So, This is Death

"So, this is Death," by Maldys Shrubb

    The waves of infantry rolled over the hills toward the enemy trenches.  Their squad leader let out a blood curdling scream, that prompted some of his men to do the same.  The enemy units lined up their rifles at the lip of the trench and loosed a volley of shots toward the charging force of soldiers.  The advancing soldiers were peppered with a hail of gunfire, but their advance continued unabated.   

    An expert marksman in the trench carefully took aim at the head of the squad leader, and with precision, blasted a hole through his head.  The shell flew directly threw his forehead and exited out of his brainstem in a flash of crimson mist. His beleaguered men could sense that their leader had fallen, and their courage fell with him.   The charging infantry fanned out in all directions to avoid the continued volleys of bullet fire that ensued.  Most of the men feel prey to the vicious fire concentrated their way. It was an unmitigated slaughter. 

The squad leaders last moments took him from the battlefield.  Where was he? He thought he just blinked when he was on the ridge commanding his men to follow. Now he was somewhere completely different. He saw himself on an old swing that was suspended from the large oak tree in front of his childhood home.  He gazed softly at the sunset as a lone female strode out to meet him with a glass of lemonade grasped firmly in her hand.  “Looked like you were getting mighty parched,” she commented with a wistful smile.  He averted his gaze from the scenic splendor and met her smile with his own. 

“I suppose I am,” he added with a chuckle.  When he spoke the words to her, he could feel an odd piercing headache that seemed to flow out from the center of his head.  She moved in closer to put a comforting hand on his shoulder.  “Maybe you have been looking at the sun too long,” she surmised as he tucked his head downward.  The pain seemed to push its way toward the back of his skull.  He had never had such a consuming headache before. 

He did not recall getting up or being carried to the front porch of the house, but he was there.  He was sprawled out in a large wicker rocking chair that creaked loudly as his weight shifted around.  She was there but any trace of a smile was replaced by a look of deep concern.  “I reckon that your time in the mortal coil ran its course.”  He instantly knew that she was pronouncing him dead.   Where was he?  More importantly, how long could he remain here? 

Despite the pounding headache, the house he was in provided him with a measure of comfort he had not seen in quite some time.  The scenes of bloody battlefields, corpse piles, and sickening trenches all seemed so far away.  It was like the horror of the world he knew, was a fiction novel, so far removed from the world that he lived in.   He meant to reach for his lemonade but slumped back into the old wicker chair for a bit more slumber. 

 

So this is death...