We Are Called Legion, for We Are Many

"Twenty two, twenty three..."
"...Twenty four!", and with a shout and a mighty heave his hand went up, throwing the grenade at the enemy. All around him were blood, the smell of blood, mosquitoes buzzing around, the hot humid air standing still amid the flora, catching their scent mingled with the scent of mangled flesh and spilled guts. The fetid air, it climbed and clawed its way into his nose, making him swallow it in as he proceeded.

"...Twenty five...", he said as he noticed his bare hand, this would have been easier if he had his watch with him to mark the time, he thought, and wondered where it was.
He screamed. He screamed! He pushed his hand into the flames, through the flames, trying to reach his friend who lay, bleeding, on the other side. Was he brave to push his hand through the fire to reach his friend, or was he just foolish? Hurting himself in the process, and his friend once more as he drew him through. He shall live to see the morning, he'll have to, he told himself as he lifted his friend on his shoulders and made his way back to base, his watch cooling into patches of melted plastic, the odor seared through his nose, and he was thankful, for it covered the scent of his meat; the scent of war.

"...Twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight..." he continued counting out loud.
He stood in a hall, he was alive, barely, his flesh wasn't his own by now, his flesh was eaten by the swamps, consumed by the war. He took his flesh off himself, the scent, the scent ate his flesh, he couldn't live with the scent, so he took it off. He remembered the uniformed officials. He told them of the people who died, the Twenty Sixth Regiment, the Twenty Seventh Battalion, all lost, to fire, to death, lost to the urges that burn inside, lost as they ran into the swamps, killing themselves, as the swamp gobbled up those who entered. And yet, willingly, they kept going in. He told them of it all, and they cried, and so did he, he cried the tears of the swamps, coughed ashes, and breathed in the scent. He must burn the taint that is his flesh.

"...Twenty nine and Thirty!", he quickly looked around him, remembering that those who stand right behind him or to his sides might take him out before he has a chance. He had to be quick.
He put down the bag, and turned around as he heard the whistling of air. He saw a face, dark eyes, a protruding nose, and then he saw the baseball bat. He fell, moaning, as all around him the figures hurt him, but he welcomed the pain, and when they finally stopped, he cursed. He wanted this to end. His hands, his face, as they bled the blood pooled in puddles. One of these was near his face, and he could see his friends in it; could smell the swamp, could taste the ashes of the bombs, but his tongue was thick and his nose was clogged with dirt and his eyes were clotted with blood.

He walked around the corner, on his tiptoes, looking for hints of red curls that would give away his friend's position. He needs to surprise him, he needs to win, and as he spied the red hair and moved towards it, he grinned. When he was close enough, he jumped, shouting:" Pick - Ah..."
"...-Boom", and he fell. Now he won't see the swamp, won't hear the vines whispering to him that he too will join them once he gets dropped, won't suffer visions of fire no more. Now he wouldn't have to bear his disease-ridden skin that was also the means of his cure. He would see them no more. No more. The gun dropped from his hand.

Check out my latest posts:

• The Two Month Anniversary Post, Story-Time, and Post-Index
• Scar Tissue - A poem.
• Silence - The second piece of my Man with No Name fiction.

Art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics

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© Guy Shalev 2002.