Still Untitled

With a loud crack, the bullet leapt from the musket – lethal hatred written on a beautiful sphere of lead. He watched and listened as the man in front of him shuddered from the bone-shattering impact. His eyes stung from the acrid smoke as it blew back into his face. He blinked. There was no sadness for the life he took, no hatred, no remorse. One thought reverberated through his mind: Reload. Giving heed to the thought, he began the machine-like motions that would bring his weapon to full readiness once more. Clean the barrel; pour in the powder; let the ball roll to the end; ram it home; stand and shoulder the musket. 

As he cocked the hammer, he was vaguely aware that men were grunting, screaming, crying, falling to the wall of lead that had beset them. But he was only vaguely aware of this. The command came: prepare…fire. The screaming was drowned out as the regiment discharged their muskets down the line. Fire and smoke obscured his vision, the familiar sight and smell returned. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. There was no fear in his eyes when they opened. They were empty, devoid of all emotion. He was not human anymore; his training and drill had taken over. He was a machine waiting for the next command. He did not have to wait for long. The bugle sounded; it was the signal to charge. He closed his eyes and breathed deep once more. His brilliant blue eyes opened. Now he filled them with what needed to be there. He filled them with death. Either his own or his enemy's, there would be death. He had committed his soul to its keeper. Death was approaching. The slow march turned into a jog, the jog a run. He lowered his musket to his hip, the bayonet gleaming in the midday sun. That bright and beautiful blade would soon be stained red. Death was on the threshold. The regiment surged, closing the distance between them and their target. It was an all-consuming wave of red. Each and every man, muskets held at waist-level, bayonets fixed, ran. 

He glanced right; he glanced left. These were men that he knew; men that he had grown up with; men that knew him. There, two men to his left, he spotted his brother. His best friend from childhood was six to the right. The son of the owner of the general store was a further three down. The time had come. Death was crossing the threshold. He opened his mouth wide and added his voice to the hundreds of others. He bellowed and ran even faster. The man just to his right staggered, his hands gripping his stomach, the dropped musket clattered down as the earth received another soul. He centered his vision on the large, blue-clad man standing in his path. His adversary. He let his momentum carry him straight and true. 

He had become the projectile. His blade had its first taste of blood as it made contact with the man in blue’s midsection. The enemy gasped. Death had claimed its next victim. He wrenched his weapon free and pressed forward. There was no time to think now. It was slash, twist, and run. Slash, twist, run. Death was grasping. He was swept into a primal rage as another threat turned towards him. His anger consumed him as a piercing roar erupted from his throat. He began narrowing the gap. His foe snapped his musket to his shoulder. It was time. Fire spewed from the muzzle. He closed his eyes. He dropped to his knees. All emotion fled. All pain vanished. The warm blood soaked into his blood-red uniform. Death had found him.