Rhiannon Kelly is an English freshman and Mustang Daily fiction contributor.
The only thing he knew for certain was that he was dying.
It seemed so long ago that he’d somehow found himself at the base, running through a battery of tests designed to evaluate his pumping heart, steady his shaking hands, and build his straining muscles. It had rained when he’d said goodbye, and his duffel bag had gotten wet. And then there was yelling. Lots of yelling. Push-ups. Mud.
The plane and the air were big and brown, touching down and resting heavily on soggy ground. Talk was cocky as the choppy helicopter wind tortured rubbery plants, bristly crew-cut heads nodding and spitting. They talked about Texas, two sons, a lucky rabbit’s foot. Their brazen mouths promised more than their untested hearts could prove. They’d already realized that clicking dogtag words cut through the underbrush best.
He didn’t know when it had hit. Or if it had hit. It seemed to have snuck up slowly like mist, creeping particles of water transformed into whizzing bullets that cut through the snarling jungle growth and men like they were paper. White. Black. Red. They weren’t ready for it.
It seemed to take years to advance a mile through tropical fog, the chattering of monkeys and calls of birds raising the newborn hairs on the back of his neck. Crunching leaves and twigs underfoot were as loud as brass bands. Eyes quickly adjusted to green and brown, seeking out traps that were everywhere. Nerves frizzled like broken guitar strings.
The others were gone, or dead. He floated in poisonous foreign foliage and blood, helplessly watching pungent, blooming flowers that stank of meat and hopelessness. He had a bullet in his leg, or in his chest, or in his head — he didn’t know. Everything was bleeding, everything was pain. He was a wound.
He closed his eyes and stars flashed, jumping out of the rumpled American flag and onto his face, freezing and bright on his brow. A girl swam into his memory. A feminine presence. Mother, daughter, sister, girlfriend. All-encompassing warmth, and worry sweetened with big-eyed hope and fear. A soft pink cashmere smile. Vanilla hair curled like … like clouds. He couldn’t see the clouds beyond the canopy. He couldn’t see her face.
With every breath, his brain screamed, jaw jutted forward in Cro-Magnon defiance. He could see no one around, but he was sure millions were watching, a clanging spinning Roman Coliseum of bug-eyed spectators thirsty for blood on the sand.
Was the sky still full of ancient stars? Did the earth still whirl dizzily in the cosmos like a carnival ride? How many licks did it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? Could he find his way home from this alien place where guns replaced TVs and swarthy, lonely men replaced family?
The only thing he knew for certain was that he was dying.