The blast knocked me on my ass. Literally. Like slow motion, one moment I was tending a wounded man sitting along the battle-strewn street, the next I was flying backwards.

I hit the ground with a jarring thud.

Opening my eyes to smoke rising in the dusty glare, I struggled to get my bearings. My ears were ringing, my limbs heavy, and I couldn't seem to remember anything beyond the explosion.

Where am I? Shit. Who am I?

The smell of charred rubble swirled around my nose.

Iraq. Sergeant Brenna Mathews. US National Guard. Combat Medic. Assigned ... no, attached ... in support. Attached in direct support of the infantry battalion.

Damn. My head throbbed beneath my helmet.

What the hell had happened? Car bomb? Suicide Bomber?

Trying to shake off the shell shock, I rolled to my side and slowly sat up. Amidst the painful moans and fearful cries engulfing me, gunfire echoed off the war-torn buildings.

"Take cover!" the squad leader, Jackson, shouted.

Soldiers scrambled to their feet. People ran, becoming nothing more than blurs of fabric. There was screaming--directions, orders, and wails of grief--in a meld of English and Arabic. More gunshots pierced the air, closer, rapid in succession, adding chaos to the madness.

Thump-thump-thump.

There were grunts, and then bodies dropped, some collapsing in a mist of spraying blood. Automatically, my hand searched for my weapon.

Cover. I had to take cover.

No. There were still wounded.

Abandoning my weapon in lieu of gathering up my much-needed medical supplies, I quickly low-crawled over to one young soldier. Blood oozed from his nose and mouth, his neck cranked at an unnatural angle.

Dead.

Bullets whizzed over my head, hitting the ground nearby. I ducked lower as shots were returned from behind me.

I scrambled to the next victim. Civilian. Male. Bullet wound to the chest. Also dead.

"Mathews, take cover!" Sergeant Jackson hollered. "Now!"

I hesitated. What of the wounded?

Suddenly he appeared at my side. I barely had time to snatch up my med kit before he grabbed my arm and dragged me behind our vehicle.

...tink--tink-tink-tink-tink...

The bullets hit the armored transport just as he pulled me to safety.

Another soldier, Corporal Mollina, was issuing details into his radio. "IED, taking on fire, soldiers down..."

Sergeant Jackson scooted over to the edge of the vehicle and glanced around the side. "Doc, Big M is hurt. His leg."

I never told any of them what I did back when I was in the civilian world. But out here, all medics were called 'Doc'.

He looked over his shoulder. "Bee, behind you."

I swung around and saw PFC Michaels applying pressure to his calf. Blood seeped through his fingers.

Shit.

I scrambled over Corporal Mollina to get to where Big M, aptly named due to his size, lay propped up against the side of the tire.

"Is it bad?" he asked, wincing in pain.

"Let me see."

He hesitantly removed his hand. I lifted the torn shreds of his ACU pants out of the way. Shrapnel. Small pieces. Embedded. Oozing, but not spurting.

I dug into my kit. "You'll make it," I whispered, placing a pad over the wound and tying the bandages firmly around the edges.

"Specialist Pinot ... he's injured too," he strained.

I glanced up. "Where?"

Michaels winced, then looked past me.

Following his gaze, I turned to the bombed out home behind us, maybe ten yards away.

"He crawled in there. I think he took a bullet."

Gathering my supplies, I held my breath and waited. When Mollina and Jackson rose to return fire, I sprinted toward the old, crumbling shelter.

Off to my right, I heard a loud whistle.

Oh Fuck!

I dove through the doorway just as the shockwaves rattled the area. The lintel came crashing down, taking the doorjambs and the brick mold with it.

I lifted my head, choking on the cloud of dust that stole all the breathable air. My chest burned. God, I felt like I had been tackled by a three-hundred pound offensive lineman.

Rising to my knees, I squinted through the haze, searching the debris-filled room. A couple of feet in front of me, lying on his stomach, was Pinot.

I crawled over to the soldier, fearing the worst.

The ceiling groaned and bowed, raining sand and small chunks of rubble. I prayed that the standing columns would hold out just a few minutes longer.

Pinot was alive, his breathing shallow. The puddle beneath him told me he had lost too much blood. When I rolled him over, his eyes fluttered open.

"Sergeant Mathews," he mumbled. "I've been shot."

"I know." His whole left arm was coated in sticky crimson. I felt around, finding the entry hole on the top of his biceps, near his shoulder. No exit. Bullet lodged. "And what did I say about calling me that?"

"Only do it when the superiors are around," he moaned.

I pulled out my shears and began cutting into the blood-soaked combat uniform. "Right. You can call me Bee, or Doc, or even Mathews. I'm only a weekend warrior, remember?"

He gave a small smile, but instantly winced when I lifted his arm slightly to remove the fabric from around the injury. "Am I going to die, Doc?"

"I don't think so. More troops will be here soon. We'll get you to the hospital."

"What does Bee stand for?"

I pressed dressing over the wound. "Brenna."

"Pretty name," he mumbled before passing out.

The gunfight grew heavier and loud voices filtered into the building, bouncing off the walls. I crouched low, holding my breath and slowly reaching for Pinot's weapon. Suddenly, a shadow passed over me. Before I could blink, I was hauled off the ground.

Strong fingers wrenched my arm and swung me about, my back colliding into a hard chest. A palm smothered my lips, silencing my cry.

Sandalwood.

"Do not scream," the deep voice whispered in my ear. "Do not say a word, no matter what. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

Large vehicles rumbled into the area. Reinforcements.

Another male voice echoed in the room. The man holding me responded in Arabic and shoved me away. I crashed into one of the columns and slid down to the ground.

Rapid dialogue ensued between the two armed insurgents. The older, scarier looking of the two, pointed at Pinot, still unconscious on the floor. The other shook his head.

Outside the front window, shouts and booted feet rang through the air. Both men glanced in that direction and lifted their weapons. The older one said something, glared at me in disgust, spat on the ground, then sprinted out the back. The remaining insurgent aimed his rifle at me.

I met his deep dark eyes before closing my own.

He fired.

I cringed.

A few seconds passed.

When I opened my eyes, he was gone and I was still alive, unharmed.