Possibilities

January 1944—Cassino, Italy

An artillery shell whistles overhead, breaking the stillness of the moonless night. It slams into the concrete bunker where your C.O., Captain Talbot, was meeting with the other lieutenants. The pressure wave of the explosion hits you like a hammer, knocking you to the ground, and then a roar like thunder fills your ears. You roll onto your shoulder—there is a distant sense of pain, too new to register fully—and you look back at the bunker. At what was the bunker.

You stare, dull and unthinking. A sparkling haze fills the air, reflecting off the snow-covered ground. It glows, like the fireflies that used to dance along the riverbank on late summer nights, back in Iowa. You stare. And for a few beautiful seconds, you are happy. Everything falls away—all the hunger and the pain, all the fear and the bone-deep cold that's been with you since November. For a few beautiful seconds, you're back in Cedar Falls with Sandra, lying in the grass behind your parents' house.

And then you hear the screams.

The haze... twists. You see it writhe and contract, like a snake crushing its prey. And all the time, it twinkles, shining brighter and brighter. The screams grow louder, more desperate, and the light within the haze seems to pulse in time with those screams. For a moment, you think you hear the Captain's voice, and then it falls away in a low desperate burbling sound. The haze twists again, in the other direction, and the light within it flares—bright as the headlamps on an M3 half-track. Then it's gone.

You stumble to your feet, and the pain in your shoulder finally hits. You grunt and feel at it with your left hand, but there isn't any blood. Something broken? Maybe.

You lurch toward the bunker, now a slumped mound of concrete. The southwest wall looks melted. A part of your mind gibbers that artillery shells don't work like that. What if it's gas? But your lungs feel fine.

Inside what's left of the bunker, it's a scene from a nightmare. Four bodies, lying still, with limbs bent in unnatural angles. A spray of something dark covers the wall—probably blood, judging by the acrid, mettalic scent in the air. The Captain lies at the center of the room. His face is lost in shadow, but you can see well enough to recognize a rictus of pain etched into his features. Nothing moves. There is no sound, beyond your boots scuffling across the floor.

"Mostra tue mani!"

You spin, and see a dark figure standing in the doorway. You fumble at your waist for your service pistol, but your fingers are clumsy in the cold.

"Mostra tue mani!" The figure takes a step toward you.

You unclip the sidearm and your fingers close around the grip. Your hand whips forward as you raise your head.

The butt of a rifle crashes against the bridge of your nose, and everything goes black.

The first time, you wake to pain and panic. Rough leather straps bite into your arms, your thighs, and your stomach. Instinct takes over and you thrash against them, but your body refuses to move. The room around you is white and hospital-clean. It reminds you, in a way, of the back room of the recruiting center—where the army doctors checked you over before stamping your paperwork. You feel the crusty residue of dried blood on your face, and your left shoulder aches as bad as when you dislocated it back in Tunisia, in the fighting around Sidi Bou Zid.

There are hushed voices, speaking some language you don't recognize. Then a figure steps into view, towering above you. He has a dark gray uniform, like what the Jerries wear, but without any insignia or marks of rank. He stares down at you for a moment, his eyes cold and blue like the North Sea, and then he nods.

Somewhere in the room, something flashes. You try to turn your head, to get a better look at it, but your muscles don't respond. More flashing, faster, brighter, and the air seems to shimmer. Sparkle. Then you feel a stabbing pain in your left shoulder, and your vision goes black.

The second time, you wake up to comfort and peace. You're lying in a bed, two down-filled pillows supporting your head and a heavy comforter pulled up under your chin. For the first time in weeks, you aren't overcome by pain and cold. You prop yourself up on your shoulder—your left shoulder—but whatever ache had been there is gone, as if by magic. You look around, but you aren't sure you can believe what you're seeing.

The room is rich and colorful, almost too colorful. It looks like the sort of place Clark Gable would live. It looks like a palace. Is this heaven, you wonder. Did I die, and somehow wind up here?

A knock sounds at the door of the room, though there's something odd about it. The whole room is odd, actually—something about the way the furniture is formed. And then a voice speaks from outside.

"Lieutenant Carter?"

A woman's voice. A woman's voice, and—

"Lieutenant Carter? Are you awake?"

Your breath catches in your throat. Sandra?

The door opens and a... thing... steps inside. It smiles at you. "Oh, thank Celestia! Prince Arbor was worried your injuries might be more than he could heal."

You tense, simultaneously attracted and repulsed. The voice—you know that voice as well as you know your own name. Sandra. But Sandra died a year and a half ago, just after you left for the war. Your heart skips a beat, every time you hear that voice.

But it comes from something that looks almost like a purple horse, except that horses aren't purple, and they don't have wings and horns. And the face is wrong—too human, but with enormous eyes. The thing is unnatural, disturbing.

And all you can think is how much you want to hear that voice again.