Free Swords of Exodus [Dead Six 02] by Larry Correia, Mike Kupari

with, including me and Jill. If I found him alive I was going to choke the shit out of him.
    “So what do you say, Mr. Lorenzo? We cannot complete this mission if we are at each other’s throats.”
    “Fine. But understand this, Doc. You people fuck with me and I’ll kill you all.”
    Ling smiled as if she’d just thought of something funny, then stood up. “This is going well,” she said, and went forward.

    VALENTINE

    I’m having the strangest dream.
    The images were confusing at first, but soon they formed a thread, a narrative, a story. My story. On some level I knew the thoughts were my own, but they felt unfamiliar and half-remembered. A memory of a memory.
    I stood in a palatial bedroom, not sure of when I was there. An ornate, four-poster bed sits against one wall. Above it hangs a hideous painting of some tentacled monstrosity devouring a girl.
    I’m not focused on the painting, though. A girl hangs from the ceiling by her bound hands. Her night-black hair is wet with blood. Her body has been ruined, mutilated, split open and dissected. She stares at me, judging me, damning me from empty sockets. The holes where her eyes should have been are black pits, so deep and dark that I fall right into them. I want to look away, but the darkness calls to me, invites me to give myself up to it.
    I answer its call, and down I go, into the abyss.
    You’re a natural-born killer, boy. The words sound different this time, almost mocking me. Who had said that to me? What does it mean? I couldn’t remember. I was lost in the darkness and couldn’t find my way.
    I found myself on a dusty trail in Afghanistan, next to a wall made of mud. The village around me is desolate and empty. I am utterly alone. My only companion is a dead body, laying in the dirt next to me, wrapped in a poncho.
    I can’t see her face, but I know it’s Arlene Chambers.. We’re waiting for a helicopter that wasn’t coming. I look down at her unmoving form and place a hand on it. It’s like touching a piece of driftwood, cold and dead.
    It should have been me.
    Why am I still alive?
    Am I?
    I cover my face with my hands, and the ancient, immutable dust and rocks of Afghanistan, witness to thousands of years of bloodshed, fade away. I am back in the abyss, and again, I welcome it.
    Before I realize what’s happening, I’m in a small village somewhere. I’ve been here before, but I can’t remember when. This time I’m not alone. It’s dark, but there are fires, enough of them that I can see. People are running for their lives. Men, women, children alike, fleeing in terror.
    There’s noise, gunfire. A large armored truck, an MRAP, slowly rolls through the village. A faceless machine gunner in the turret mows down anything that moves in front of him. Men in uniforms, carrying rifles, walk alongside it, shooting.
    Why are they killing all these people?
    I see a few more men, coming up behind the vehicle. These men are bulkier, stronger, and wear armor. One carries a FAL rifle in his hands, and shoots a terrified old man as he runs down the street.
    Stop it! Why are they doing this? Who are these people?
    The shooter with the FAL rifle is undeterred, unaware of my pleas. He reloads his rifle, quickly and smoothly, and fires again. A car pulls out into the street, desperately trying to get away, but it’s no use. The machine gunner and the man with the FAL rifle tear into it. It rolls to a stop, crunching against a wall, its passengers’ lives having been snuffed out.
    I move closer to the man with the FAL, furious now. I don’t know what’s going on, but I desperately want to make him hear me. I’m like a ghost, silent, invisible. I have no mouth, and I must scream.
    STOP IT!
    The man with the rifle is aware of me now, somehow. He turns to face me, a cruel smile on his face. “Stop what?” he asks. His voice is familiar. It’s mine. He’s me.
    No! I didn’t do that!
    “Didn’t you?” he asks, still smiling. His voice sounds distant,