Ain't War Hell?
By: Maximillian von Fischgeist 

Chapter Six
Keep Moving

    I am relaxed, lying in sweet-smelling grass. There are butterflies. It is summer. The sun is angry, like the stinging heat of the bullet in my belly...
    Start over.
    It is spring. Flowers. Butterflies again. There's a smell in the air. Like death. Blood and
    smoke...
    Start over.
    It is winter. Snow and ice. Freezing, dying. There's a smell of fire somewhere. The smoke is sweet, though. Cigarette smoke mingled with saliva. An exhalation...
    Stop.

    Try as she might, Scarlett could not turn her mind away from the vile NOW. The smoke had been from Lowlight. The throbbing ache in her stomach was the result of his attempt to slow the bleeding. Before, when it was simply a bullet wound, there had been a dull fire, like a sun-baked stone pressed there. Now, there was the hot stone AND something that felt like a fist inside her stomach, clenching and unclenching with complete disregard for the fact that it was doing so in the most annoying of places. He had pulled the bandages so tight! Bastard! she thought. At least allow me to die without new pain!

    His smoke clung to her like some hungry parasite. It gnawed at her eyes and nose, and if she'd had the energy, she might have coughed. For now, though, she could only sit and allow the gnawing. Well, your host will not be alive for long, parasite. Enjoy it while you can.

    She heard him say something: "I know where you are." The voice was far off. Imagined? She found an answer to it, though, if only in thought: I'm where you left me. My back to a tree, bleeding to death in the middle of Yellowstone National Park. How absurd is that?

    The vague headache she'd been managing to keep at bay suddenly leaped against her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut at the new (and wholly unnecessary!) pain. Some loud sound had given the ache its new hunger for conquest of her head. Unlike the voice, the sound seemed much closer, much sharper. She knew it was a gunshot. So trained was she that she could even classify the caliber and make, and she knew it was their standard issue.

    She wanted to ask what Lowlight was shooting at but could not find the power in her lungs to make the sound. They were pressured enough just to run through the routine of breathing.

    The smoke was back then. She opened her eyes (slightly) and his face was near hers, the smell of tobacco flowing from him. "Gotta keep moving," he whispered. His voice worked its way into her left ear. "Put your arm around my neck," he ordered.

    "No," she was surprised to hear herself breathe in reply. "You're gonna get us both killed. Leave."

    The muscles in his jaw tightened in what she guessed to be anger. Then her own jaw clenched (though perhaps not so much in anger as in shock) as his hand grabbed her chin and shook her head as if to jar her into consciousness. It had at least some of the desired effect. She felt her eyes widen and her breath come more rapidly, but she doubted that was a good thing. (It certainly didn't help in her fight against the headache.)

    "I'm not leaving you to die here!" he spat harshly. "You're coming with me, if I have to drag you kicking and screaming."

    Fat chance of that, she let her mind snicker. If she'd had it in her to kick and scream, surely she could walk by herself. Maybe even run!

    "Put your arm around my neck," he repeated.

    She didn't move.

    His annoyance at what he must have interpreted as her odd defiance manifested itself equally oddly. He ripped the red goggles from his face and flung them over his shoulder. He turned his pale eyes toward hers, and she wondered what he meant the effect to be. The eyes did not burn with any sort of passion. His jaw was still clenched in anger, but his eyes were devoid of that anger. They didn't show much of anything, really. They looked rather lazy, unconcerned.

    "Do it," he hissed.

    "No need for us both to die," she answered quietly (for she could do no better). "Mission's accomplished. Just leave."

    Without warning his arms were suddenly around her. She had a sensation similar to that felt during a falling dream, which was curious, because she could tell he was lifting her up. Her knees buckled (so apparently she was on her feet) but he would not let her drop. He reassigned his grip so that he and she were somewhat side by side, his arms unmercifully holding her more or less upright. She allowed herself to slump into him and felt his weight adjust to the strain.

    "You have to help me," he whispered through clenched teeth.

    Why am I not helping? she wondered. I am being rather pathetic, aren't I?

    He attempted a few steps forward. She didn't help. She was aware of his body's heat, the acrid odor of his sweat. And she was aware of something else: How cold she was. How much more blood did she have to lose?

    "I'm cold," she managed to whisper.

    "I know," he said. He glanced at her stomach. "You're still bleeding. You have to help me."

    She refused to look at her own stomach, feared what she might see. Fear! I am afraid! It was a realization, rational and logical. Then the rationalization dissolved into the true emotion. Her hands (quite against her will) groped for him, clumsily found him. They had become wild, alien things and grasped tightly. She was, however, not entirely ignorant of their need. "I'm dying!" she said, her voice clipped and frightened (and not whispered! It was the voice of a living woman!).

    She realized her legs were moving, imitating the motion of walking. Imitating because they could not really walk of their own power. But that's what Lowlight was there for. He was leading, like a dance partner. The dance was made complete in its clumsiness by much stepping on of toes by both parties.

    "Keep moving," he said, his voice somewhat harsh, somehow soothing.

    Her heart lurched with every painful breath. Their haphazard progress had quickened. She watched her feet as they tried (valiantly? stupidly?) to keep up with Lowlight's desperate pace. Their combined weight dragged them forward. Scarlett could not stop now if she wanted to (and why didn't she now?).

    "Sorry..." she panted, wondering if the word was recognizable as such or simply another in a series of agonized wheezes. If he'd heard (understood), he didn't answer. She turned her blurred gaze to his face. The jaw was still set in anger (or something similar), and though pulled as wide as they could be pulled, the eyes were still mysteriously dead. If the cliche was to be trusted, Lowlight was a man without a soul.

    Why, then, does he work so hard to save me?

    Perhaps aware of her eyes on him (though he was, she thought, careful not to look at her), he spoke. "Talk to me."

    To keep me occupied, she realized. To keep me alive. But what was there to say?

    "Talk," he insisted. "What's your favorite color?"

    She felt her hands going lax and renewed her grip on him. The heat from him was more intense. Rather, she was much colder now. Much closer to death. Her feet were mostly dragging now.

    What did he ask? "Green." She forced the word out as soon as she remembered his question. How long ago had he asked it?

    Her head slumped and her eyes caught a sight of her stomach. So much blood! Panic seized her spine (an odd target, really; surely there were better places to attack) and her fingers once again found further strength to claw at Lowlight.

    But her legs hardly moved now. She felt her arms trying to hold on. Trying... They went limp. Lowlight's arm tightened around her back.

    "I need your help, Scarlett," he warned. But she had no more help to give. He was saying something else now.

    What are you saying? Ah, yes. "Keep moving." Keep moving. Keep moving...

    She knew they had been on the ground for a moment, remembered vaguely the impact, but the sensation of moving forward still carried her mind, which now raced in every direction. He was still talking, pleading with her. She felt tugging. Had she fallen? Was he trying to pull her back up?

    No. We're moving. Keep moving...

    He was further away now. His voice came from her left. They were running. Or was she still on the ground?

    Keep moving, Scarlett. Not much further, Scarlett.

    Grit pushed against her face. Dirt? Something moved, tickling her cheek. Ants, maybe? His voice echoed to her from what seemed an impossible distance. So far away. Ah, but so right, so soothing.

    Keep talking to me, Lowlight. Make me follow you. Keep me moving.

    She could not open her eyes and realized only then that they were closed. She was so tired. And so cold. Though she knew he was right beside her, not a foot away, his voice faded into that false distance. It had become nonsense, whatever he was saying. A vague ringing in some back corner of her mind. From the same corner came an image of trees flying by, of two people, a man and a woman, running in tandem. Falling. The man screaming at the woman, who would not get back up. She was dying. He was shouting. What? What was he shouting? Something he'd said before...

    Keep me going, Lowlight. Say it again. I need to hear you.

    But he was silent. All was darkness. He was gone.

    Keep moving...

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Continued in Part Seven!
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