“The traumatized soul finds no rest in conditions of peace. Its forever questing for violence, for action, for the same combination of factors which gave rise to it in the first place. In this way, it seeks to relive the trauma, to find the truth of it, if for no other reason than to understand it’s new existence.”
-Tim Andrews, M.D. USDVA
The balls of his feet were beginning to feel the pressure from so much crouching. Luckily, the adrenaline was keeping the aches and pains at bay. A good thing, since his body had been wracked by them for months now. He also feared his arm might start acting up again, going through the same old montage of itching and pain. Either that, or the morphine itches. It was not that they had been a source of trouble lately, he just knew that now would be the worst time in the world for them to start happening.
And yet, they weren’t. His body felt like a finely tuned machine, somewhat rusty from lack of use, but otherwise prepped and primed. He knew it shouldn’t be so. He knew that at the moment, every movement should have felt like agony. Every emotion should have been saturated with the same feeling of borderline panic.
And yet, there was none of that.Mainly, he just felt completely and utterly even. His body knew what it needed to do, and his heart was committed to it. He had to get into the fray, and people needed to die. There simply was no choice in the matter…
Up ahead, he came across the latest enemy patrol to grace the neighborhood. He had come several now, all consisting of foot mobiles and light armored vehicles, moving on or around the main strip. They all moved with a purpose, looking to secure strategic points along the west end or the river. Standard stuff really, taking the good spots along the front and then holding them to make sure the enemy couldn’t counterattack.
But this latest one was just three men. A single fire team that had stepped away from the main road. Of the available targets that had presented themselves to him so far, this was the only one he had a chance of taking out with impunity.
And so he knelt, maintaining a close watch as they reconnoitered farther into his stomping grounds. He raised his sights to them and let out a slow, even breath.
I can kill you at any time, he thought with some delight. He wondered if this was how it felt in ancient times as well. The enemy invaders, the unwelcome guests romping across his forefathers land with disrespectful feet. It was the oldest story in the book. Blood for blood. There simply was no other way.
When they came to another stop, he raised his sights and took aim at the nearest one. A quick readjustment, three targets and three well placed shots. How many times had he performed the same act on Whiskeys, he wondered? Would they die any differently? A tap to the skull, the body going limp like a ragdoll. The body falling to the ground, mouths open, a dead look in the eyes…
No, he was sure it would look almost exactly the same.
The sound of radio static put a stop to all his movements. His hands unflexed automatically to release the trigger and he brew in quick breath, his ears suddenly attuned to the sound coming from a radio handset.
“Hunter Two Three One, this is Hunter One Actual over. What is your status?”
One of the soldiers raised the handset and keyed the button. “Two Three One to One Actual. No contacts, over. I repeat, no contacts.”
“Roger that,” the voice on the radio replied. “New orders coming in from Hunter Seeker. You are to hold position and wait for the balance of Hunter Three and proceed to new coordinates. Designated target is a converted hospital located at grid Tango-Alpha one-niner-three.”
“Roger that, Hunter One,” the grunt said, producing a map from his pocket and checking it. “Tango-Alpha one-niner-three is the target. Awaiting Hunter Three.”
Dezba lowered his rifle. His senses felt suddenly more attuned, his face feeling cold and his body shuttering from the slight drop in feverish adrenaline. There was no helping that now. The sound of enemy communiques had switched his brain back on and made him aware of just how uncomfortable he felt. Which seemed appropriate, given his discomfort over the realization he was now experiencing as well.
The Veteran’s Hospital, he thought. That’s was the target of this patrol? What did they plan to do with it? Lock it down, destroy it, make sure the wounded and scarred personnel inside didn’t become a threat to their little plans? He would have thought the idea a cruel joke, but one look at himself suggested otherwise. There was no reason to assume a bunch of scarred fighting men wouldn’t want to pick up some rifles and start killing these bastards indiscriminately.
If anything, they might prove ten times more deadly than the Rattlesnakes they had met thus far. After all, a snake was deadliest when cornered, and scarred men always felt cornered.
It didn’t much matter though. The communique also told him more men were coming, which meant he needed to act fast. One fire team was one thing, but an entire platoon would prove more difficult to handle. He would either have to take these men down and make tracks quickly, or scrap the entire plan to kill them and slip away.
Yes, that last broadcast was more than just an interruption. It had thrown his whole plan into disarray. What was to be a simple execution had suddenly morphed into an actual plan. His newly attuned ears picked up additional conversation coming from the men, and the plan began to change.
“I got piss call.”
“Ah, fuck, Walt! Again?”
“Hey, don’t blame the bladder, man.”
“Fuck the bladder. When we get back, you’re getting your prostate checked!”
“That an offer?”
The men scoffed as the one vacated the sidewalk and headed between houses. Dezba cast one last look at the two that were left behind, and began to move. Slipping from the bush he had been using for cover, he crawled his way to the right. Next to him, a blue, wood-paneled house sat. The residents were nowhere to be seen, no doubt having taken to their basement the moment enemy troops began pouring through the streets and firing their guns into the air. That suited Dezba’s purpose just fine. Last thing he needed was for some resident to come running up to him or the other grunts out there and demanding to know what the fuck was going on.
Making his way between the blue house and its immediate neighbor, he cut around the back and took cover behind the porch. Within seconds, he could hear the sound of liquid hitting hard earth. The sound gave him a push as he realized he didn’t have much time. Rising to a hunched position, he scampered forward and made it to the fenceline, a small chain link thing that was waist high, flanked by a small tomato garden that had seen better days.
Beyond it, he saw the back of the enemy foot mobile, pants open, taking a leak on the grass. Contrary to what he thought, the man was nowhere near finished. Perhaps his companions had been right. Either he was hitting his canteen too hard, or his plumbing wasn’t in the best working order. Didn’t matter at the moment. What mattered was the fence between them, and the fact that he was standing mighty close to the pathway between the houses. His buds on the street might see…
He leaned his M4 against the beam of the back porch. He flexed the fingers on his real hand and the fake one.
“Hey, that you Tom?”
He stopped. Looked down at his feet. A small gravel path lay at his feet. An uncareful step had produced a crunch. The sound of urine hitting earth tapered off.
“Would this be that prostate check you ordered? Is it to be a surprise inspection?”
He laughed. Dezba narrowed his eyes and moved in a single, uninterrupted motion. Producing another crunch as he shot forward, his feet cleared the fence and he was on the man’s back before he knew it. He was in the midst of shouting when Dezba’s hand went to his knife and pulled it free.
“What th- Ack!”
A large gush of red. The man spun around clutching his neck, nothing but choked sounds escaping his mouth. More red gushed from his throat, rhythmically shooting out to the beat of his own heart. He fell and Dezba catched him, not wanting another loud noise to ring out. Guiding him slowly to the ground, he rolled him behind the house as quickly as he could. Voices were now coming up from the street, and the sound of footsteps.
“Walton! Walton! What’s going on back there?”
Dezba leaned against the house. The flaking red paint crunched against his tee and poking into his exposed flesh. The footsteps were getting closer.
“Walton! Sound off!”
Closer. He hugged the wall as tightly as he could.
Any second now. Things began to slow down inexorably…
“Walt!” the face yelled as it came from around the corner. Dezba’s hand shot up and placed the KBAR to his neck, slicing in one quick motion. The man’s hands reached to his neck, his gun falling on the ground and his body following. Dezba’s eyes went to the next one, who came immediately from behind him.
He sidled in close just as the gun began to be raised. He grabbed the barrel with his left hand, the articulated fingers clenching around the muzzle. The man looked down at the limb that was holding his weapon for a nanosecond, then back up at Dezba’s face, his eyes white and wide. Dezba was distracted as well, forgetting to place the knife to his throat and using his elbow instead. When he pulled his right arm free, the grunt raised his left arm and blocked his stabbing arm. He pulled back and tried stabbing low but was deflected again.
Next thing he knew, they were both on the ground, arms locked in fixed positions as they rolled around and tried to get the advantage over each other. The gun remained between them, the knife poised just at the edge of them. The man grunted fiercely, Dezba yelling as he tried to shove the knife forward. But it was no use. His muscles were beginning to feel the effects of disuse and fatigue, and he couldn’t hope to win this by overpowering the man.
Another grunt and another roll turned them sideways. Dezba was just on top now, stilling holding the muzzle of the gun before him. The grunt looked down and his eyes went wide again, another realization striking him. Letting go of his rifle, he reached to his side and grabbed hold of his sidearm. Dezba let go of the rifle next, reaching desperately with his artificial hand to grab it before he could aim it as his face.
Please dead God, he thought as he clasped with the metal pinchers. They reached down and felt a loud crunch, the sound of metal grasping metal. The gun went off. The bullet whizzed past Dezba’s flank. He yelped from the expected shot of pain, but was hit by relief instead. That too quickly faded as their struggle continued, the grunt beneath him now fighting to keep both the knife at bay and to get a better angle with his pistol.
Dezba hollered one last time. Any moment now, he knew there would be more footsteps coming up from behind him. An entire platoon coming to their location, summoned by the sound of gunfire and yelling. Once they got here, they would find their friend and shoot his assailant through the back.
He simply didn’t have time for this for anymore!
He let go of the gun, leaned forward and brought his face to withing an inch of his enemy’s. Another loud crunch sounded, followed by more gurgling, and then dead silence.
Dezba slowly raised himself up. His hand was still clenched around the neck of the grunt. The vice-like grip closed around the man’s now crushed larynx. He took several deep breaths and tried to catch his breath, the full weight of the fatigue hitting him all at once.
And then he heard them. The clip clops off boots on pavement making their way up the street on the other side of the houses. He pulled his hand to remove it, but got only resistance. He looked back at the dead grunt in his grip, and saw that the hand would not retract.
“Oh shit!” he said. The hand was stuck in grip mode. He checked the wrist section to make sure it was still properly attached, the battery levels to make sure it hadn’t died in mid action. Everything looked fine. But still, the damn thing refused to let go.
The footsteps got closer.
“C’mon!” he yelled to it, forcibly pulling it to get it off. The grunts head moved with him every time, his dead eyes and pale face bobbing unnaturally each time. Dezba began to feel nauseous, the look in the eyes spawning a terribly cold and ugly feeling inside him.
He had been wrong earlier, this was nothing like killing Whiskeys. This was deadly personal, and much more sickening.
“GOD DAMN IT! LET GO!” he yelled. He fell backwards and landed on his ass. When he looked up, the hand was open and he had fallen free. The corpse he had so thoroughly choked the life out of lying before him. Breathing a sigh of relief, he ran for the fence line again, vaulted over it and nearly landed face first in the gravel. He grabbed his M4 from the deck and ran again for the next fence, and the next, and the next.
Pushing, shoving, and vaulting over every obstruction in his path, he kept going until he could no longer hear the sound of boots or yelling voices. Until he could no longer hear the sound of squawking radios or laments from the dead’s comrades. Until he was so out of breath that he couldn’t possibly go on…
Curling up in the nook of tree on some unknown property, he lay flat and breathed harder than he ever had before. His face flushed from the extreme movement of blood and oxygen through his skin, and he could feel the sweat collecting in every recess. His stomach churched more, and he found a place to wretch once he had his breathing nominally under control. Just a few heaves were all it took to clear his stomach out, and then he went right back to breathing hard.
Yes, he had been wrong. Killing Whiskeys was easy. Whatever moral qualms people about it were gone the moment they realized they could get bit, and most days, they even didn’t seem to care if they lived or died.
But killing men, that was hard. Sooner or later, you were reminded that they weren’t targets after all. They were living, breathing, feeling people, just like you. And just like you, they only wanted to live.
