155 - The Two that Became One

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An explosion rang over the battlefield. Shrapnel flew everywhere, impaling soldiers left and right. Flames burst from the soil alongside a shower of dirt, only to fall back down like rain.

A young man was crouched in a trench as he held his rifle tight, tucking his head inwards to protect it despite the metal helmet resting on his head. The edge of said helmet was already chipped with a large crack spanning almost its entire length. It was a miracle his head was still in one piece.

“On your feet, son! Get your ass over here!”

The boy felt a tug on his uniform, prompting him to his feet, albeit unsteadily, while a low growl resounded in his skull, displacing the ringing of the explosions. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, yet the image of his comrade's body being blown apart was seared into his mind, as was the blood and dirt staining his uniform.

“Snap out of it! Do you have a death wish?!”

Maybe he did. This was already hell on earth, and he was one of the damned. He and his late comrade were once so full of hopes and dreams. When the draft came, they chose to volunteer. They thought they could become heroes fighting for their country against this evil invader.

Yet, one was already just a stain on the dirt wall of this trench, blown apart by artillery, while he was just a coward too afraid to do his part. What was it all for? Was he here just to die from a stray bullet?

The boy felt a punch to his jaw. He fell backward of his ass. The world blurred for a moment as he raised his gaze, only for it to land on a man just a few years older than he was. Still, the look in the man's eyes was worlds apart from his own. He couldn't help but wonder how that man could remain so calm in this symphony of artillery and death.

“Finally came to your senses, eh, sonny?"

The man sneered as the boy rubbed his chin, feeling the pain radiate up to his temple. Still, the pain did help clear his mind. The sight of blood and gore felt just like a distant memory, while the fear of this man before him couldn't be more real. It wasn't the fear of the strike he had just received but the dread of being shown what he could never be.

"Thank you, sergeant!" the boy yelled over the artillery and gunfire, using the trench wall to steady himself. Fortunately, fear prompted adrenaline to pump through his bloodstream, allowing his dizziness to fade almost instantly.

“Where's Mason?" The sergeant asked, looking around, only for the boy to shake his head, looking rather grim.

The sergeant's expression barely changed. He merely nodded before rallying the rest of his squad. There used to be twelve of them—twelve men who had sworn to fight together, side-by-side. But now, only five remained—the five most experienced ones, the five more grizzled of them all, except for the boy. He couldn't help but wonder why he, of all people, had managed to survive this long. Surely, there should have been better ones. The battlefield was truly unfair.

“Group up!” The sergeant screamed, only for the remaining four men to crouch alongside them.

They all possessed worn and grim expressions, yet these weren't expressions of despair but of resolve. These men were already the living dead, ready to jump into the flame if given the order. Only the young boy still felt like a human. He still felt like he didn't belong here or anywhere, almost as if he existed in limbo.

"Good," the sergeant finally said, a mad smile on his lips. The men soon emulated his smile, becoming as insane as he was. Even the young boy imitated them, if only unconsciously.

“Rejoice, men, for Command just gave us our orders! Those bastards, safe in their fortified bunkers, finally came through for us. They were finally able to crack these sons of bitches' codes. Victory is upon us!"

The men cheered, yet something frightening was in their eyes. The young man couldn't see a slight trace of elation. In fact, all he saw was death, and the sergeant seemed to be the worst of them all.

"Our enemies seemed to have thoroughly planned this offensive, but they'll get the shock of their lives when we sweep it out right from under them. I haven't been told the details for fear of it being intercepted, but our tanks are en route to flank these bastards. Unfortunately, they are running late. For the success of this operation, we grunts have been tasked with delaying their assault with all our might. If these bastards break through the defence line, it will all be for naught. Any questions?!"

"Sir!" one man yelled over the cacophony. "They outnumber us ten to one. Isn't trying to delay them suicide?"

"Your point, corporal?" the sergeant replied, his expression not changing slightly. Yet, the young man standing at the sergeant's side couldn't help but notice his superior officer currently had his hand on his sidearm, and his holster was opened, allowing him to easily draw his pistol. He felt a chill down his back and became unable to even speak, for he knew what the result of all this might be. Fortunately, the corporal was even more unhinged than the young man could ever believe.

“I just want to say it is my honour to lay down my life for the motherland!" he said, eyes filled with the madness of death.

The other three men showed the same look, and the sergeant with a hearty laughter, which couldn't help but make the young man shudder. This was a land of madness, where only those who lost their minds could find meaning. The young man seemed to be the only one with a slight remaining semblance of sanity, yet it was being swiftly eroded by this cacophony of madness and anguish.

He could only go with the flow, trying not to make any waves, for being alone in this hell was much worse than the alternative. It was only death, after all. Surely, he could come to terms with it...

“Heads up, boys! They’re coming!”

The sergeant roared, prompting the others to do the same, yet they were drowned out by the collective voices of their enemies charging over what was known as No Man’s Land. They were quickly approaching, guns raised as they raced across this land of death, discharging their firearms in a futile effort to offer cover fire for the others.

The boy and his squad, along with many others, peeked over the trenches, guns raised as they returned fire. The sky was filled with bullets, some even landing a few feet before the boy, straight in the dirt. Despite the soil rushing into his eyes, the boy still discharged his weapon, for madness was now consuming him. Watching the hordes swiftly closing, he could do nothing else.

The young man went through magazines, discharging over fifteen rounds per minute. He fumbled a few magazines, letting one fall into the mud, yet his rifle was so rugged that it even accepted it, working flawlessly despite it all.

As for his aim, the man seldom hit his mark despite the enemies being at a close range. In fact, the speed of their charge only heightened his panic. Still, it didn't matter in the least, for the bullets created a blanket of death that ripped through anything that stood in their way.

Bodies began to pile up before the trenches, yet the charge seemed unending. With each strike of the hammer and the sound of gunpowder, the boy slowly felt his sanity crumbling. Soon, only the scent of death and decay remained, along with the numbness that accompanied the terror he saw on the men, whether enemies or allies, as they dropped like flies.

The boy's squad was by no means spared from the carnage. The trenches were extraordinary defensive measures, but their effectiveness faltered the closer their foes advanced. There was also the constant bombardment of artillery on their position, stopping them from returning fire for long stretches of time.

Feeling emboldened seeing their foes being massacred, one of his squad mates raised his head too high, only to be hit by a stray bullet. Not even his metal helmet could stop this devastating power as the bullet ripped right through, splattering his grey matter on the other side of the trench.

Seeing the death of his comrades, the boy felt a wave of nausea assault him as some of the dead man's body fluid was smeared on his uniform amid soot and mud. He began to shake, clutching at his rifle, unable to rise, only waiting for his inevitable death.

But then, the sounds of countless engines roared over the battlefield alongside a symphony most sweet, the one of explosions. The boy raised his head once again, elated to see these monsters of steel rampaging over the battlefield. He even felt relief assaulting him for the first time since the death of his friend. Although the assault had been swift, lasting only a few minutes, it had been the bloodiest skirmish on this front.

The boy closed his eyes, thanking whatever god was responsible for this sweet mercy. However, that was a mistake, for the madmen charging had yet to retreat.

“HQ! Report!” the sergeant barked. “What’s happening? The tanks have arrived, yet the enemy forces aren’t retreating!”

While the rest of his squad still fired their weapons, the young man only watched in despair as their angels of salvation were cut down by aerial bombardment. Large planes glided along the wind before releasing large bombs straight onto the tanks.

"Those bastards! It was a trap!" the sergeant screamed as he watched the bombs reach their targets, destroying every tank sent to flank their enemies.

He fired his weapon like a madman, as did the young boy, for there was nothing else he could do. The enemies were already at their doorstep; it was too late to retreat. He could only cut down as many as he could, knowing death would be his release from this madness.

The charge finally reached the trenches after massive casualties. It was not for lack of trying that they couldn’t stop them, but merely for a lack of ammunition. They had spent all the bullets they had, resulting in a mound of lifeless corpses pilling before the trenches, but somehow, the enemies amounted to even more.

In a desperate attempt to live, the young boy affixed a bayonet, though he knew how pointless it was. Still, he would struggle to the end alongside his comrades, at least those that remained.

He cut down the first to jump into the trenches. One single strike to the heart. He felt the hot blood spray on his face and flow down his arms, yet his eyes remained open, seeing life fade from the man he had impaled. Still, he didn't dwell on it, for another was coming.

He kicked the corpse aside, yet in a last-ditch attempt, he saw the dead man cling to his blade despite being already dead. This didn't stop the blade's release; it slowed it down, yet it was enough—enough so that he was late to react.

A man stood before him, pistol at the ready, aimed at his chest. The man pulled the trigger, and the boy felt the bullet rip through his body. He knew in his mind the wound would be fatal, yet death didn't come immediately. He felt an intense pain, but his body was already full of chemicals, numbing it all for the most part.

The boy swung his rifle in front of him as if in a desperate attempt for it not to be all in vain. Not expecting this resistance, the man couldn't dodge in time. The tip of his bayonet ripped through the man's throat, spilling an enormous amount of blood.

Despite using both hands to staunch the bleeding, the man fell to the ground, dead, disbelief evident on his fate. It seemed the man couldn't come to terms with his impending death, unlike the young boy who had time to make peace with himself.

The boy fell backwards, his body growing cold as he leaned against the dirt wall of this trench, eyes glued to the man who had cost him his life. Still, he didn’t know if this was his brain playing tricks on him, the delusions of a dying man, but the boy saw a most peculiar sight, a black metal box hovering slightly above the ground, over the body of the last man he had killed.

Somehow, it wasn't there before, as if he could only see it on his deathbed. Even the sergeant pressing on his chest as he tried to stop the wound from bleeding didn't seem to notice this strange sight.

But the strangest of it all was that this black box wasn’t the only one. There was another spinning slightly above his head, following the rhythm of his failing heartbeat. However, it didn’t matter anymore, for his death had come. The boy closed his eyes for the last time, never to open them again.

Suddenly, the world stopped, and all colours faded. Silence spread as no living being moved, as if the concept of time had vanished. Only the two identical black boxes remained, slowly spinning, but they too soon stopped entirely, both hovering midair.

Then, they became attracted to each other as if possessing their own gravity. They collided, yet there were no explosions. They only fazed into each other, combining until two became one. It then resumed its spin, and colour returned to the world. The sound of the battlefield resumed just as the black box disappeared into the ether, never to be seen again in this world.

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