Overhead, the sky was distant and pale blue with only a few high wisps of clouds to mar its otherwise perfect expanse. "At least I'm not dead... I think."
The thought flared into his mind of its own volition and then disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, flashing into and out of existence as quickly as heat lighting on a humid summer's afternoon. However, that thought brought others, each cascading through his consciousness in a litany of disjointed images, "What the hell happened" "Where am I" "Where are my mates" "What do I do now"
His fingers reported in first, curling convulsively through the fabric of his gloves, right hand clutching at a hard piece of plastic. Wallace's fragmented consciousness now sharpening, he recognized the familiar and somewhat comforting handgrip of an assault rifle in that right hand, "At least I didn't drop my bloody weapon."
Hesitantly, he lifted his head from the ground and was rewarded with a blinding wave of crimson pain that threatened to destroy what coherence his thoughts had gained. In the brief instant before he dropped his head back into the dust, he was granted a brief snapshot of his supine body laid out, cargo-pant clad legs ending with socked feet, one girded in a tan desert combat boot. "What the hell happened to my other boot" ...