|
Copyright reserved. No part(s) of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author. Hero of the Day by Matt Gentry
As the war raged on around him, Jack closed his eyes tightly and prayed for it to end. His gun suddenly felt like lead in the lifeless stubs that once passed for fingers. He tried to leave this barren world, tried to let the battle go on without him, but found that lacking. He had been told stories of war by his grandfather but never believed that he would find himself fighting for something that had never even mattered to him. Something that he didn't want to believe in, but, even now, as he heard the bullets zip around and the bombs explode, had started to realize that he didn't have to believe in it, only had to fight for it and protect the mere idea of it. His eyes flew open as his squad raced by him, guns smoking. A hazy fog had begun to pollute the air and he blindly followed his friends, family, and still others, who were merely in this war to get away from the abuse of home. When he had first heard of the war he thought it was like a disease, infecting the very air around him, killing off any and all that he cared about. Now, racing through the dense undercarriage of the haze, not knowing if he would live, he saw that the war wasn't a bringer of death, but rather a carrier of life. Never before had all the people around him been brought together like this. Enemies had banded together, as one, to fight off a common evil: something that threatened to destroy not only themselves, but also the lives of all around him. Jack cleared the haze in his mind and in reality. He raised his gun to fight but the enemy was all around him. Like parasites, they stripped him of his gun and at the same time his dignity. He looked around and saw his compatriots, his newly-found family, also being disarmed. Without even realizing it, his arms swung, cracking the jaw of the jailer nearest him. Blood and teeth flew as the sound of crunching bones was amplified in the dead air that surrounded the field. He turned and brought his fist down on the nose of another, flattening it. With his brain on overdrive, his body surging with adrenaline, a bright light appeared and he ran to it, leaving the horrors of this place behind. Jack ran until he couldn't feel the pain of the war, couldn't feel the eyes of his platoon behind him. He stopped: a faint beating sound made him glance around nervously but he soon realized that it was just the sound of his own heart. He leaned against a tall tree and slid down the rough outer bark. He had abandoned his own team, violating an unwritten code among the group. Tears flowed from his face, spilling down over him in an endless wave of pain. The creatures among the trees were quiet and in that instant, an instant of immense joy and total suffering, Jack knew what he had to do. He got to his feet, thoughts and plans of action raced through his mind like a runaway train. He began to use the only weapon he had left: the only real weapon he had ever had, his mind. As Jack slowly made his way through the thick brush of the bushes and trees, his mind was already wandering. He thought of his father, a drunk who had never been much of anything to anyone. He had left Jack's family shortly after the end of the first war, a coward of a man who didn't want to protect his family, only his drink. A flash of light and Jack's thoughts turned to his mother, a simple lady who had only wanted the best for her son. She had rejected the idea of Jack entering into the war, and he remembered the look of betrayal in her eyes, when he told her that he was leaving. Another flash, this one intensely real, and his mind began to imagine his grandfather. He was one of the last remaining real men, the kind that would die for their family, at the drop of a hat. It was he who had taught Jack to fight and was more a father than his real one had ever been. Jack's mind snapped back into reality as he crossed the last few hundred yards to the prison camp. No one had ever survived the camps and he had no idea what he was up against, but he was determined to get his men back, even if that meant certain and instant death. He quickly looked over the shoddily-made enclosure and saw only a few guards: they looked unkempt and ragged, their clothing offering no protection and Jack could count the ribs on each man. He had nothing left to use, only the pride that still remained: the one thing that no one could take from him. His feet barely touching the ground, Jack made his way to the first guard in no time. He snapped the man's neck in one swift motion and said a silent prayer for the deceased. Even in death, he was determined not to compromise his beliefs. The guard had only a small gun and Jack picked it up, the metal was strangely cold and alien to Jack's touch. He hefted it, feeling as though it weighed tons, its weight pressing into his hand. He expertly pulled the pin back, allowing the gun to be fired at any moment. He tore through the grounds, taking out guard after guard, all the while thinking that it was all too easy but he pushed that though the deepest reach of his mind, worrying only about his men trapped in that tiny hole of their deepest fears. Jack finally reached his destination, a dirty scrap of fabric crafted into a crude tent of sorts. He pulled back on the makeshift door, swiftly stepped inside and instantly pulled back, recoiling at the sight and the harsh smell of rotting flesh. All seven men were dead, their limbs severed and strewn about. Bile rose to Jack's throat and he fought to keep it down. Turning to leave, his foot caught and he fell among the bodies, covering himself in the stench and blood. He pulled himself up and brushed his hand on a small slice of metal. He reached down and scooped out the tags. The name was barely readable but he somehow managed. Joy leapt to his lips as he cried out. It wasn't any of his guys! He tore out of the huttowards the last remaining unexplored areas of the compound, a new sense of purpose guiding his way. The last door opened to reveal one of the happiest sights Jack had ever seen: his friends were tied and bound with rags, but alive! He grabbed at his belt, pulled away a knife, and cut free the relieved men. The look that passed between them was enough to settle the tension in the air of the confined space. They exited the horror, some hobbling, some being drug, with a new sense of renewal and confidence but all that was drained from them when they saw the enemy, waiting outside like a pack of hungry wolves. He had come too far and wasn't about to be stopped now. Jack took one look back at his crew and, in a singular moment of clarity, realized his plan, his reason to be. He was prepared for it, he had been, all of his life: he had a feeling that he couldn't place but now knew. He was ready to give himself, ready to make the ultimate sacrifice. Jack pulled out a grenade from his war-torn belt and pulled out the pin. His hand was completely still despite the perspiration beading up on his forehead, and slowly dripping down his neck and onto his back, making his shirt cling and his hairs bristle. He stepped forwards, towards the animals, while motioning his men to run. They had tears in their eyes and took small steps back, gradually getting bigger until they turned to a full run. The pack circled in on Jack, tightening with each pace. Even as he let the grenade go and felt the blast ripping through his body, he knew that even in death, he could bring life. THE END
|