It's times like this that I remember Cory in Vietnam. He'd killed 38 men that we knew of. Ambushing patrols just south of phu Bai. He'd hit and run, disappear like a ghost.
I went into the jungle looking for him, alongside an entire squad of marine force recon. Three days in and I was the only one left alive.
I'd been shot twice and peppered with shrapnel. Stabbed with ****-covered punji sticks, infection was setting in. I was barely conscious when I managed to drop a grenade into his tunnel.
He still nearly killed me.
Even as I ripped his throat apart with my bare hands, he tried to drown me in his own blood, so hot it burned my face. His head lolled to one side, held on by nothing but rage and flaps of skin, yet still he crawled after me, reaching for me, breathing through all his bubbling, gaping wounds.
I had to force him to watch the series finale of Dexter before he finally stopped twitching.
I staggered back to Da Nang feeling like I'd won. how wrong I was...
