Untitled Short Story by Ebonlight

The man stood as tall as he could, though he felt fear coarsing through him; weakening him. He wore a ragged uniform that had once been white but had since faded to a dirt stained grey. His long hair was tangled with twigs and his once muscular frame had slowly deterioated from weeks of near starvation. He had abandoned the Army to the wilds, had thought he had evaded them, but now his old patrol stood before him.

His back against a tree he watched a group of them form a straight line, then another behind the row. The grim faced captain wiped his greying hair from his face and jerked his gloved hand into a right angle. The men in the firing line slowly lowered their rifles at him. Twenty-one. There were twenty-one rifles pointed at him, and behind them his once comrades. He had nearly been a brother to all of them, but now their faces were emotionless masks and their weapons were lowered at him. That was the price of desertion.

His breath coming heavy through his lungs, which were already weak from lack of food, he slowly turned to look at his captain. The man was grim faced as always, but a single tear fell from his right eye into his beard. Nodding, the deserter raised his head high. The captain's hand began its everslow descent back down from the right angle; the signal to fire. The deserter blinked, flinching as the arm began its fall.

Suddenly gunfire blazed out from the forests behind the firing line. Men turned, rifles firing blindly into the woods. The deserter scrambled away, charging deep into the woods with strength his frail body should not have possessed. Shots rang out behind him. Whether at him or his unknown saviors he did not know, nor did he care. He had escaped.

He was not sure how long he ran, but it was dark when he finally stopped for more then a few moments. Sweat poured down his body and his chest heaved from the exertion. He collapsed on to a mossy bed of leaves and underbrush. Awakening at early morning he heard sounds around him. The voices of his old patrol assailed him from every direction. They were out hunting him, and nearby. Feeling strength slowly seep into him, a body that should have been near dead, he rose.

The forests rose with him, enclosing him. He was trapped. His breath came heavy, too loud and deep yet he felt as if he could draw none. Perspiration beaded on his forehead. Though the high trees closed around him he still felt vulnerable. A voice called out. He saw one of his fellows pointing at him, rifle half-raised.

Darting like a hare pursued closely by a wolf the man was off. A bullet embedded deeply into a tree beside him, another blew a large dust cloud where it struck beside his foot. Somehow, though, none hit their mark. Then he was at a ledge.

Looking down he could see a raging river. Behind him was certain death. A similar fate stood before him. A gun rang out behind him. His decision was made. The man leapt, his body meeting the water with shattering intensity. Swimming with all his strength a beach became visible.

His strength was giving out. He could see the beach. His father was there, the kindly old man sat with a picnic lunch of which he was partaking. Waving, his father motioned for him to swim over; pulling out a blanket from his old pickup truck for him to warm himself by.

The man's lungs were on fire. Mud and dirty water poured into his mouth as he fell underneath the raging current. Somehow though, he rose. Coughing up dirty water and mucus he managed to continue swimming. Only a score of yards to go. The men of his old patrol had given up. He could feel it. If he could just reach the shore he would be safe. Everything would be perfect, just as it had been before he had been drafted.

He was a stroke away from the beach. Then he was there. Too weak to walk, the man crawled over with the last of his strength. He had made it. He was safe. His father walked forward to greet him. They were only a dozen inches apart. The man closed his eyes, relishing in his victory.

He Opened His Eyes.

The captain's hand had reach one hundred eighty degrees. The soldiers tightened their grip on their weapons. The man's eyes flickered open, joy lit in them. Delight became confusion in an instant. Sudden recognition dawned on his face. Horror crossed his frail features. Then twenty-one bullets cracked out.

BACK TO WRITING SECTION