Free Ambush by Luke; Short

lot in life, was a feisty little man with the bare minimum of stature. Evans only topped him by inches. The three of them contrived to stand and hold Riordan’s great weight on his feet; afterward, Major Brierly turned and strode off toward the corner of the stable on his way to his quarters.
    Evans grunted, “Lug him through the runway. It’s shorter.”
    Riordan’s weight was utterly slack, however, and three quarters of the way through the stable, Trooper Carrick’s hold slipped. The others lost their holds too, and Riordan slumped to the dirt floor.
    â€œAll right, make a try,” Evans said in exasperation.
    Menzies said sourly, “You ain’t got enough rank to pull, Evans. Lug him yourself.”
    â€œDamned if I won’t,” Evans said. He slung his carbine over his shoulder, elbowed Menzies out of the way, and said to Carrick, “Hoist him high and swing his arm around your neck. Now—”
    The notes of tattoo came rolling to them, and Carrick came erect. “Tattoo,” he said blankly, “We got to get up there for roll call.”
    â€œYou damn wedge-head!” Evans snarled. “The commanding officer knows you’re on post. Now, let’s heave him up.”
    On the second try, they succeeded in getting Riordan to his feet and themselves under his arms, but his dead weight, combined with the inequality of their heights, sent them off on a staggering tangent that carried them through the far door of the stable before Carrick’s awkwardness downed them. They fell in the trampled muck that surrounded A’s water trough.
    Menzies, from the doorway, didn’t utter a sound as Evans rose, cursing. By the light of the lantern inside the doorway, Evans looked down at his trousers covered with mud; his hands, held high, were dripping with muck. Carrick rose and wiped his face with his sleeve.
    Evans said grimly, “There’s easier ways than this,” and walked past Menzies into the stable. In a moment, he returned with a bucket, stepped over Riordan, filled the bucket with water from the trough, and sloshed the contents in Riordan’s face.
    Riordan moaned and rolled over on his back and opened his eyes.
    â€œOn your feet, Tom,” Evans ordered. “You’re too big to carry.”
    Oddly enough, Riordan struggled docilely to his feet. This brought Menzies sauntering up to him. Once Riordan was standing, feet planted widely, he looked about him and finally his bleared eyes focused.
    â€œYou’ll get a better bed in the guardhouse, you drunken Mick,” Menzies said.
    â€œCome on, Tom, no trouble now,” Evans said. He extended the bucket to Menzies, saying, “Hang it up, will you, Fred?”
    â€œHang it up yourself,” Menzies said. “I’m not in your platoon.”
    Evans cursed and then pushed past him with the bucket into the stable runway. Carrick stood loutishly silent, watching Riordan.
    Menzies said slyly, “That’s more water than you’ve seen in a month, ain’t it, Tom?”
    Without a waste motion, Riordan belted him viciously across the face with the back of his hand. Menzies yelled as he fell backwards, and then Riordan swung wildly at Carrick. It was not a great blow, and he overshot his mark, but his forearm caught Carrick a swiping blow alongside the neck, sending him sprawling. Riordan lunged off into the darkness then in the direction of the hay barns.
    Carrick was up first as Evans pounded back to him.
    â€œWhere is he?” Evans demanded.
    â€œHe hit us both.”
    â€œDamn you both, which way did he go?” Evans demanded.
    Carrick couldn’t tell him. Evans wheeled on Menzies, who was rising now. Menzies had his hand across his mouth; now he withdrew it and looked at it, and the blood he saw on it brought soft curses welling from his torn mouth.
    â€œWhich way’d he go?” Evans demanded.
    Menzies couldn’t tell him either, and