Thump thump thump thump.
Thump thump thump thump.
Thump thump thump thump.
Thump thump thump thump.
Thump thump thump thump.
Thump thump thump thump.
Thump thump thump thump.
Thump thump thump thumpthump thump. Thumpthump.
Rustling.
Green everywhere. Above your head, right next to your eye - it's everywhere. And the harsh beams of light that manage to dart through the overhead foliage do not befall upon you as gracious as you'd imagine.
In fact, they put your life in jeopardy.
Nearly as much as breathing would.
You lay prone. Your body is stiff and rigid, and it's near-impossible to see past this brush you've hidden behind. On your person, you've nearly enough to tend to the wounds of everyone on this planet, enough anesthetics to neutralize a herd of berserk beasts, and a mind wise enough to guide them all to tranquility.
But, of course, it isn't your job.
A twig snaps.
Your thoughts freeze.
Thumpthump. Thumpthump.
Breathing will get you killed.
The set of boots clamor by, hissing as they dislocate the dead leaves. You peak up, hoping that your eyes do not meet the end of a hollow nose of iron and darkness. Most to concern you would be the gunpowder and metal that lie within.
Instead, it is a familiar face beneath a familiar shield. He is crouched and his stern jaw clenches, forcing a twitch of his cheeks. He is stifling a smile for he knows that you are a good friend and have his back. Unfortunately, that's more than enough of his concern to maintain focus and make sure nothing happens to either of you, along with the rest of your company.
Time to move.
Thumpthumpthump thump.
Thumpthump thumpthump.
Thumpthumpthumpthump.
Ducking, dodging, swaying, bobbing,
Glancing, fretting, waving, breath-robbing:
Your sprint is exactly that: a sprint. Not a bee-line, but you dive behind a tree along with your friend from earlier. His helmet clacks, a weaker version of the means of damage on his person; he looks over to another tree, where you can spot a well-hidden ally, prone on the ground. His rifle is stuck between the trunk of a tree and the hedge alongside him, poised and prepared.
Silence.
The clicking of tongues.
The signal to keep on.
More boots to crash against the sodden earth. A dew remains on this part, deeper in the forest. The incline of the hill is visible. A horizontal sweep of your vision garnered that the enemy must have been lying in wait at the top of the hill. Your troop has orders from the tactician, and they are precise. You know what you are doing, though you hadn't the slightest clue of what is to happen.
The only thing you can do is to wish for it to be exactly what you need. Nothing more, nothing less.
The trek up the hill is even more unnerving than all the days prior. Sure, you were seasoned and well-experienced, but every day out in the action was another day your life's put in jeopardy even more than the last.
Five litter the hillside, dancing behind the cover of trees and playing lateral leap-frog - one goes after the other secures the lines. It looks extremely unorganized, though, as you trudge onward, the trees augmenting in width with each passing by, you recall the times when you also had to bob and weave through an obstacle course in such a fashion.
Thankfully, they entrust you with the role that you feel most comfortable with: taking care of others.
Your shoulder quivers. It is then tinged with a bit of dehydration, and you realize that you haven't bothered to pay attention to yourself since the morning began; now later in the afternoon, your morning meal of insubstantial sustenance and barely enough fluids begins to kick at you. Your friend looks over his shoulder, hearing your pace slow. So long as you are not struck with a bullet, it's reason to keep on going.
At the head of your company of seven, there is an order to halt.
You listen.
Thumpthump.
The silence.
Thump.
A breeze.
Thump thumpthump.
Your eyes tremble as you feel fatigue catching up with you once again. Even the artificial energy infused in your cells from this morning's brew does not seem to hold you out.
You crawl into a tight crouch and quickly take a sip from the canteen on your person. Once that is done, you look down the length of the hill.
There is no clear pathway - only fallen branches and large heaps of deadened leaves. It'd be more difficult charging up than it would sprinting down.
Your ears perk. There is a whistle on the wind.
You look about with quick, calculated eyes. No birds in sight - in fact, they know well to keep away from here unless they are not afraid of the "Lead Rain". If only someone would have told you some kind of news like that.
Inspecting each and every member of your team, you find that they are all okay. All five of them. Including yourself, there would be six.
There are seven in your company.
You lean discretely to inspect the crevices of leaning trees where you can see from behind your buddy.
Still the six of you.
Your eyes race back down the hill to see nothing but the shrubbery and vines.
Only two had fallen earlier in the month, and another three gone to aide another troop. That brought your original count of twelve down to the present number of seven.
Your eyes idly travel up the length of a tree to find a leg dangling off the side of a branch.
Thump.
Don't breathe.
A nudge against your left arm. It startles you, though your sharp inhale goes unheard. You don't want to rip your eyes from this mysterious silhouette, though attention to your squad is much more important.
You turn your head to see that your buddy is urging you to follow. You turn back to look at the tree, and he follows your line of sight.
He clicks twice, rapidly, with his tongue. The rustling of the company's boots stop.
This is a stranger.
Thump thump thump thump.
Thump thump thump thump.
You can hear his breathing after a while, a light snoring that is unwelcome in such a setting. Someone raises their rifle, attentive, while the others maintain the surrounding area. Attention goes to the individual who stalks over to you, and holds up a palm. His hand quickly slides parallel the width of his torso once.
Sign.
He doesn't understand.
You hold up your hand, subtle but visible: index finger to thumb with the remaining extended.
You understand.
With a swift hand, you relay your thoughts into non-verbal communications.
Right hand to sweep over your left wrist, a circle to hold to your right eye, and then an extended hand to start at your forehead and end, contracted, at your chin.
The enemy sniper is asleep.
He quickly peeks to your buddy who was earlier telling you to come on.
He repeats two of your signals, but then adds a third for his orders.
An arm by his shoulder, jutting his thumb in a direction.
Enemy sniper. Cover this area.
Your buddy gives the signal both you and the troop spreads out.
A thunderous roar rips through the entire biota.
A shot rings true to the surprise of war.
It's a shot that strikes the leg in the tree.
Your platoon quickly dives for cover, watching as the sniper in the tree howls from the rude awakening. Fortunate for him, he is struck with another bullet before his body hits the ground.
This concerns you and your lieutenant.
You all scurry for better poises to retaliate fire, and before you can find this formidable sniper, you hear a cry ring out from far below on the hillside.
The voice is unmistakably familiar.
You leap to your feet and sprint.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump.
It would have done well to eat a bit more earlier in the day.
Your surroundings blend into a rather disgusting medley of earth tones. Something you've gotten used to for a good handful of years.
It's molded you, much like the prints your boots leave behind as you trample down the hill.
Someone's roaring in anger after you for sprinting recklessly. Someone's roaring at you for being an enemy and being alive. Someone's roaring in anguish and agony for still being alive.
Your biggest concern is to get to that person.
You leap over a bush and continue onward.
Bullets splash into the dirt in your wake. A glance over your shoulder is just as promising as breathing.
Breathing will get you killed.
Your energy flees from you. Each pump of your arm as you awkwardly pin the tote closer to your body and keep your helmet fastened to your head. Sweat riddles the contours of your grime-layered face as you plunge into another bush, this time tearing through it with your legs. They burn from the intensity of this run, something you've had to do nearly every day but can never truly be prepared for at all times.
Your damp boots slip on the dried grass. Your recovery is to merely collapse over by the tree and the brush where you had last left your spot-man. He writhes, the pain evident on his face. Flipping him over gently, you do your best to conceal you both as you look around. Your eyes have been rumored to be the best in your entire platoon - which is why you are pleased with helping save lives rather than helping take lives.
Being a sniper would be too much on your conscience.
The man looks at your leg, and finds that you are impaled just as he.
But, not from a bullet - instead, a meter-long stick is jutting out from the muscle of your calf. You had been entirely enveloped in the sprint to keep your life and to save a life that it completely passed with the burning of lactic acids.
But, nevermind you: a stick would come out. A bullet wouldn't.
You work fast. Your hands do not tremble for you are certain with your motions. Every cloth you pull out, every motion your muscles participate in: it all is something you've lived for, to this very day.
He's stable.
Thumpthumpthump.
Thump. Thump. Thumpthump.
You look to your own leg. Something about it is grizzly and surreal, though you work quickly to pull the branch which had plunged itself into your leg.
Wrapping that up, you console your seventh platoon-member that everything's alright and update them on the matter.
He would be kept in a sling for a few days until they managed to get a flight for him.
A cough riddled your throat and rocked your chest.
The next morning, you find that you are in a room. The ceiling is porous. There are soft, fluorescent lights that add to the airy atmosphere.
Just like the day before, when you had opened your eyes, there is a beam of light shining into your eyes.
This one comes a bit later from your initial sight, but it is there. Behind it is a murky silhouette.
"If you would be so kind as to sit up for me, then?"
A pat on your right forearm. Your skin feels clammy, as though you hadn't showered in months.
You shift in your bed. Your vision hazes for a bit, and you feel a bit light-headed. Something eerie happens, wherein you see a familiar face on the man with the stethoscope about his neck. Alongside him is a tray with several, vital-sign inspectors. Your limbs are connected to wires, though where these wires lead up to are beyond the visage of your lead-eyelids. There is a cool breeze that constantly dances into your nose.
That drink you just had from your canteen seems to have been gone as well.
Your throat is sore. You wish to request another drink, and you realize then that you are much more mellow than you were a minute ago.
A few faces come into the room to visit you.
The doctor dismisses himself and his voice is drowned out, as though you are submerged in an overriding sensation of life.
They look familiar to you.
Your brother.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His wife.
Thump. Thump.
Your niece.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Not by him, but from your sister.
Thump. Thump.
On his hand is a glint of gold. On her hand is a glint of gold.
Thump. Thump.
In your niece's hand is a raveled myriad of papers.
Thump.
On each of their faces is a smile.
It's contagious: it reaches your lips.
You inhale, seeing your chest rise.
Breathing will get you killed.
They fade from your visage.
The room turns blurry.
Your heavy eyelids set.
You exhale and fall asleep.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Thump thump thump.
Thump. Thump.
Thump.
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