The Back of the Truck, Somewhere in the French Countryside

  Henri muttered curses under his breath, his voice low but sharp as he pressed a bundle of rough bandages against Emmett’s lower abdomen. Blood seeped through the fabric, staining his hands as the truck bounced along the uneven dirt road. The jolts sent fresh agony through Emmett’s body, and he gasped, his face pale and drenched in sweat. Blood pooled beneath him, dripping onto the floorboards in thick, steady drops.

  “Mon Dieu, Emmett, you better not die on me yet!” Henri barked, his voice tinged with urgency as he applied more pressure. “You still owe me many more insults!”

  Emmett tried to respond, a faint chuckle escaping his cracked lips, but it quickly turned into a pained groan. His body writhed, his hands clutching at Henri’s arm. “This… hurts like a son of a bitch,” Emmett wheezed, his voice barely audible.

  Henri’s lips twitched into a forced grin as he nodded. “Of course, it does. You’ve been gut shot, mon ami. Did you expect it to tickle?” He pressed harder, causing Emmett to arch his back and let out a sharp cry. “Let me share a little known fact. Getting shot in the gut increases your charm with women by fifty percent.”

  Emmett’s grip on Henri’s wrist tightened. “That’s… bullshit,” he rasped, his face contorted in pain.

  Henri chuckled despite himself, patting Emmett’s shoulder with his free hand. “Ah, it’s good to see your mind is still sharp, Emmett. Your wit is sharper than my knife. Pity it didn’t stop the bullet, though.”

  Another fighter, Claude, crouched beside Henri, hurriedly tying makeshift bandages to staunch the bleeding. “Henri, this is bad,” Claude muttered in French, his face grim as he glanced at Emmett’s pale complexion. “If we don’t get him to help soon…”

  “We will.” Henri’s voice was firm, cutting off Claude. “We’re almost to Beaulieu-sur-Argonne. He’ll make it.” He leaned closer to Emmett, his tone softening. “Don’t you worry, mon ami. We’re taking you somewhere safe. Beaulieu. Far enough from German eyes.”

  Emmett’s eyelids fluttered open at the mention of the village. His voice was faint, barely more than a whisper. “Why… there?”

  Henri shrugged, his attempt at nonchalance betrayed by the tension in his jaw. “Why not? It’s a quiet village, and they’re friendly to us.” A faint grin tugged at his lips. “Besides, I thought you might want to hobble after that belle Adele. Woo her with your horrible French.”

  Even through the haze of pain, Emmett forced a weak smile, though it quickly dissolved into a grimace as a fresh wave of agony surged through him. Another HeadHunter, leaning too hard against his side while tightening the bandages, inadvertently pressed on the wound. Emmett’s howl of pain echoed through the truck, his body convulsing before falling limp.

  “Idiot!” Henri snapped at the fighter, who paled and muttered an apology. “Be careful, or you’ll kill him before we even get there!”

  The truck screeched to a halt in the village square, the sound of its engine echoing off the stone walls of nearby buildings. Emmett stirred briefly, his vision swimming as he felt hands grabbing at him. Rough voices shouted back and forth in French, and the pressure on his abdomen shifted as they moved him.

  “No… no, no no!” Emmett groaned weakly, his head lolling to the side as the pain dragged him closer to unconsciousness.

  “Hold him steady!” Henri barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. Emmett felt himself being hoisted onto a stretcher, every movement sending sharp jolts of pain through his body. He whimpered, his breaths coming in shallow gasps before the darkness pulled him under again.

  Emmett’s eyes fluttered open, a fresh wave of agony jolting him awake. The dim light of a lantern swayed above him, casting flickering shadows on the walls. An unfamiliar man knelt beside him, his hands working quickly over Emmett’s wound. The sting of alcohol burned like fire as the man cleaned the area, and Emmett let out a guttural groan, his body thrashing instinctively.

  “Hold him down!” the man shouted in French, his voice sharp with authority.

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  Henri’s hands gripped Emmett’s shoulders firmly, pinning him to the table. “It’s okay! It’s okay, mon ami!” Henri’s voice was strained but soothing. “You’re in good hands! Just breathe, Emmett. Breathe!”

  Other men grabbed his legs, their grips like iron as Emmett thrashed against them. His vision blurred with tears of pain, the world spinning around him. Henri’s face loomed above him, his expression a mix of determination and worry.

  “Stay with me, Emmett!” Henri urged, his voice steady despite the chaos. “You can curse me later, but right now, you need to hold on!”

  Through the haze, Emmett saw a figure rushing into the room. Adele. Her face was pale, her dark hair pulled back hastily, and her arms were full of clean rags. She moved with purpose, her sharp gaze locking onto the man treating Emmett.

  “Here!” she said breathlessly, thrusting the bundle toward the man. “What do you need?”

  “More light! Hold the lantern closer!” the man barked, not pausing his work.

  Adele grabbed the lantern, her hands trembling as she brought it closer. The light illuminated Emmett’s sweat-drenched face, his lips parted in a grimace. Adele’s gaze flicked to his wound, and for a brief moment, her expression wavered. But she quickly steeled herself, her voice steady.

  “You’ll be fine, Emmett,” she said softly, her words more for herself than for him. “You’ll be fine.”

  Emmett’s hand reached out weakly, brushing against Henri’s arm before falling limply back to his side. His lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes rolled back, and the darkness swallowed him once more.

  Emmett let out a long, guttural groan, the ache in his abdomen pulling him from the haze of unconsciousness. It felt like someone had driven a skewer straight through his gut and left it there. His eyelids fluttered open, and the dim light of the room made him squint. The faint scent of alcohol and candle wax tickled his nose, mingled with the earthy aroma of old wood.

  There was shuffling nearby, and then Henri’s face appeared, grinning down at him. “Ah, there you are, mon ami. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

  Emmett blinked, his voice a hoarse rasp. “What… happened?”

  Henri pulled up a stool and sat beside the bed, his grin widening. “Oh, nothing much. You decided to take a bullet to the gut and make us all very dramatic for a few days.” He leaned forward, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “The doctor worked some miracles, though. Dug the bullet out, stitched you up, and, as he put it, hoped for the best. It seems you’re stubborn enough to pull through.”

  Emmett let out a weak snort, the movement sending a sharp jolt through his abdomen. He winced, his hand instinctively moving toward the wound.

  “Careful,” Henri said, his voice softening. “You’ve been out for a few days. The good news is, it looks like you’ll survive. The bad news? You’ll be stuck here for a while to recover.”

  Emmett groaned again, shifting slightly on the mattress. “Feels like hell,” he muttered.

  Henri nodded solemnly. “I imagine it does. That’s why you need to rest. Do you need some water?”

  Emmett closed his eyes, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. “Yeah,” he rasped. Then, after a beat, he added, “Could use some booze too.”

  Henri chuckled, grabbing a cup of water from the bedside table. “Booze, he says. You think this is a luxury hotel?” He carefully brought the cup to Emmett’s lips, tilting it just enough for him to sip. The cool water was a small relief against the fiery ache in his body.

  As Emmett leaned back against the pillow, Henri reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded letter. “By the way,” he said, holding it out to Emmett, “looks like I won’t need to send this after all.”

  Emmett frowned, his hand trembling slightly as he took the letter. It wasn’t addressed, but he knew what it was. His confession, meant for his family back in Montana, in case he didn’t make it back. He stared at it for a long moment before letting it fall onto his chest, leaning his head back with a sigh.

  “Thanks,” Emmett murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Henri smiled faintly. “Don’t mention it. You’ll have plenty of time to rewrite it now, maybe make it less depressing.”

  Emmett sat up suddenly. His face growing serious. “You read it?”

  Henri held up his hands. “I joke Emmett. Worry not, I know it’s not for my eyes.”

  Emmett managed a dry chuckle, though it was short-lived. “Anyone else get hit?” he asked, his tone tinged with concern.

  Henri shook his head. “Thankfully, no. Just you… and the damn truck. We lost a few supplies, but nothing too critical. Perhaps lucky.”

  Emmett let the word hang in the air for a moment before repeating it, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Lucky.”

  Henri laughed, patting Emmett’s shoulder gently. “Rest now, mon ami. I’ll see about getting you some food. Maybe even something edible.”

  Emmett nodded, his exhaustion tugging him back toward sleep. “Thanks, Henri,” he muttered, his voice trailing off.

  As Henri stood to leave, he paused, looking down at Emmett with a mixture of relief and exasperation. “I’m glad you survived,” he said quietly. “We’d need a new American, and I’ve only gotten used to having you around.”

  Emmett cracked one eye open, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “How do you say ‘fuck off’ in French?” he asked.

  Henri grinned, leaning closer and enunciating the phrase with dramatic flair. “Va te faire foutre.”

  Emmett repeated it back, his pronunciation clumsy but earnest. Henri chuckled, shaking his head. “Perfect,” he said, his laughter fading as he stepped toward the door. “Get some rest, cowboy.”

  As Emmett drifted back into the fog of sleep, he could still hear Henri’s soft chuckling, a strange comfort in the midst of his pain.