eyes. boy brigade rank
“Satchel,” he said. His voice was steady. “Then we go home.” Eli’s squad was six boys
He laughed. It was a sound like breaking glass. There was quiet Pod, who carved wooden birds
He lifted his head. The gas was curling back in. The tunnel was gone—replaced by a crater of fresh, wet earth.
Eli’s squad was six boys. The oldest, Private Finch, was fifteen with the eyes of a fifty-year-old. The youngest, “Mite,” was barely eight, a scavenger who couldn’t hold a rifle but could crawl through gaps no man could fit. There was quiet Pod, who carved wooden birds when he thought no one was looking. The twins, Sour and Sourer (no one remembered their real names). And Eli.
He had three seconds. Maybe two.
The brass buckle of Corporal Thorne’s belt was the only clean thing in the mud for a mile. It caught the dying sun like a taunt, and thirteen-year-old Eli found himself staring at it instead of the Corporal’s eyes.
“Satchel,” he said. His voice was steady. “Then we go home.”
He laughed. It was a sound like breaking glass.
He lifted his head. The gas was curling back in. The tunnel was gone—replaced by a crater of fresh, wet earth.