06/26/2026
I am super excited about my next book series, "๐ณ๐๐๐๐๐'๐ ๐ช๐๐๐๐
". In the midst of editing the ๐ต๐ธ๐ฐ books in the series, I decided it needed a prequel. it will be novella length (probably) and the ebook will be ๐๐๐๐ for my mailing list members. As a sample, here's the Prologue as it stands:
๐ฃ๐ฟ๐ผ๐น๐ผ๐ด๐๐ฒ: ๐๐ฟ๐ฎ๐ป๐ฐ๐ฒ, ๐ญ๐ต๐ฐ๐ฐ
"First do no harm, first do no harm."
Helen watched the surgeon's hand still as another shell sailed over, the whine of it climbing and then tearing away into the night. He cringed, his eyes squinting above the surgical mask โ anticipating the impact. Then it did.
The ground shook. The utensils rattled in their tray and the table shifted. The blade was millimeters above the patient's abdomen and went down before the doctor je**ed it back up. A small red line formed neatly where the blade had touched.
"Son of a bitch!" The curse lost its bite muffled by the mask. Helen had only been there a few days but she'd watched this play out over and over. She leaned into the table, bracing it.
"I've got him doctor." He looked at her and nodded.
๐๐ฆ'๐ญ๐ญ ๐๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ฏ
Another salvo went over before he had tied the next stitch. The tent canvas snapped against its ropes. Plasma bottles swung on their wire, amber glass catching the generator light, and the tray jumped hard enough to turn a clamp onto its side. One wardman swore and caught it before it skidded off.
Helen set her hip against the table frame and held the patient's shoulder through the drape.
"Clamp."
She put it in his hand.
The surgeon's eyes went up again when the long sound rose and fell once more. His fingers lifted off the wound, then came back down when the table did not move under him. Not much. Not enough. Helen kept her weight where it was and watched the line of his hand, the needle, the small wet shine at the edge of the opening.
"Again."
She gave him the next clamp.
The shell landed somewhere inland. The shock rolled under the duckboards. Men shifted on cots beyond the partition. A basin rang against a tent pole and kept ringing until someone grabbed it.
At the flap, two litter bearers waited in rain-dark helmets, mud up to their knees, another man between them under a blanket that had gone black in patches. No one told them to come in. No one told them to wait. They stood there while this body stayed open on the table and the surgeon worked because Helen held the table and handed him what he asked for.
Somewhere in the last few days, the screaming and the shaking had stopped reaching her. She had not chosen it. It had happened while her hands were full.
The litter bearers stepped forward.
Helen took the fresh basin from the wardman and let the thought go.
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๐ช๐ฎ๐ป๐ ๐บ๐ผ๐ฟ๐ฒ? ๐๐ถ๐ฃ๐ด๐ค๐ณ๐ช๐ฃ๐ฆ to my mailing list at:
Duane R. Keeling was born and raised in Southern California, where he cultivated a lifelong passion for storytelling. A Vietnam-era veteran of the U.S. Air Force, Duane brings a unique perspective shaped by his experiences and family history to his writing. After a distinguished career spanning over...
