Like I said, this is a fragment, since I never finished it. I'm not even sure when I wrote it. I think it's pretty good, but I honestly don't remember where I was going with it, so that's presumably why I never finished it... Let me know if you have any ideas...
An oppressive dampness hung in the air, as though some malignant god sought to drown out all life, cleanse the earth of its sickness and begin anew. For three days and nights it had rained, a constant torrent of what had not quite become ice streaming down from the heavens to bomb the world below into muddy and glistening peace. The droplets of water sparkling and rolling on the trees and rocks, roots and leaves, soaking through the moss and brush, pounding the dirt into mud and filth, it was as though it was seeking to take over the earth. Now it was but a light drizzle, something he was unsure as to whether he hated more or less than the hard downpour. It never stopped, only got lighter. It didn’t matter, though. The water had gathered in pools in the treetops, and it fell down to earth in great sheets of numbing cold.
He raised an arm before his face, taking a moment to simply stare at the drenched limb, the olive green of his uniform a much darker shade since days before, the flesh beneath unfelt for hours at a time. He held it there, transfixed momentarily by the image, the hand heavily wrapped in gloves and scarf and spare cloth yet still wet and cold, arm with no more protection than his thin shirt, not even a jacket. The tiny beads of water on his plastic field of vision accumulated and grew, and he continued to stare at his own arm, entranced by it as though it were some new, alien thing. At last, he could no longer see it through the strange distortion of the water, and he moved his arm to wipe dry the plastic visor of his gasmask. It didn’t dry it, of course, but it cleared his sight, leaving only broken streaks where the obstructive globs had been. Strange, that his face should be the only dry part of his body. It made sense, though; his stomach knotted uncomfortably at the thought of finding water leaking through the seal of his mask. Not knowing what it meant. Having seen what it meant.
A shudder gripped his body, turning into a shiver he couldn’t control, couldn’t stop. Was it from the cold? He doubted it. For a moment, he sat in silence, leaning back against the muddy wall of his foxhole, not caring that it was cold and wet and dirty, feeling more than listening to the soft drumming of the rain on the metal of his helmet. For a moment, he didn’t mind the rain, didn’t mind the cold, didn’t mind the fact that he was in a foxhole in the middle of the woods, staring out at a cleared killing area a hundred yards long and breathing through a gasmask. The inhuman sounds it made actually comforted him, something familiar and safe. For a moment, the rifle resting next to him wasn’t a thing of war, but an old friend, a companion who had long since outgrown the need for anything so petty as language. And then the moment was gone. Someone moved behind him, upsetting the underbrush, and he instinctively reached for the rifle, the fact that behind him was not were the enemy lay ignored, and looked over his shoulder. The rifle fell back to the ground and he turned himself half-way around to face the man approaching him, uniform soaked and muddy as he knew his own must be, rifle slung over a shoulder, the markings of a lieutenant on his helmet and shoulders.
“Anything, Walters?”
He stopped behind his foxhole, squatting down to speak. Walters shook his head.
“Nothing,” he said. There never was anything. Not even animals. It had been months since he had seen even a bird. He knew they were still out there—not here, but there were still birds and squirrels and dogs and deer… There had to be. The lieutenant nodded.
“Good,” he said. “We’ve had some sighting out on the right, so stay alert.”
“Sir,” Walters nodded. It sounded so strange through the mask. The lieutenant nodded back and left, sprinting back along the line of foxholes. Why did he bother him? He wasn’t a sergeant. There was a sergeant only a few holes down from him. That’s where he should have gone. Maybe Walters was the only name he could remember, though he couldn’t see why. He didn’t know the lieutenant—had never met him before, actually. He turned back toward where he had been and found he was gone, nowhere in sight along the line. Strange. He shook his head, feeling a sudden urge to remove his helmet and let the cold rain soak his head, but resisted, figuring himself wet enough. So damned odd. Nothing seemed right. How long had it been like that? A day at least, more probably. He chuckled grimly at that. It had been far longer than that since things had been right.
His head found the soft earth of the foxhole behind him and he let himself go limp, returning to the view of the woods before him. As always, nothing moved but water, falling from the trees, running in muddy streams and forming brown puddles in the uneven ground and rotting the tree stumps that were all that remained of the forest which had stood in the killing ground only months ago. As always, there were no sounds but those of the water, dropping from the sky to explode on the leaves and trees and rocks and stumps and ground and men. They had stopped talking the day before. It just didn’t feel right, talking now. It was hollow laughter, too loud bantering and bravado, and everyone knew that they were all terrified and worn out. He remembered movies where the soldiers had sung, where everyone knew what was happening and what to do, and where the biggest concern was hot food, and he almost laughed. He would have, but the empty sound of it was something he had no desire to hear. His eyelids began to close, moving slowly but unchecked towards each other. He didn’t care anymore. He needed the sleep, and nothing ever happened here anyway. They met, and the world around him was replaced by darkness, the dripping water an uneven lullaby seeking to rock him into sleep.
A sharp crack shattered the silence, echoing too loudly in the dead quiet, and his eyes snapped open, body jerking forward as he sought his rifle. Shock was soon replaced by fear, a growing terror in the pit of his stomach, and he gripped his rifle to him until his knuckles were white and his hands shook. For a moment there was silence again, only the phantom echo of a single gunshot disturbing the siren beat of the rain. Then a new beat began, a chorus of explosive barks and pops, loud and terrible where the rain had been soft and hypnotic, raging on into the gloom and wet. Walters held his rifle tightly, pressed forward against the earthen wall of his foxhole as the shock of the first shot wore off and reality settled in. They would be coming soon. He had to be ready. His stomach knotted and twisted painfully, and panic began to creep over him. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t do this. He would freeze up. He would die. Images rose in his mind unbidden.
No. He squeezed his eyes closed tightly and shook his head. Concentrate. Concentrate. He focused on his training, seeking desperately to calm himself. But they had never trained him to wait, never told him what to do when he was tired and afraid. All he could do was sit in his muddy hole and stare at the woods. And shake.
“What’s going on?”
His head snapped around at the sound of a human voice, straining to be heard over the distant roar of guns. It was a frightened voice, an unsure question, and though it was just a whisper over the din, it seemed like a shout. It was out of place, somehow wrong, a rude interruption to the terrible melody of the line, and he knew again why the talk had ceased. A man in a muddy foxhole, soaked through with rain and the cold sweat of fear, had no cause for words as he stared away into the distance, not across the killing field but down the line. He had no cause for words, but they came anyway, the way words always did.
“Contact on the right,” another man answered, not the whimper of a frightened man, but the weary monotone of an empty one. Walters squeezed his eyes closed and gripped his rifle tighter until his hands shook again. The voice was his. It hadn’t shook with the rest of him, but it was just as numb, a hollow sound that fit perfectly with the report of guns and the distant shouts of fighting men. He opened his eyes again and loosened his grip on the rifle. If his voice didn’t quaver why should his body quake? It had to be from the cold.
“What do we do?” the voice asked, and Walters looked again at the figure crouched in the muddy foxhole next to him, a man-shaped lump of wet cloth and wet dirt with a wooden rifle and a steel helmet. There was silence for a long moment, audible over the chorus of war screaming through sodden air, and Walters found his gaze drifting away from the killing field and the woods beyond, moving steadily to the right and the faraway battle.
“Walters?” the voice called out again. Barely a whisper. His gaze drifted back
towards the killing field, away from the sounds of death and dying, and a wave of numbing calm washed through him.
“Wait,” was all he said, and the voice fell silent. There was nothing more to do but wait. It would reach them, soon. They would take up the song ringing through silent forest, lend their shouts and those of their guns to the terrible chorus. They would come from the woods. The firing down the line continued, unceasing volleys like the rumbling of a great storm.
The rain beat ceaselessly on his helmet, as though nature sought to keep pace with the rifle-fire beat of the humans, and he sank slowly into the mud as he waited silently in his foxhole. They would come from the woods. His gaze shifted and focused on the tree line, so far away before but now far too close. He could make out the individual leaves on the twisted branches of old trees, the muddy streams running between their trunks, every shrub or bush until everything grew black and tiny. He could picture them now, running through the woods as bullets tore through the trees and shrubs, not firing back as they came. They never fired back until it was too late to help, they had said. Would they even have guns? Sometimes they tried without them, with knives or sticks or bare hands. He sighed. What did he know?
Off to the right the sounds of gunfire died down, the chorus fading to a chant and then to the chirping of birds. Stragglers and survivors were picked off by marksmen, and the dead lay in silence. Walters felt himself relax. It was over now. They wouldn’t come twice in one day, failing in one place to try again a few yards away. No one would.
Slowly, unnoticed, he sank back in his foxhole, rifle lowering and posture slipping. A sudden wave of weariness washed through him, and the cold of the mud against his back did nothing to jolt him awake as he sank back against the earth. Out of his control, his eyes closed and the world went black and silent, save for the steady beating of the rain.
The gray sky loomed ominously above him, a prison ceiling to bar him even vision of the sun until he no longer cared. His eyes were open again, staring up at the distorted blobs of hopelessness as the rain collected and pooled on his plastic face. How long had it been like that, now? It was there in all of his memories, the gray, a backdrop on all his thoughts. It couldn’t have always been like that, though. He remembered the sun. He remembered blue skies and birds and warmth. But that had been a long time ago, and those memories were dim and half forgotten, and that was all that they would ever be. Memories.
A pain gripped his chest, squeezing his lungs until they strained and burned. It would be easier if he forgot. So many memories, so many wonderful and terrible things, all long past. All they did was slow him down, now. Hurt him. Memories of bright sunlight and cool grass under naked feet faded to memories of flame and ruin and the copper taste of blood. It was so hard to tell now, what was real. The things he remembered and the things that had happened…they couldn’t be the same. Best to forget.
But there was no forgetting. The things that haunted him, they would haunt him forever, and he knew that he deserved those ghosts. Memories of loss and failure eclipsed all else, and he shut his eyes tightly, trying with all his might to keep the pain from rising again.
A sound caught his attention, an incoherent cry that shattered all memories and numbed all pain, brining him sharply back into the world. The cry sounded again, and this time he heard it perfectly. It was a cry of suffering and anger, a wordless roar of hate and frustration, the accumulated anathemas of all mankind condensed into a single sound, a single moment; a single gunshot. A third sounded, and Walters looked to the tree line. Dark shapes moved between glistening bows, silhouettes of monsters that darted to-and-fro in front of him, making no sound as they massed in ever greater numbers.
A wave of panic swept of him, and for a moment Walters knew fear like he had not known for a long time. His knuckles whitened on the wooden stock of his rifle, and its solidity comforted him, anchored him against the current of his fear, and it passed. He raised the weapon to his shoulder and looked down the sights for the first time since he had dug that god-forsaken hole. Iron daggers sought human form, just as in days of old, and he listened to the ever-present drumming of the rain and waited. Another shot rang out, this time followed by more. The beat was taken up again, rising to life from nothingness to challenge the rain and drown it out.
