Ain't War Hell?
By: Maximillian von Fischgeist 

Chapter Twenty
Death

    Wildcat stood with her back against a tree, her breath moving fast, her heart moving faster. She had seen the two helicopters approaching. She had hoped, at first, that they were hers. But as they came into range, all hope had fled. She wished now that she could flee, but there was nowhere to go, no way to get wherever she'd like to go (even if she had a particular place in mind). There was no escape. The descending helicopters were marked with the symbol of the U.S.A.F.

    An hour before, she and her twenty troops (her first command!) had been transported (by similar helicopters; only in America could a company be so powerful and fearless as to deal with both the government and any organization determined on overthrowing that government) to this place, an insignificant farming area, and dropped off with a promise that once they'd had time to poison the crops, their transport would return to pick them up. Open and shut. Easy. Quick.

    Once settled on land, she'd barked a few useless orders (everyone knew their jobs) and turned her attention to the crates that contained the poison. When the first one was opened, her mind warned that panic was a possibility.

    Empty. A weight at the bottom to mask its emptiness.

    But she kept her cool and the second crate was opened. It was then that whatever little bit of a soul she thought she had possessed shriveled and cowered somewhere in her abdomen.

    Empty. Same as the other.

    As much as she'd have liked something to race through her brain at that point, nothing did. Like the crates, like her hopes, like her future, her head had gone completely empty.

    "What are your orders, ma'am?" came a voice from somewhere.

    There were no thoughts in her head. How could there be anything, then, to say? She didn't (couldn't) answer.

    "Ma'am?" The same voice. From that same somewhere.

    And then, like the bursting of a dam, thought returned in a drowning surge. Not logical thought. Just pure, horrible thought. I am expendable. I have gained nothing. I am blind. I am deaf. I will not walk away from this god-damned, fucking place. I have worked every moment of my life for this stupid end. I am dead.

    She heard a voice; her own, but disembodied: "They're not coming back. They've killed us."
    
    Wildcat had always imagined she would face Death with perhaps a wry grin and a sarcastic demeanor, but when the helicopters came, with that damned U.S.A.F. symbol, she realized at last how unprepared she was to deal with Him. Too many things were suddenly known to her. Chief among them was that to truly live, one must know how it is to die. The idea circled in her mind. To truly live, one must know how it is to die. One must know how it is to die. How it is to die. To die. Die.

    She had killed. She had seen others die. But she had never herself died. As a girl (that long-abandoned girl she'd been once... When was that? How long had she been a woman?), she had wondered about such things as religion, afterlife, and reincarnation. She came to the conclusion that reincarnation, at least, was a fantasy. If she had died and been reincarnated, she would know it, wouldn't she? Or at least have some vague instinct about death? No, she had never died. And, if her latest reasoning was to be trusted, she had never lived.

    But if I've never lived, I am not living now. How can I possibly die? There was some truth that was staring her in the face - taunting her - and yet remained annoyingly elusive. This was the moment (moments? How long did she have?) to unlock the meaning (if there was one) of Life. It shouldn't be this hard! Think, damn it! Think!

    Helicopters. The scattering of her men. Snapping gunshots. Shouts.

    A moment of swimming chaos. Another of lurching waking, a coming into full awareness as if from a dream whose true power is not realized until the thing is dispelled. She snapped her head up, hoping to spot that one magical path out of this whole nonsensical nightmare.

    Instead, she saw him.

    Lowlight.

    She would not escape, but Fate would allow her to achieve one final aching goal before sending Death to snuff her out. But the scene was wrong. Lowlight stood about 30 paces away with his back to her. He will see his death coming, she decided. She would kill him to his face.

    Wildcat flattened her back against the tree. She took three quick breaths, and then decided it was time to make her move. It was either that or let her heart burst under the frenzied pressure it now found itself.

    "Freeze!" she called out, immediately dropping to one knee in a low crouch, in case he disobeyed. She figured if he turned quickly and fired, he would be aiming high, for the chest or above. Having to adjust his aim would give her a slight timing advantage.

    When he froze as commanded, something in her head decided it was time for a pressure change. Her left ear began to whine with a piercing ring. "Drop the gun," she ordered, hardly hearing herself over the ringing in her ear. He slowly stretched his arm out to the side, holding the sniper rifle pointing straight up. Resting the butt of the gun on the ground, he then pushed the tip away. The gun toppled to the ground.

    "Turn around." Again, her voice was drowned out. She seemed to herself an apparition, unheard to herself. Unfelt to herself.

    Lowlight turned and stood still. He was the lifeless statue he'd always seemed, the red goggles shielding any hint of humanity. Lifeless... Her thoughts raced from one side of her brain to the other, and then back again, playing a twisted game of Elude the Consciousness. But if he is lifeless, how can I kill him? And, of course, there was still the nagging thought: To truly live, one must know how it is to die. She was unsure if it was better to kill him (and provide him with that elusive knowledge) or to die herself, thus learning what it truly was to live. (But hadn't she decided that she was already doomed to die anyway?) She opted for ACTION, which (she hoped) would negate the conflict in her head (and maybe the ringing...).

    She took a step forward. He didn't move. Why? she wondered. No! I am in control here! She took another step forward. Both of her hands were on her pistol, which was leveled at his head. Her hands were surprisingly steady. No fear, she told herself. I will not be afraid.

    Lowlight realized who she was. The girl he'd met at the bar. The girl who'd spared his life once. The one person he most identified with in the world (though he didn't even know her name, and knew even less about how she lived her life). What had he said to her that night? Something about it not being too late? Ah, yes, that was it. And then he'd laughed inwardly about his words being an elaborate lie. A lie? But for what? He'd nothing to gain from such a lie. Not a lie, then. An inaccuracy, maybe... No. He'd been right. He laughed inwardly now, for he could be certain that he was, at least once in his life, right. But now he faced a steadily-aimed pistol, finger ready at the trigger. He would soon be dead, and there would be no record of his one moment of lucid correctness.

    "I will kill you," she said. "I won't hesitate this time." Lowlight wondered at her need to say such a thing. Did she not realize that she was hesitating by taking the time to gloat?

    He watched (and felt... bored?) as something in her arms hardened, her preparedness matching her desire. She was ready to kill. The gun's aim was true. This was it.

    There was a flash of light, a reverberating pop. The gun discharged.

    Lowlight flinched. But something went wrong. The bullet's expected impact didn't happen. Instead, the girl jerked backward, as though she had been struck by the bullet meant to find him. When he had command of his eyes again, he saw her falling, the shaft of an arrow protruding from her chest.

    It took a moment for him to realize that he hadn't been shot. She had. With an arrow. One of Scarlett's. By the time he'd regained his breath and presence of mind, the girl was flat on her back, her limbs splayed outward.

    Lowlight moved quickly. (At least, he assumed he must have, for he was suddenly knelt beside her). Her arms were now bent inward, her hands (having dropped the pistol) clawing at the arrow embedded firmly in her chest. He closed his own hands over her wrists, pulling them away from the arrow. "You'll just make it worse."

    Her arms went limp. Her chest heaved with agony to draw in breath. The arrow was in her lung, but she somehow found enough air to speak. "You're supposed to die... not... me..."

    Scarlett's voice came from over Lowlight's shoulder. "I'll get a medic." And as suddenly as she'd been there, she was gone.

    "I would've done it..." the girl gasped between sharp intakes of air. "Almost had you..."

    Her arms tensed and Lowlight had to exercise a bit of force to keep her hands away from the death in her chest. She gave in, being quite overpowered.

    An odd hint of a smile touched her face. At the same moment, a surge of dark blood pushed its way through her lips, trickling from the corners of her mouth, forcing it into an odd resemblance to that of a ventriloquist's dummy. "Ain't war... hell?" The last word she spat in a rasping hiss.

    Lowlight answered honestly. "I'm not sure anymore what hell is." Hell... He found his thoughts fighting for recognition. I don't know what hell is. But he had an idea of heaven. Heaven is a box in the ground. The pearly gates read "cemetery," and insect angels finally strip away all the unwanted flesh. I'll make sure she gets there. He believed it, promised it to himself with sincerity. I'll make sure she gets there.

    She coughed. More blood (and something more solid). Her hand gripped his with fading desperation.

    He felt his face tickled by its own hint of a smile. "Save me a spot when you get there."

    Her hand tightened further. "I can't feel you," she managed to wheeze.

    He pulled off his glove, then hers, and closed his naked hand around hers. "Keep trying. Medic's on the way." He felt the sweat and blood between their palms.

    She blinked, then pulled her eyes wide. They were glazed with death. Her gaze flicked toward her feet. "I have something," she said in between sharp (and pathetically futile) inhalations. "In my belt..."

    "What is it?" he asked.

    Another breath. Another. Then her dying eyes locked on his. "Why can't I kill you?" It was a whisper. A question that would never be satisfied by an answer.

    "What's in your belt?" he pressed.

    She no longer had much power over the ability to speak. But she tried anyway. "Annuh... doh... Annuh..." Cough. Blood. "Life..."

    "Antidote?" he asked, aware of his objectivity. "For Odem's poison?"

    Her head moved. A nod? "Yeah..." Her chest lurched again in agony. A final gush of deathblood preceded her last tortured utterance. "Life..." And that was that. No more breathing, no more movement. The eyes finally acquiesced into sightlessness. The hand finally lost its need to grip his.

    "Medic's coming," came a woman's voice. Scarlett, again suddenly nearby. How much time had passed? How long had it taken for the girl to die?

    Lowlight released the girl's hand and fumbled at her belt. He found a small transparent bag containing a bit of something green. Must be some plant, he thought. Life... He wiped his hand, and the last of the girl, off on his pants. Slipping his glove on, he stood. "Too late," he said, still keeping his eyes focused on the open eyes of the corpse on the ground.

    "You knew her?" Scarlett's voice asked, still not quite penetrating Lowlight's awareness enough to be precisely located. He still looked at the girl. She was dead, but could not truly be lamented. He had never known her to be truly alive. She meant as much to him as he meant to himself. Which is how much? How much?

    He shook his head. "I was her," he said. "Once." Yes, there was still something twitching inside him. Something that itched. He was not dead inside; the girl had been long dead inside. That she was bound for a premature death was certain. Does that make her more or less pure than me? he wondered.

    "I'm sorry, Lowlight," Scarlett said. "I had to do it."

    Yes... he inwardly agreed. Or I might be dead. I am not ready to die. It was a jarring realization. One he'd never so distinctly believed. There was no explanation for the sudden belief, no reason on which to pin blame. But he could only admit that it was true. For better or worse, he was not ready to die.

    He held out the bag containing the plant clipping, placing it in Scarlett's hand. "Get this to Airtight. He might have a use for it."

    Scarlett took the bag. She fixed her gaze on Lowlight's. Being so close, she could see (slightly) through the red goggles. His eyes were focused straight into hers with a mix of absolution and questioning.

    "We're even now, you and me," he said.

    A life for a life. Scarlett knew then how untouchable Lowlight was. Whatever she had thought of him was dispelled. He was, simply, a man whose job was to kill. The thoughts in his head were for him alone to think. There was no invitation for an outsider to see into his murky soul.

    She watched mutely as he turned his back, retrieved his rifle, and walked away from her. Alone. Into the night.

    Where he belongs, she thought.