((Belgium. 1943.))
Mud, blood, and warmth run together. Someone’s shouting outside the trench. The attack’s over, but there’s still some fucking kraut out there screaming. I hate German. Language sounds like barking, like they’re animals.
I look over the edge even though it’s fucking stupid. I can’t see through the damn rain. He’s closer than I thought. His face is bloody. Fucker probably can’t see, that’d explain why he’s stumbling through No Man’s Land. One arm’s held out, the other’s… fuck. He’s holding his fucking guts in. Jesus.
Stupid bastard must think he’s back in his own trenches.
What the fuck can I do?
I fire.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
I catch him and I put his fucking guts back in and he bleeds all over me, but that’s no different than a half dozen fuckers in my own unit today. I drag him out of the hole, through the mud, to the medical unit.
Why the fuck am I doing this for a kraut? I have no idea.
The blonde sargeant stops me outside the medical tent. He wants to know what I’m doing.
I tell him.
He says we don’t have enough beds as it is. He pulls his gun, takes care of it.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
I can’t take him to the medical unit like this, so I strip him down and shove him into the uniform off the corpse next to me. Dead fucker won’t miss it. Then I drag him up into the mud. He’s unconscious now. Good. Can’t give himself away.
The blonde sargeant looks at me funny. Doesn’t say shit, though.
Doctors take him away. I leave, don’t worry about it.
Couple weeks later I hear about the guy who woke up from a coma and started screaming in German until they shot him for a spy.
Doctors take him away. I leave, but I come back.
The Red Cross girls try to shoo me out, but I flirt and they’re fucking kittens. I pick up some German from different people, nothing much from any one.
His eyes flutter.
“Be quiet,” in my broken German.
He looks at me, confused.
“Play mute.” I’m wondering if those fuckers lied about the words, but then his eyes go wide. He lays back down. When the nurses come over, I tell them he can’t seem to talk. He smiles and they coo over him and I can’t help feeling I’ve been shown up.
But it’s fine.
((France. 1781.))
“But it’s fine. I’ll apologize,” I insist, adjusting my monocle. “I didn’t mean to destroy him, and it’s all a simple mistake.” I smile at my best friend. He’s worried, but I tell him to stay with his women and I will take care of it quickly.
The field is wet with dew and there’s a light rain falling. I try not to shiver in the cold. He arrives with a second and laughs when I don’t have anyone.
“I don’t want to fight.” As it turns out, he doesn’t care. It’s the killing he enjoys. That I wronged him is secondary.
“But it’s fine. I’ll apologize,” I insist, adjusting my monocle. He insists on coming anyway to second me, but that’s what friends are for, so I don’t complain.
I stand with my arms extended, but when he comes too close, I can’t get away fast enough. The pain is too wide, he’s not fighting the way I’d expect. I didn’t expect him to fight at all, this is ridiculous. I feel my best friend catch me.
He lays me down, and the dew seeps through the back of my coat as the blood seeps through the front.
My opponent laughs as I die.
I stand with my arms extended, but when he comes too close, I flinch away. He really means this nonsense about killing me!
I draw my sword, finally, but he’s fast. Before I know it, there’s a slice across my stomach and I’m bleeding all over one of my favorite jackets. A sabre style in a duel?
“How gauche,” I sneer, and he shouts in frustration. When he comes at me again, forcing me backward, I panic and feel my lessons slipping away from me. I lunge madly.
When I come to, he is lying on the ground, spotted in tiny, bloody holes.
((Kyoto. 1641.))
The body is full of tiny holes; I hold the arrows that killed my lord. His blond hair is stained with rusty blood.
We won the battle honorably, and I know he will be buried with the proper rites by his son. The new lord. I have one other obligation.
“Sha-san, I failed to protect him. You will care for his son, but first I must follow him. Please support me.” He nods gravely and stands at my side, his sword raised, as I drive my blade into my stomach.
I am resolute, and complete all three cuts before he takes my head.
((Penn State University. 1986.))
The sun was rising behind the clouds. I hadn’t been to bed, but it made my head hurt with an early hangover anyway. The frat party the night before was most excellent.
I stumbled out of the living room when I was about to hurl again, and spewed on the bushes. As I walked out into the drizzle, I tripped over my pledge brother.
“Fuck, man, don’t sleep there. It’s so lame.” He didn’t move. He was face down in a puddle of his own puke. Took me an alcohol-soaked minute to panic, but I did.
Campus safety told me he was dead.
((San Francisco. 1928.))
The streetlights were flickering on when I heard the dame screaming outside. She didn’t shut up. Maybe it was time to get out of bed and see what she wanted. Hell, she was making my hangover worse.
I was still dressed from last night, more’s the pity, and I was pretty sure I smelled as bad as I felt. I didn’t have time to stop and change. I also doubted I had any clean clothes.
By the time I stumbled out of my office, there were two dead bodies waiting on my doorstep. Hell of a way to start the damn night.
By the time I stumbled out of my office, there were two bodies waiting on my doorstep. Hell of a start to the night.
I heard a low moan and crouched down. Just my luck, the dame was the dead one. The man was staring, green eyes glazed, but he was talking. About then I realized that the guy spilling his guts across the sidewalk was also spilling his guts to me.
He told me he’d killed a mafia family single-handed, except the son of the don had come for him and his sister. He asked me find him, then lay still.
((Los Angeles. 1999.))
The man on the ground in front of me is obviously dead. His face is pale and bloody and his stomach is cut open, with various pink organs decorating the road. Fuck, it’s a mess.
“Oh, no! The bastards got here before me!” I think about how hollow my voice sounds as I kneel over the body, reaching for the gun he holds. It’s sticky.
Suddenly, the corpse’s eyes open and it lurches to life, reaching for me. I scream and jump back.
“And CUT!”
I smile and reach for the zombie. He takes my hand and climbs to his feet. “Nice scene, man.”
The man on the ground in front of me is obviously dead. His face is pale and bloody and his stomach is cut open, with various pink organs decorating the road. Fuck, it’s a mess.
“Oh, no! The bastards got here before me!” I think about how hollow my voice sounds as I kneel over the body, reaching for the gun he holds. It’s sticky.
Suddenly, the corpse’s eyes open and it lurches to life, reaching for me. I scream and jump back, but it grabs my wrist. I twist the arm, trying to get away, but he sinks his teeth in.
((Wisconsin. 2006.))
Twenty-two.
I’d studied them all. Jonesboro. Springfield. Olivehurst. Pearl.
Paducah. Red Lake. Columbine, of course.
Thirty-nine.
Ultimately, they were all inefficient.
Forty-eight.
Hesitation was what stopped them, but I would not. No pity for anyone,
least of all myself.
Sixty-three.
There was one boy who stepped in front of me instead of running. He
was calm, his red hair hanging in his face, his jacket still wet from
the drizzle outside.
Eighty-four.
Calm down, he said.
I fired before I realized that he was a stoner, an outsider like me.
He fell like the others. Bled like them. Died like them.
One hundred.
I kept going.
There was one boy who stepped in front of me instead of running. He
was calm, his red hair hanging in his face, his jacket still wet from
the drizzle outside.
Eighty-four.
Calm down, he said.
I stopped and I realized that he was a stoner, an outsider like me.
I wondered why another outcast would stop me. Were they worth
protecting? Did he think they were? Or was he just afraid I’d shoot
him?
“Go,” I told him. “You’re not the reason why I’m here.”
At first he hesitated, but when the gun twitched, he ran. Then I
turned the gun on myself.
I wondered why another outcast would stop me. Were they worth protecting? Did he think they were? Or was he just afraid I’d shoot him?
“Go,” I told him. “You’re not the reason why I’m here.”
“We’re all targets. How do you know I’m any different from that… girl…” He looked sick as he gestured to the nearest bleeding body. I stared at her and realized I didn’t even know her.
My finger slipped away from the gun’s trigger.
“Drop your weapon,” the voice was megaphone-dull. I turned instinctively. I lost my focus.
I didn’t think to drop my gun.
Someone opened fire.
