CS: Dead (Cont.)

Then silence. And I sit there waiting, my back against the Northern wall, M16 in my hand, barrel up. Half an hour goes by as I stare at my buddy who pants slower and slower and gets dizzier and sicker with each passing second. The house is all covered in rubble, the floor almost out of sight due to large cascades of cement, plaster, and debris. A few remnants of a rug and a table are my allies shelter from the sniper’s scope. The walls are barren except for blastmarks and bulletholes. I can see the stairwell across the way, leading up to the next floor, part of which I can see through a gaping hole where the second floor’s floorboards had fallen away due to the violent blasts of bombers sailing overhead. There is ash floating in from outside now and there is the soft moaning of one of my men outside, still alive despite a gunshot. The snipers stay silent, they are obviously waiting for more men. Do they know I’m alive? Do they think the silence that they keep could not be kept by the white devil with a minor wound sitting in the building below them?

I give myself another ten minutes, thinking about other things. Thinking about my friends and family back home, about my aspirations, about my dreams, about everything that I had thrown aside to come out here and learn how to be a hero. I wanted my money back for that lesson. Family rises up again in my mind as I wait those last ten minutes; those memories always come back to the surface whenever I give my mind time to settle. They’re the last thing I want to think about right now, the last thing I’ll probably ever think about.

I gather myself and pull myself up to my feet. This isn’t my first fight, far from it, and it won’t be my last either. All it will be is another little skirmish and firefight that could kill me. I was still standing after the last six battles and skirmishes, why not this one? There were only two this time, but then again, there was only one of me. And so I cross to the debris that has collapsed, staying clear of the window, ascending the mountain of crushed rock and plaster and grabbing hold to a half-fallen floorboard, praying to God that it won’t snap and give me away. I let go for a moment and unstrap my backpack, setting it softly down on the debris where I know it won’t lose its place and grab hold again, hauling myself up by it. It holds.

The second floor is destroyed, the back wall already blown out, revealing the back streets leading to the square. There are some dead civilians down there, the corpses already rotting, products of a skirmish eight days earlier no doubt. No one wants to take the risk of going out into the streets to clean up. Too many snipers on both sides. The furniture is still here in parts, though its scorched and some of it is filled with bulletholes and marks. The windows here are broken, one or two open but it doesn’t matter, there’s no chance they can see me as long as I stay against the back wall. I move quickly across the floor, trying not to make a sound. I hear the sound of an explosion shake the city and I move quickly up the rickety stairs, one breaking away under my right foot. I sink in for a moment, holding in the pain as a large piece of wood cuts into my thigh. I remain there, blood oozing free as a second explosion hits nearby and I wrench my leg free and climb up to the third and final level. A third and fourth blast shake dust off the roof and it rains down onto the floor as I make my way across this copy of the second level, limping slightly as I bring out my knife and slowly step to the ladder leading to the roof. The hatch above is wide open and at this height there is no dust cloud and I can see the stars. Its been awhile since I’ve really noted them and they’re beauty–always the symbol of the unattainable.

I pull myself laboriously up, not breathing anymore, trying to hold it all in, my lungs now stinging from lack of decent oxygen and the blood that is now soaking my right leg. I can feel some of it oozing into my boot and settling on my toes, the disgusting feeling rolling over me as I forget it and slowly peek out of the roof hatch and pull myself up, belly against the rough, war-torn roof. I can see the sniper still sitting, staring down at the streets below, the moaning of my ally stopped now, no gunfire. They’re waiting for more, the greedy bastards. Off in the distance I can hear the sound of more troops moving through towards the square.

I don’t waste time–I crawl head first towards the sniper, drawing my knife from my belt and praying to God he doesn’t hear me or turn around. A bomb echoes and he stirs, but I don’t stop crawling or even slow down, I just move towards him, drawing myself almost right next to him, holding my breath. He has no clue that my head is now waist level with him; I drag myself a few inches further as he moves his foot and it strikes against my leg. My breath stays in as he does not even notice: I am debris. And then my first hand shoots out, holding him in place by the back, it has the firmness of anger, the kind of firm grip that only rage and fear can give a man. My eyes do not focus, I stare beyond the figure as I drive the knife into his throat and wrench it in. He gags, he gurgles, he can barely move as I hold him down tight. He squeezes off a shot that echoes down the street. I flatten.