Behind Enemy Lines
Staff Sergeant Teresa Masterson woke to the sound of gunfire, sharp and crackling in the distance. Her breath caught as her body pressed itself against the cement wall, its surface pocked with bullet holes. The sun slanted through the broken remnants of the building, casting harsh light on the wreckage around her—shattered walls, fractured furniture, and the brutal evidence of the night before.
Her body throbbed, as though it had been scorched from the inside out. She glanced down, her breath catching in her throat. Streaks of dried blood smeared her thighs. A tremor ran through her, and she swallowed hard, fighting the nausea rising up.
The blood was hers. But where exactly it had come from, she couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was still breathing.
She closed her eyes, willing the images of the night before to vanish. Don’t think about what they did. You made it through. Don’t fall apart now.
Gunfire rang out again, closer this time. Teresa pressed her hand against her chest, trying to steady her breathing. Focus. Survive. The warning from her commanding officer, before deployment, echoed in her mind: “A woman separated from her platoon in Afghanistan is the most endangered woman on earth. Whatever happens, don’t get lost.”
She was lost. Worse than lost.
Her gaze swept the room, catching on the torn remnants of her uniform, scattered across the floor. Shame prickled her skin. They had ripped it from her piece by piece—her uniform, her dignity, her body. But they hadn’t killed her.
She still had a choice.
Get up.
Through the haze of dust and heat, she saw a soldier’s leg protruding from the hallway. Blood pooled beneath it, dark and sticky. She didn’t need to see the rest to know it wasn’t one of the men who had attacked her. Her attackers had made sure to leave her with nothing—not even the strength to fight back.
But now she was awake.
Teresa forced herself to her feet, her muscles screaming in protest. She didn’t know if it was the wounds or the exhaustion, but her legs trembled beneath her. Her gaze landed on a broom discarded across the room and, beyond it, her torn uniform. She reached for the broom handle, stretching until her fingertips brushed its splintered surface. The movement sent pain lancing through her abdomen, and for a second, her vision blurred.
You’ve got this, Masterson. You’re a Marine. Keep moving.
She dragged the tattered pants toward her, but even as she did, she could see they were useless—cut into ribbons. The voices outside were growing louder. Afghans. Or maybe someone else. The fog of pain and confusion clouded her mind, twisting her senses.
She had to move.
Her eyes flicked back to the soldier’s leg, the body lying crumpled in the hallway. Blood still pooled around it, seeping into the dust. Teresa crawled toward it, each movement an agony. When she reached the body, a flicker of relief passed through her. An American uniform. She pushed hard against his body to flip him over, her arms shaking with the effort.
And then she saw his face.
Dan.
Her heart dropped into her stomach. Memories of the night crashed over her—Dan trying to protect her, trying to stop them, the way they had dragged him away. His voice, his shouts, had faded into the violence. They had been brothers-in-arms once. More than that.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the buttons of his shirt. The grief was a weight in her chest, but there was no time for it now. She dressed quickly, the loose fabric clinging to her sweat-drenched skin. She clipped the grenades from his belt and checked his rifle. The magazine was full.
Tears stung her eyes as she leaned over Dan’s body, her lips brushing his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Dan,” she whispered. “I’ll make them pay. I swear it.”
She closed his eyes, forced herself to look away, and rose to her feet.
Crouching low, Teresa made her way to the edge of the building, peering out at the street. Three Afghan men moved toward the house, their voices low but growing louder with every step. Looters. Under different circumstances, she would have detained them, questioned them, followed protocol.
But that was before.
Her body moved on instinct. She raised the rifle, steadying her breath. In three quick shots, they dropped. Their bodies hit the ground, lifeless. Teresa stood there for a second, staring, but there was nothing left to feel.
Nothing but the empty, hollow void they had left inside her.
She ran.
Her legs carried her toward the convenience store, each step a searing reminder of the pain coursing through her body. She felt as though her mind were floating above it all—detached, watching herself move through the wreckage like a ghost, barely connected to the broken remnants of her physical form.
Inside the store, she found refuge in the ransacked bathroom. Locking the door, she sank to the floor, her head resting against the cool tile. Exhaustion overtook her before she could think another thought.
When she woke, night had fallen, draping the desert in shadow. The eerie quiet pressed against her ears—the silence after battle. Her body screamed in protest as she stood, stiff and aching, but her mind was clear. Anger burned hotter than the pain.
She had survived. But that wasn’t enough.
The barracks loomed in the distance, the path to it a twisted hellscape of debris and destruction. What should have been a twenty-minute walk stretched into three agonizing hours as she navigated the ruins. Every step felt like a victory, but with each one, the fire inside her grew stronger.
They hadn’t killed her. But they would wish they had.
The guard at the base, a young Marine she had once shared cigarettes with, nodded as she passed. He didn’t ask why she was alone. He didn’t even ask what had happened. Maybe he didn’t want to know.
The barracks loomed ahead, cold and silent. Teresa’s pulse pounded in her ears, her breath coming shallow and fast. But the adrenaline pushed her forward, fueling her as she approached.
She opened the door, stepped in, and closed the door silently behind her.
The smell of sweat and dirt hit her as she scanned the room. The men were asleep, unaware.
“Ten HUT! On your feet, Marines!”
The soldiers grumbled, slowly stirring. A few heads turned toward her, eyes widening as if they couldn’t believe she was real.
“You sons of bitches gang-raped the wrong Marine!” she shouted, her voice breaking. Tears burned her eyes, but her grip on the grenade in her hand was firm. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”
Her voice quivered as she reached for the pin, pulling it loose. “Say goodnight, motherfuckers.”
For the briefest moment, Teresa saw the disbelief, the horror, the sudden regret flash across their faces. But it was too late. She released the handle.
A note from Sev:
The preceding story was free. I release 3 free stories per week and 5 premium stories for just $8.99 per month or $79 per year.
If you read and enjoyed it, please honor my efforts by sharing it on Facebook, X, BlueSky, and of course re-stack it here in Substack!
Also, your comments and messages (and smart Alec remarks) are always appreciated. Take a moment to help the algorithm find me by starting or joining the discussion.
I cannot grow this without your help! As they say, “Teamwork makes the dream work!”
Please and Thank you!
Sev