That New Age Shiz - Short Stories

POW!

TW: Guns, war, death, cyanide

//This is an old story I came up with junior year of High School. It takes place in the universe of my book Fallout Squad I and II. No, I don't hate Russia. Russia's vibing. It's all g. In this universe, a Third World War was triggered when a bomber of unknown origin dropped a strange nuke in Iowa, USA. Finger-pointing ensues until the US eventually goes head to head with Russia. There's more, of course, but times short. It's almost 4 am. God, what  I doing. Enjoy this train wreck.//

The crackle of gunfire rises in intensity, the jarring volume now similar to birdsong in my damaged ears. My dark brown eyes scan the hillside, shooting when needed at silhouetted American figures. The sky is as cloudy as my morals as I fire at my fellow human beings. I should feel something, should cry out- but there is what feels like a film over my emotions. Just grit your teeth and pull the trigger.

There is shouting coming from the far end of the field. We're advancing. We are pushing the Americans back. It's time for the surge forwards, to scare the remaining enemies back over the hill. All at once, there is a shout of command near me and as one, my brothers and sisters in arms lunge out of cover with me. There isn't much of the enemy to scare off, as the vast majority have either been shot or have retreated.

"Russia!" A male voice shouts from behind me, and more voices follow suit.

"Russia! Russia!"

I join the cry, letting my strong voice die away with many others as we disperse to investigate the now-safe hilltop.
—

"World War III is at a tipping point." The blonde news lady exclaims from the diner's TV. "As we speak, shots are being exchanged at Kaliningrad Hill for the control of a city so sacred to Russia..."

—-

Someone is moving. A figure which I had at first assumed to be a corpse is shuddering violently. I can see now that its arms were moving... fumbling for something.

"стоп!" I shout with muscle, fearing a bomb. "Stop!"

I clear the distance to the figure, which I can now see is a petite North American female. She appears to be a bit too young to serve. Her leg is bleeding heavily just above the knee cap and her pale blue eyes sparkle with terror.

My shouting only makes her fumble faster, which leads me to level my gun at her. She flinches, and small white capsules go scattering across the grass.

Cyanide.

She has something of importance. I can't let her die.
I am a tall, well-built twenty-one year-old male. My brown hair is short but not shaved to my scalp like some others. I'm a fairly intimidating man- especially from the perspective of a wounded, unarmed girl on the ground. All I have to do is frighten her into freezing. I stomp my way about a foot in front of her and shove the muzzle of the gun just inches from her chest.

And that's when she surprises me. I think of myself as a very strong individual. I don't get caught off guard and I can beat about seventy-five percent of people who challenge me to an arm wrestle. And this girl seemed like the freeze-response type, from the way she's panicking. But this small, wounded American flashes her arms outward faster than I can even comprehend, grabbing the barrel of my loaded gun and yanking it towards and to the left of her. I'm pulled abruptly down, forced out of balance. I nearly land on top of her and she's on me in seconds, clawing at my neck and chest. I shout in surprise and fear, unable to grab my gun, as I lost contact with it on the way down. Footsteps pound the ground near me and an earsplitting shot rings way too close for comfort. I freeze, waiting for any blazing pain.
But it's the girl who shrieks.

I manage to roll away from her, gasping for air, eyes wide. I can barely choke out the words "Don't shoot her."

It's my captain, Kuznetsov, and he's caught sight of the scattered poison pills. He furrows his brows in disapproval as the girl curls in on herself in agony, clutching her arm near her shoulder. Her skin is impossibly pale- nearly gray- and I can glimpse darker freckles on her pain-contorted face. Her hair is as white as fresh snow and as are her eyelashes. At some point, her long, straight hair had managed to shake itself loose from the tight bun that was required in American military uniform. Her helmet was scattered about ten feet away, God knows how.
I roll to my feet as fast as I can to stand next to my superior, embarrassed. He flings the gun out of the girl's reach with his foot- not that she'd be able to use it anyway. Her writhing and breathing have already become more weak and faint. She's losing blood or going into shock. Probably both.
"God- take one of her arms. The truck is arriving for injured." Kuznetsov breathes, a little surprised at the suddenness of it all.
The girl can't do much more than glare at us as we each take an arm and drag her deadweight towards the awaiting parked truck.
—