The Final Storm by Jeff Shaara

Author:Jeff Shaara
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780345526434
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2011-05-10T18:30:00+00:00

Adams knew the rot had crept down from his groin, a stinging agony, sore and raw, all the way into his boots. He had tried to ignore it, as much as he could ignore anything around him. But he could not ignore Welty. The redhead sat down slowly, settled into the wetness, his two-hour watch complete. Adams began to pull himself upright, the M-1 a crutch, and he saw the shadows of Welty with his backpack, heard the muffled sound of the man rifling through, searching. Adams straightened his legs, the sharp pain in his groin grabbing him, and he made himself stand straight, ignored the M-1 he couldn’t see, had given up on whether it was clean or not. But it was his turn to take the watch, two hours of rain flowing down his neck, splattering his helmet, blowing into his eyes. Welty pulled something from the pack, and Adams heard the rip of soggy cardboard.

“Oh God, are you kidding?”

Welty completed the task, the sound of the tin can opening, replied in a whisper.

“Gotta eat.”

“No, you don’t. I don’t. Can’t even think about it. What the hell is that?”

“Stew I think. Don’t much matter. The rain fills up the can fast as I can eat it. It’s like … seconds.”

Adams had grown used to Welty’s amazing ability to ignore his surroundings, but this was pushing him too far. He felt the twist in his stomach, bent low, a convulsive surge driving hard up through his throat, the sharp groan. But there was nothing inside of him, just the painful grip of his stomach muscles.

“Hey, you got the dry heaves again? Oh crap. You want me to take your watch? Sit back down.”

Adams tried to relax his insides, stood slowly, knew he was exposed from the chest up, ignored that, nothing at all to be seen in the thick wet darkness. He tried to take a deep breath, find some way to cleanse the air in his lungs. The smells were a part of him, had filled his brain and his insides to capacity, but the thought of Welty’s stew and rainwater had been the last dismal straw.

“I’m okay. You enjoy your dinner. You twisted bastard.”

Welty ignored the insults, had heard them before.

“You’ll get used to it. You’re not a newbie anymore. And no matter what you feel like now … you gotta eat. At least drink some water. Got a full canteen here. What you don’t drink, you can lube your piece. Or hell, rub it all over your skin. You’re the one who thought gun oil would keep the damn fleas off you. The stuff in this damn canteen’s gotta be pretty close.”

Adams stared into the rain, water dripping from the brim of his helmet. He had done all he could to ignore Welty’s strange behavior, had kept the thoughts away that Welty seemed to like this, or that maybe he was just going nuts. It had happened to others, men suddenly crawling up out of their

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