The Silent Despair of Lives Wasted

Cordite was in the air, that and the ozone smell of pulse cannons discharging.

Jamal was being dragged by someone, he knew that much. It was Lt. Chatham, the one from Pasadena. He was holding Jamal by his harness and puling him over the ledge into the trench.

Jamal saw a dozen other troopers huddled there, scared looks on their faces. Looks that said it was over.

The lieutenant, so young it didn't seem right to even have him here in the first place, was talking to the others. His movements were very animated, the weapon slung over his shoulder moving in tandem.

Jamal was lying inside the trench. Now drifting smoke reached him, and he could feel the cold, frozen ground underneath him. His own weapon was still warm from being fired repeatedly until an explosion pushed him to the earth, silencing him for the time being until the officer came to get him out of the way.

He felt someone rushing from the other end of the trench, raised himself on his elbows and saw the medic, Alvin Young, hustling towards him. Good that someone still cared, Jamal reckoned, although the sentiment wasn't as strong as when he thought of home, his mother, sister and child.

Nothing will ever match that.

Young was bent down, saying something, superimposed over the roiling steel-colored sky.

Jamal made to indicate he couldn't hear anything, pointing with one hand to his left ear. Young nodded and reached into a small pouch, producing a needle. He pointed to it and Jamal agreed. One thing he did feel was pain.

After the injection things went a little bit haywire. Chatham was joined by another, higher ranking officer and it appeared they were rallying the troops.

Jamal was now lying next to another guy, this one with his face bandaged and not really moving. He guessed some time has passed since Young gave him that shot.

The smells of cordite and pulse weaponry were now fainter, replaced by another he got to know quite well over the last couple of weeks since the invasion began.

It was the woodsy scent their machines gave off. The backroom boys figured something in the lubricated joints that were so prominent in their designs resulted in that smell. No matter the reason, wherever you smelled it there was a very good chance you'd never smell much of anything else.

Since the first fire fight Jamal knew this action was symbolic, as most people, including the ones he loved, where either already gone or taken. Nothing worked against the invaders, except nukes but those only slowed them down. Their ships simply never stopped arriving in orbit, pouring out more of those fuckers.

He was angry, angry that life had to put him and those he loved at a time when something like this happened.

He raised himself again, seeing the others getting ready. They were packing up. The officers probably decided that without artillery and air support fighting would be even stupider than usually.

Jamal managed to get up, sort of. He peered over the trench and through the blue haze saw their hulking machines, the big ones, with countless smaller things boiling around them. Those were nicknamed mites pretty quick, but didn't lend themselves to squashing so good.

He felt someone touch him and turned to see Young talking to him. His lips were moving slowly, but Jamal couldn't hear a thing. Something bright and hot smashed into the network not half a click away, and he couldn't hear that, either.

Young was tugging at him as Jamal saw everybody else heave-ho over the trench and proceed away from the battle, away from the invaders and away from certain death.

The bandaged guy wansn't moving and no one was tending to him, so Jamal figured he was gone.

The two officers were still talking, arguing maybe. Jamal came up to ledge and was about to push when he realized he didn't recall seeing the radio guy, DK, anywhere. If the radio was out, then they'd have no way to reach anyone else with the satelllites and cells all down.

As he was about to go over, the air about him moved slightly. He knew the pores were coming, the canister having popped above them, he got out of the glorified ditch and ran as fast as he could, trying to catch up to the others.

He looked back to see Young on the cold ground, a pore wriggling its way into his back.

Jamal turned to run, a few pores hitting around him, but they were too slow on the ground. He hobbled, several other guys dying nearby, but the officers were still good.

***

At night, they were in a town. There were no people, no power. They got rid of most of their gear and weapons, and were mostly in civvies. It was agreed that other part of their lives was no longer relevant. That's what the officers were arguing over before.

Jamal still couldn't hear anything, though he wanted to. The fire they had going probably crackled nice, and that guy, the one he thought was from Show Low but wasn't, he was playing the guitar. They probably found one somewhere here. Jamal enjoyed music.

He fished a book out of a backpack he found before, a book that went into his kit when they went out to stand against the invaders. This book has been with him for a while. Footfall.

He wished it were that easy.

Find more by Lee Alon in the Author Index.

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