Author's Notes:
Another entry for the 750 Word Project 2024, this one more specifically for EmilyMiller's Mystery Woman sub-challenge. I decided to do something different, more somber. While the events of the below story happen in the "Priscilla-verse" as it were, there is obviously lots of parallels to reality. Because its in my own little universe, I can at least explore a more intimate story around the subject without it being tied to any politics.
Would love to hear your thoughts on the story. Ultimately this one is just because I had a wild-hair. Enjoy.
Scrap of Hope
The sores on the young soldier's feet bled through the separated welting of his boots. Declan's fingers clenched the vamp to stifle the pain, yet, looking at his comrades next to him in the back of a jalopy green truck, he felt fortunate to have boots at all.
After five months in this hellscape, misery knew no bounds. A worn pair of boots was hardly a worry when death could be tasted at every dawn. Declan himself consigned his fate to a small shred of hope and the lies of Zorn's political officers.
As he clenched his instep, his helmet fell at the feet of his comrade, who picked it up and snickered.
"Ha... what's this, been holding out on us Declan?" He cackled, looking inside the sweat-stained helmet as he showed it to the others mockingly.
"Could get a right polish off that." Another said as he grabbed the helmet with the torn woodland scrim. He made a lewd gesture as they laughed.
Declan was indignant, within the helmet was his hope, and his fellow soldier made light of it. The utter soullessness of this war, their mission, and the only thing he could hold on to they now mocked. But Declan was young and small, unlike the older boys he shared a troop with. He often was the victim of their chiding. Not five months ago he was on the streets of Bellard where they found him, sold him on the idea of glory and national pride, and had him sign on the dotted line. With a blink, he was bleeding on the front lines.
"Give it back." He muttered, clenching the faux wood stock of his weapon.
"Gotta right splinter up yer ass eh?"
"Give it back."
"Quit playing." A worn voice chimed in, directed at the undiscerning soldiers. "Shouldn't take a man's helmet in a place like this."
Their sergeant, a ragged veteran rebuked the others as they juggled Declan's helmet. He had a thousand-yard stare, expressionless.
"Give it." He ordered.
It was reluctantly passed across the bed of the truck as they bounced down the rough road.
The sergeant took a look inside, Declan could have sworn he saw the sergeant's eyes flicker with the same hope. But the emotion faded as he handed Declan back his helmet.
"It's not right to mock a man's hope."
Declan took his helmet and looked inside, taking a deep breath as he tried to dream, however futile.
Amid his daydream, the truck veered to the right.
"Hey hey hey!" One of the soldiers cried, pointing to a black spec above them that began to emanate a hellish buzz.
"Fuck! A buzzard, go go go!" They slammed their hands on the back window of the cab, the group of soldiers firing their rifles at the drone. No doubt, it was a weapon of their enemy, laden with explosives. I was a distant and honorless weapon sent from afar.
Declan fired his rifle into the sky. But he was too late, and the drone was too fast. It hit the truck, sending the soldiers of General Zorn hurdling to the ground.
All was stiff ringing and haze as Declan gathered himself.
There were screams, soldiers trying to drag lifeless comrades while others scattered like frightened animals.
Declan fled, from the road, from the chaos. More buzzing above. Milo, a soldier he had known since Bellard, was struck. The explosion transmuted him into a red mist. Men cried like babies, Declan no different as he found a ditch.
The hellish buzzing swarmed around him. He knelt in the fetal position, his worn body releasing its final hope as he quaked. Taking off his helmet he looked one last time upon the picture of the woman he carried with him, his hope.
It was no girl he knew. Simply a beauty cut from a magazine. She had dark brown hair and a curious yet welcoming expression. She wore a sheer white dress that gave a hint of her whole self beneath. He didn't know what her name was. She seemed far happier than he, walking in the green grass near to the water. But in his last moments, he imagined himself with her, with her warmth.
He was comforted by those thoughts of the mystery woman as the final buzzing met him. The swift concussive blast tore his life apart. His helmet flew from the ditch. Charred remains of her photo left for another soldier to dream of in that hopeless war.
