Young Writers Society

A/N: I've been very hesitant about posting this piece because I'm not very confident about it. But it's a work in progress and I thought, since I wasn't making much of a headway by re-reading it, I'll just put it up for reviews, then take it down (maybe scrap it) and write all over again. I'm sorry it's so long, and yes, I know, it's terrible too.

You can find the prologue here: http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/work.php?id=103821

And the first chapter here: http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/work.php?id=103975

~Pompadour

_________________________________________________

Chapter Two- Blood and bones

~Gonzalez~

What would you do if you had to march out into the depths of battle and be told you were destined to die?

What would you do if you had to leave behind a mountain of hardships - a mountain you had climbed so far up that you’d almost reached the top - and were then whisked away to find yourself standing at the foot of another, even steeper climb?

Succumb to human nature, that’s what. Never mind how illogical your mind sounds. Never mind how stupid you actually are.

Anything to live.

How ironic it is, that destiny doesn’t let human nature in its way. Because you might not always agree with Destiny.

Dreams and destiny are far more different than we realise, and yet they intertwine to form fate as we know it.

Sometimes, I wish fate were a rolling stone; that I could kick it to the bottom of a hill and it would just stay there. But my fate is bound firmly to a catapult. If I try to get rid of it… well…let’s just say I can’t do that. I have to go through with things. I have to accept my fate…

Because if I don’t, my family will die.

And as sure as heck, if they die, I know I’ll die too.

***

González crouched in his corner, barely breathing. His eyelids felt heavier than a pair of brass spectacles, but he knew he must not sleep. He checked to see if his gun was loaded for about the fiftieth time that night. It was as though drums were beating in his ears, every thump reminding him of how time was ticking by.

Surely, I will die.

No, he told himself,don’t say that. You can’t die.

Why not? The practical part of him challenged himself.

You CAN’T, he thought more firmly.

There was silence in the strangely layered chambers of his mind... his mind was a blank eclipse of tangled emotions. The beating of his heart was no more than a faint buzz. He reminded himself, turning the faded, and yet determined, thought over and over inside his head.

You know what you have to do.

You know what you have to do.

You KNOW.You KNOW.You KNOW.You KNOW.

DON’T YOU?

Gonzalez wasn't even sure of himself any more. He sat in the darkness, fighting with himself, trying to organize the cluttered medley of memories and thoughts that were forming a miniature whirlpool inside his head. He felt as though he was staring at his surroundings from a million miles away… a million miles away from himself; his soul uplifted beyond anything, beyond everything. The questions were pounding on his brain as Gonzalez struggled to straighten his thoughts and calm the pandemonium rushing inside his head.

Why am I doing this?

Because it’s the only way I’m getting out of this alive. It’s my one chance to get home safe, to make sure THEY’RE safe.

If they’re even alive, whispered the sly voice inside his head. Gonzalez had never wanted this to happen. He hadn’t wanted the world to be part of the war that had swept the entire world through. But the Government had started recruiting soldiers for that plague they called “serving the nation” and the blacks were the first to go. Gonzalez knew he had no choice, and on a cold, dreary morning, he and his family had parted ways. His family of three: He, Martha, and little Emily, his four-year-old daughter. Martha was a nurse in the army. He hoped she was safe.

Hoping.

Wasn’t that what Gonzalez had done as he was shipped from America to Europe? Wasn’t that what he had done as he was marched onto the battlefield, forced to face the boons of guns and bones, of blood and wounds, of a chaos and terror the like of which he had never faced before? Wasn’t that what he had done as he had lost his head and fired like crazy into the air, and then run past the bodies and the still fighting men, away from the battlefield… away from the bloodshed and the staccato of guns, and the fear that was steadily gnawing through his bones?

Maybe his hope hadn’t been enough to pull him through.

But he had to stay strong.

He was a soldier. He was a slave. He had a duty.

As simple as that.

Why hadn’t he remembered Duty before, when he was pitched out into battle for the first time? Why had he made such a terrible, terrible mistake?

I was afraid, he thought.

- Of what? asked the voices.

Of death.

And as though someone was playing a tape in his mind, he relived the memory that had brought him here in the first place. The scene was so vivid, it still frightened him, like a black pit in his stomach, darkening the world around him so that everything faded into nothingness….

There he was.

It was so much more than a memory; a nightmare-reality perhaps.

The bombs pelted down as easily as raindrops, tearing apart flesh, ripping open bodies, painting the world. It was not a picture of cheer, or happiness in its simple, stalwart way. It was a picture of horror the world tries to shield its souls from- and failing miserably, for these are horrors beyond description. It wasn't the booms of the cannons or the man-made devouring the men, but the sheer reality of the fighting that frightened the soldiers the most. Gonzalez had never known that blood was so…red. No, red wasn't the word. It was crimson. Wounds weren't anything to fuss over, no, not when wounds themselves were being wounded.

I must get out of this alive. The desperate thought nagged at his brain, pulling at it like a fish-hook, as he stopped dead-still, absolutely froze over at the sight of the enemy lines, at the forces which let out a tumultuous roar, and charged. It was like confronting a pack of wild beasts, of rampaging elephants.

Of Death.

I cannot face it.

I must get out alive.

But Gonzalez was out of chances, out of aces to choose from in his flimsy deck of cards. He panicked, for he was but a mere man then, frightened and alone; and started shooting randomly everywhere like a mad man. At that moment, the word “soldier” had never seemed more meaningless. His life…that was what mattered to him. But even more than his skin, he needed to make sure his family lived. He had to return to them. Leaving them alone, abandoning them in this cruel Metal World, full of horror and distrust, was not an option. He felt as though he was surrendering to an apocalypse: a metalloid, obscure, painstakingly artificial apocalypse. He couldn't do that. It was either stay there and die, or run for your life. Be called a coward, be mocked and scorned your whole life, but better to be called a coward and live, than to die and be forgotten, to be the cause of heartbreak, to never fulfill your ambitions.

Run,he thought as an enemy soldier fired a bullet towards him. It zoomed towards him as though in slow motion, so the world seemed to be a slur… that silver machination sliced through the air… and Gonzalez stood motionless in his line of fire, as soldiers around him fell…

Run, he thought as the bullet pierced his shoulder, his skin ripped apart to blinding pain; and the blood flew like red spray, staining his uniform crimson… his flesh stung and a rasping yell seemed to contort itself in his throat, escaping as a weak scream.

Run.

That was the only thing that made sense to Gonzalez just then.

So González had listened to the frantic screaming of his heart. He had pitched his gun to the ground and gotten to his feet, slipping over the ground like a deer on ice. But destiny got in the way, and his Commanding Officer saw his ‘act of cowardice’ as he later called it.

‘WHERE DO YOU THINK YER GOING?’ he had roared.

But González kept on running.

I’m never looking back, he though savagely.

He didn't spare a moment to wonder where he would go, or how he would get home. He was in the middle of Germany after all. It was one of those insane moments when your mind seems to have temporarily disabled itself and survival is the only thing that matters. Consequences have no meaning, and life is just a distant horizon, and difficulty is a swashing sea separating you from it.

González tore through the battlefield and reached a shelter. He crouched low, and crawled inside. His entire frame trembled from the shock, and nervousness of what he had just done.

Suddenly, he realized the gravity of the situation- and gulped.

Everything came flowing back. Gonzalez landed with a soft “flump” on the barren grounds of reality.

I’m dead, he thought. Oh man, am I dead.

The fighting died out eventually, just as fighting does, and the foot-soldiers who survived had returned to base-camp. González had vainly tried to mingle with the other soldiers, who were worn out with the battle, but Commander Hans was not the kind who forgets easily. After his wounds had been seen to, and he had gotten himself patched up, he summoned González, who entered the room tentatively five minutes later.

The punishment for cowardice in the army is death.

And González knew, as he stood in front of the man with the pinched-up nose and watery eyes, and the muscular build of a miniature giant, that his end would be beyond painful.

Hans sat in his arm-chair, scrutinizing the black soldier who stood so sedately and proudly in front of him. He couldn’t understand it, but somehow, his pride and composedness struck a flame in Hans’ heart, and the Commander’s cold gaze became colder and harder.

And as Hans raised his hand, González braced himself ‘for impact.’ But Hans didn't strike out at him. He picked up the sniper that lay at his feet, and whispered, in a dangerously sleek voice, ‘Soldier, do you know how hunters punish disloyal dogs?’- he paused, and glared at González’s blank face -‘Do you?’

González shook his head as a way of answer.

‘Well, you ignorant black low-down, they’re shot to death. The bullets pierce the dog’s skin, until the body’s drained of all its blood. And there, el finite, it’s dead. It’s gone. It’s nothing but an ol’ sack of bones.

‘And that is exactly the fate that awaits Negro soldiers who have no purpose in the world ‘cept serving the white. That is the punishment for treachery.’ He raised his sniper, pointing it at González, who still remained impassive, but took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes sir. I know.’

‘But,’ Hans continued, ‘I have decided to forgive your little mishap-‘

‘Oh, sir!’ González interjected (perhaps out of stunned relief) and blubbered, ‘Thank you! Thank you! I assure you I -’

‘- in return … for a favour.’ Commander Hans finished smoothly.

There was silence. González could have kicked himself. He should’ve known there was a catch. Looking into the steel gray eyes of the man who sat before him, poisonous venom seethed through his soul; how dare this man degrade him so? How dare he call him a nigger? How dare he?

But González knew that picking a fight would endanger his chances of survival, so he didn’t say a word. He stood there, not breaking eye contact. Hans raised his eyebrows at Gonzalez’s silence, and then, as if to fill the vacuum created between the two men, he said, ‘I’m sending you on a solo mission.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said González.

‘We have received … information,’ said Hans, his lip curling, ‘that Hitler will be arriving at an observatory fifteen miles from Hamburg on the twentieth of August. You …’ - his eyes glinted dangerously -‘must kill him.’

‘Me?’ said González. ‘But, sir … why? Why me?’

‘Do not question your Commanding Officer!’ Hans thundered. ‘It is you, and you for a reason!’

‘But how do you know all this? Why is- he coming to- to this place, wherever it is? And sir-‘

‘That information is none of your concern. You must simply do you job.’

‘And if I refuse to do it? ’ said González boldly.

‘We have tabs on your family. You fail your mission,’- he smirked – ‘and they die. You die.’

The Commander searched González’s face for signs of weakness, and was surprised to find none.

‘I’ll do it.’ he said.

And now, hidden in the folds of the darkness, in a corner of the said observatory, fifteen miles from Hamburg, González was well aware that these might be his last recollections. He had to kill the enemy, even if he died. He had to do it-

‘For little Em and Martha,’ he whispered to himself, ‘for family.’

Footsteps shattered the silence of the night, and González cocked his gun at the silhouetted figures, standing at the entrance. He fired.

All was fair in love and war.