Never pet a burning dog.
Something in Walt’s brain clicks when Sgt. Colbert shoots his smoke grenade, blue gas escaping from it, but the car doesn’t stop. He faintly remembers the LT telling Brad he doesn’t like the idea of this, that they’re here to stop suicide bombers, and smoke grenades basically do shit, really. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation that makes him do it, maybe it’s because somebody behind him moves, the surprising noise scaring him.
Before he knows it, he’s firing one round, and the car comes to a screeching halt. Everything around him goes silent for a few seconds, apart from a “Fuck, Walt!” coming from Brad. And as everybody shifts, Brad’s calling out to him, his voice sounding higher than usual. “You didn’t fire a warning shot! That was a wounding shot, motherfucker!”
He watches as two of the passengers crawl out of the car, one sprayed with blood, watches as they sprint off as fast as they can while one turns to look at them.
Brad turns to him again, asking, “You okay?”
’I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!’ is what Walt wants to say, but when he opens his mouth, he says, “Car kept comin’!” As if that explains why he didn’t fire off warning shots, but wounding shots - why the guy is dead. Brad had told the LT that the smoke grenades had been planned to give civilians a chance to turn their car around and leave in a different direction, but this civilian didn’t have a chance, blue smoke or not.
Nobody says a word as Walt gets up, still staring at the car that he stopped so brutally. He wants to crumble, to break down and apologize to the family of the man until his voice goes hoarse, but instead Walt doesn’t say a word as Brad leads him to their HumVee and makes him sit down.
Walt wants to say something, begins with a “Sir, I…” but he doesn’t know what to say, how to continue his sentence, so instead he sits there, looking at Brad.
He knows that once they’re out of this town, he’s going to have to write a report and explain why he fired his shots before somebody gave the command, why he killed an innocent man by accident.
Then Garza calls out, “Holy shit! Check it out!”
Trombley, apparently looking, too, adds with a grin on his face, “It’s like some real Rob Zombie shit, man! Nice shooting!”
Now that he has some idea of the damage he did, Walt can feel the burn of tears in his eyes, can feel his throat tightening, and he gulps hard.
Distantly, he hears Brad telling him, “We’re just doing our jobs,” but it doesn’t help as much as it should, and Walt’s shoulders slump forward as he tries his hardest not to cry.
When he seems to break out of his trance, he looks up, ready to tell Brad he’s sorry and he didn’t mean to, but there is no Brad.
There’s no Ray, cracking one of his stupid whiskey-tango jokes, no Q-Tip, no Poke, no LT looking at him with those sad eyes and the ‘why?’ written all over his face.
Instead, Walt sees palm trees, sand so bright it hurts his eyes, and huts; everything that belongs into a catalogue for tours to places like Hawaii, Maui and all those other islands, but nothing that belongs in a place like Iraq.
“What the…” Before Walt can do anything about it, he’s getting up, his Marine training momentarily forgotten (don’t do anything stupid in places you have no knowledge about).
Before he knows it, he’s firing one round, and the car comes to a screeching halt. Everything around him goes silent for a few seconds, apart from a “Fuck, Walt!” coming from Brad. And as everybody shifts, Brad’s calling out to him, his voice sounding higher than usual. “You didn’t fire a warning shot! That was a wounding shot, motherfucker!”
He watches as two of the passengers crawl out of the car, one sprayed with blood, watches as they sprint off as fast as they can while one turns to look at them.
Brad turns to him again, asking, “You okay?”
’I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to!’ is what Walt wants to say, but when he opens his mouth, he says, “Car kept comin’!” As if that explains why he didn’t fire off warning shots, but wounding shots - why the guy is dead. Brad had told the LT that the smoke grenades had been planned to give civilians a chance to turn their car around and leave in a different direction, but this civilian didn’t have a chance, blue smoke or not.
Nobody says a word as Walt gets up, still staring at the car that he stopped so brutally. He wants to crumble, to break down and apologize to the family of the man until his voice goes hoarse, but instead Walt doesn’t say a word as Brad leads him to their HumVee and makes him sit down.
Walt wants to say something, begins with a “Sir, I…” but he doesn’t know what to say, how to continue his sentence, so instead he sits there, looking at Brad.
He knows that once they’re out of this town, he’s going to have to write a report and explain why he fired his shots before somebody gave the command, why he killed an innocent man by accident.
Then Garza calls out, “Holy shit! Check it out!”
Trombley, apparently looking, too, adds with a grin on his face, “It’s like some real Rob Zombie shit, man! Nice shooting!”
Now that he has some idea of the damage he did, Walt can feel the burn of tears in his eyes, can feel his throat tightening, and he gulps hard.
Distantly, he hears Brad telling him, “We’re just doing our jobs,” but it doesn’t help as much as it should, and Walt’s shoulders slump forward as he tries his hardest not to cry.
When he seems to break out of his trance, he looks up, ready to tell Brad he’s sorry and he didn’t mean to, but there is no Brad.
There’s no Ray, cracking one of his stupid whiskey-tango jokes, no Q-Tip, no Poke, no LT looking at him with those sad eyes and the ‘why?’ written all over his face.
Instead, Walt sees palm trees, sand so bright it hurts his eyes, and huts; everything that belongs into a catalogue for tours to places like Hawaii, Maui and all those other islands, but nothing that belongs in a place like Iraq.
“What the…” Before Walt can do anything about it, he’s getting up, his Marine training momentarily forgotten (don’t do anything stupid in places you have no knowledge about).