by Joseph Maxwell
Corporal McLaughlin walks into a makeshift infirmary, which in actuality is just a tent with some cots and bandages. “You asked for me, Staff Sergeant?” he says, addressing a man with bloodied gauze wrapped around his rib-cage. Staff Sergeant Briggs is in command of 4th Platoon. He sustained a heavy shrapnel blast in a firefight that took place just hours ago.
“Yes. I need you and Lance Corporal Lain to go to the central command post six miles North of here, and alert Colonel Gowers that we have taken over this stronghold but our radio is down and we’ve sustained nine casualties. We need an emergency evac and some reinforcements ASAP.”
“Aye aye, Staff Sergeant.”
“Lay low and try to beat the storm. We can’t afford to lose any time. If it gets too heavy, though, seek shelter. If you two don’t make it, it’s unlikely any of us will.”
McLaughlin informs Lain, and they begin their trek to central command. The men get nearly three miles out when the wind begins to pick up and the rain starts to feel like razors slicing across their faces.
“Dude this shit fucking hurts,” Lain says, holding his arm up to shield his face.
“I know. I can barely tell where we’re going. I’ve run off the path like three times.”
“Same here. There’s a thicket up ahead. Me and Debble stopped there when we were surveying the area a few days back. Let’s break for a second.”
“We don’t have time to fuck off. We’ve still got at least three miles,” McClaughlin says, struggling to breathe.
“So catch your breath real fast and we’ll make better time. Strong bursts like this usually don’t last for more than fifteen minutes. Maybe we can wait it out.”
“That’s true. But we need to keep moving so we’re a harder target for any Charlie out on patrol.”
“You honestly think anyone is patrolling this late in the middle of a storm? Everyone’s bunkered down for the night. Besides, unless those chink eyes come equipped with night vision we’ve got nothing to worry about. I can’t make out a damn thing more than three feet in front of me.”
“Alright. We’ll take a breather. But ten minutes, then we don’t stop until we reach the command post. Lead the way.”
The two men take shelter from the storm under a thicket of trees. Lance Corporal Lain pulls out a pack of cigarettes.
“You want one?”
“Nah. I can barely breathe as it is. Besides, those things’ll kill you.” Lain struggles to strike a match.
“Waterproof my ass. I might as well be out here rubbing sticks together. Let me get your box. Maybe they’ll work better.” McLaughlin hands Lain a damp box of matches.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Lain strikes one up and lights his cigarette, “but there’s plenty of things out here more dangerous than cigarettes. If I don’t make it back from ‘Nam, I don’t think it’ll be because of my smoking habit. Besides, we all gotta go some way. Might as well go out doing something you like.”
“Yeah… that’s the age old smoker’s dilemma, huh? Everyone dies eventually, so what’s it matter how.”
“More like the quitter’s dilemma.” Lain laughs at his own joke. He removes his blouse and leans back against a tree as he takes a drag. McLaughlin removes his blouse as well and rings it out. They both enjoy a brief moment of reprieve. After ten minutes or so the wind begins to die down and the rain lets up a bit.
“Put on your blouse and let’s get going,” McLaughlin instructs.
“Let me smoke one more real quick. It’ll open up my lungs.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. We need to get a move on while the storm is down. It could start back up any second.”
Lain lights up another smoke. “Just a few quick draws.”
“We don’t have time. Put it out.”
“Alright, last hit.” Lain takes an extra long drag and the cherry lights up bright red. A loud thunder strike rings out from the distance.
“That’s funny. I heard thunder, but I didn’t see any lightning. Did you?”
Lain doesn’t respond. McLaughlin turns around and sees Lain leaned up against the tree, but his cigarette, still burning, has dropped to the ground.
“Lain!” McLaughlin hits Lain on the shoulder and he topples over, lying motionlessly where he landed. “Lain! Stop playing!”
McLaughlin fumbles around on the ground, feeling for the box of matches he lent Lain. He strikes one up, and falls backwards in shock, dropping the lit match on Lain’s stomach. Blood is running down Lain’s chin and the contents of his left eye socket are missing. Another thunderstrike rings out and Lain’s body jerks slightly. Blood begins to run down his chest, a few inches above where the match was burning.
Joseph Maxwell was born and raised in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. He served four years in the United States Marine Corps, where he was stationed in Okinawa, Japan and then San Diego, California. After completing his service, he stayed in San Diego to pursue a physics degree. It was during his junior year in college that he discovered a passion for writing. Shortly after, Joseph moved to New York City to attend NYU’s School of Professional Studies, majoring in creative writing and literature. He is currently in his senior year, and will be graduating in May of 2020.