War of Mine

I don’t remember how I got here.

The sky is dull from the smoke that stings my lungs. I crawl out from under a toppled tank, steam billowing from the main gun. Dead soldiers lie around me, in different uniforms of nations I can’t quite remember.

What was I doing?

My head feels odd, I must have hit it in the accident. There must have been an accident, the tank is upside down and I’m wearing a tattered uniform. An insignia, Pvt. John Smith is written across my breast. I can feel something heavy in the pocket of my pants. It jingles when I reach for it. A locket, shaped in a heart, and a short tarnished chain. I flip it open. Inside are two indistinguishable faces, blurred and thick with dirt. I have no idea who these people are.

Behind me, I can hear the roar of fighting drawing nearer. Whistles of shells flying through the air. Red and white flashes lighting the horizon. The repeated screams of boys curdling my blood.

There is a map inside my jacket. I don’t remember having one but somehow I knew it was there. I glance over its filthy surface. There is a town just beyond the fighting. I’d like to ask someone what I should do but the only faces around me are pale blue and lifeless, swallowing dirt and oozing blood.

I climb to my feet, sinking in the mud. I feel okay. But, was I not just in an accident? I keep the locket in my clenched fist. Despite the blank faces, it gives me hope.

I walk forward, carefully watching my feet. There is an explosion and a scream. One I’ve heard many times before. In the distance, another tank rolls out into the battleground. It rotates, aiming its gun and shoots. The shots thrust the tank backwards. Dirt spraying across its metal skirting as the shell ripples through the air, landing somewhere far out of sight.

I hear that scream again. The same exact one.

I break into a sprint, leaping over trenches lined with bloodied sandbags and toppled bodies. Some with men cowering inside. Each man wearing the same face, the same uniform. I know this is odd, I feel like I should know why.

The tank is moving again. It passes by without rotating, uncaring that I cross its path. A barrage of bullets ping off its plating, I can feel each one whizzing past me.

I take another step and hear a distinct click. I hold my breath and freeze in place. Clenching the locket to my breast, I raise my boot.

Pure whiteness eclipses my vision. I am hot for a second then I don’t feel anything except heavenly weightlessness. It takes me a moment to realise I’m clamping my eyes shut tightly. When I peel them open, I am standing in a familiar room. A single bed covered in filthy sheets, a shattered vase with blue flowers tossed across the wooden floorboards, an old ornate armoire pressed against the wall.

I realise I am standing upright, a rifle in my hands, replacing the absent locket. I know I was holding it, where did it go? As I step and panic rises in my throat, I feel something jingling in the pocket of my pants. I reach inside, feeling the cold silver of the heart-shaped locket. I flick it open. Inside are the blurred faces. It keeps me calm.

As I wait, I hear a distinct click. My heart sinks. No, not again. This time, as I raise my boot there is nothing beneath me aside from the groaning floorboards. Instead, the click is followed by a man appearing by my side. He too is standing, his arms stretched out to his sides.

His features are indistinguishable, blurred as if made of melted plaster. I look on horrified as the soldier seems to pop into life. Suddenly, his arms drop, he’s carrying a rifle exactly like mine. His face looks similar to the one’s I saw on the battlefield. An insignia across his breast says Pvt. John Smith.

I glance down at my own. The lettering repeats. Pvt. John Smith.

I glance at the soldier. He doesn’t seem to notice me. He takes a single step forward, pausing, then jumps backwards and moves on the spot.

‘Are you alright?’ I ask.

The soldier doesn’t reply. He stops moving. Suddenly he appears across the room not moving, then marches casually out the door and down the hall.

I follow him.

Another click. When I turn around I see another soldier materialising in the spot where I stood. His arms held out to the sides but standing slightly off the floor. He seems to fall, reappearing high and falling again. A rifle appears in his hands and his features pop in. He has the same face as the last soldier. The insignia, Pvt. John Smith, written across his breast.

I shake my head, I can’t make sense of this. I walk down the hall, feeling some resistance against me as if held back by a mighty wind. I push hard. Suddenly, the end of the hallway appears in front of my face. I freeze. The soldier behind me has caught up. He is marching normally except he seems blurry, faded. I cannot see his face. A pinkish blob of modelling clay. He doesn’t glance at me as he passes, making his way outside.

I follow him.

Outside the sky is still full of smoke. Most buildings have been destroyed, roofs collapsed, wood splayed across the dirt roads.

Down the road there is a large squad of identical soldiers, standing around in no particular fashion. Some are dancing, some are squatting and standing fast. I can hear voices, they sound like children yelling. Muffled and unclear.

I watch as a few soldiers disappear, popping out of existence.

‘Dude,’ I hear a soldier say, ‘where the hell is my tank?’

A single soldier breaks away from the group. He’s running in a tight circle. Some men begin cursing as they try to walk. They disappear then reappear a few meters away. Screams of frustration threaten to blow my eardrums.

Out of the corner of my eye, a stack of unused sandbags vanishes and is replaced by massive red letters ‘error'.

I hear the soldiers groaning.

Above my head is a sign written in the sky.

‘SERVER IS CLOSING FOR MAINTENANCE’

I grip my locket tightly.