Shawn Kupfer - 47 Echo

What size boots you wear? The old man hacked as he led Nick through the open-air morgue, his hand already hovering close to the feet of the nearest corpse. The old man was yelling, but Nick could barely hear him over the C-5 engines winding down behind them.

Uh, twelve.

The old man grabbed the corpses feet, lifted them up, and checked the stamps on the undersides.

Whaddya know. Twelves. Well, one twelve, one eleven and a half.

Coughing wet, brown mucus onto the dirt, the old man unzipped the sides of the boots and pulled them off the corpse. He tied the laces together and tossed them in Nicks general directionNick managed to catch them before they smacked him in the face. He slung the boots over his shoulder and followed the old man through the field of bodies.

See that desk down there? Thats where you wanna go, the old man said as he pointed.

What do I do when I get there? Nick asked.

The old man was already heading back toward the front of the morgue area. If he heard Nicks question, he gave no indicationhe was already coughing phlegm on the next poor sucker in line.

A uniformed soldier poked Nick in the side with the barrel of his M4 rifle.

Move along, shitbird.

Nick nodded and headed in the direction the old man had indicated. He walked through the rows of bodies, trying not to breathe insome of them had obviously been in the sun for a couple of days. Even breathing through his mouth didnt totally kill the stench; the metallic taste of blood was strong on Nicks tongue. The closer he got to the desk at the end of the long central row, the more bare the bodies becamefirst missing boots, then uniforms, then limbs and implants. The ones right next to the desk were barely identifiable as humans anymore.

ID? the man behind the desk growled. He was younger than the man whod thrown the boots at Nick, but not by much. He was also a lot fatter, and the stripes on his shoulder identified him as a Staff Sergeant.

UmNick Morrow.

No one gives a shit about your name, fuckwad. The fat sergeant sighed, reaching across the desk and grabbing the dog tags hanging from Nicks neck. Four-seven Echo, 1153, the sergeant read. His fat fingers (of which there were only three on his right hand) tapped the number into his computer. Nick couldnt see the screen, but he knew his file had popped up immediately.

Here you are. Eleven fifty-three, male, twenty-nine years. Oooh. Multiple Homicide. Arent we just the little badass?

Nick said nothing, and the fat sergeant just shrugged. With one of the fingers on his mangled right hand, the sergeant pointed off to the left.

See those big-ass tents over there? Go to the one labeled Echo. You wait there until someone tells you where to go. You get me?

I got you.

Sergeant. I got you, Sergeant.

Whatever.

The fat sergeant snapped two of his fingers together, and another uniformed soldier appeared. The soldier slammed the butt of his rifle into Nicks stomach, dropping him to the dirt instantly.

Little tip, convict. Show the proper fucking respect at all times. Get me?

I get you, Sergeant, Nick coughed out.

Better. Much better. Tent Echo, convict. Move!

It took a little effort, but Nick picked himself up from the dirt and headed off in the direction of the tents. There were five of them, and each had a large sheet of paper pinned to the frontA, B, C, D and E. Nick had no actual military experience, but he wasnt an idiothe headed for the large, open tent labeled E , where he could see several people milling around inside.

As he approached Tent E, a uniformed soldier held up one hand to stop him. Not wanting another rifle slammed into various parts of his anatomy, Nick stopped and let the soldier check his dog tags.

All right. Four-seven Echo. Back right corner of the tent. Find yourself a seat, then sit and shut up. Clear?

Nick had no idea what the two stripes on the mans sleeve meant, but he figured sir would be the correct attribution to keep himself from getting hit again.

Clear, sir.

Aint no sir, jackass. Corporal. Youll get it soon enough. Now move along.

Nick nodded and headed for the back right corner of the tent, where there was only one other person waiting. The man was slightly taller than Nick, just under six feet, and thin. He had jet-black, close-cropped hair and green eyes. As soon as Nick got close, the man raised a hand in greeting.

Hiya, sport. You mind? the man asked, reaching for Nicks tags.

Nick shrugged, and the man read the numbers.

Four-seven Echo. Right on. Looks like were in the same unit, pal. Whats your name?