Opus Grand

Nestled deep into a tree hollow, sat a man of tattered appearance - his drab-green military garb long since torn. Blood steadily pooled near his thighs, dark and sticky, marking his end near. His eyes had lost their light, their significant marker of life, their glint of conscious.

All around him, explosions and gunfire rang out, as they ripped through the forest where he lay. Occasionally a bullet would slam into his own hollowed tree, threatening collapse upon the lone soul that took rest within.

Faintly the man sighed, bloody bubbles of spit and saliva eeked out from his lips. He looked upon his own figure, bullet-ridden and distorted. His right leg was missing, blown off above the knee. His left arm had been wrapped in bandage, no longer the pristine white of fresh fabric.

Slowly the man lifted his right arm, his hand placed upon his cheek. Even an action of this calibre demanded the greatest of his tenacity. With great willpower he moved his fingers to his nose, scratching it's length to his best ability.

'Thank you Lord... to even grant me this much strength, I am ever grateful.'

He could not even mutter the words from his mouth, so he resorted to internal speech.

'I suppose this is where my card gets pulled, huh? Can't say I went out particularly... great, though.'

A tender crease lined his bloodied, spit-stained lips. Although he could not raise it into a smile, this would have to do.

'How annoying... those kids will have to look after each other now. I taught them well enough, didn't I Lord?'

Gradually, the sounds of battle softened, eventually giving way to silence. The man had made out the faint movement of brush and foliage, which indicated his foe steadily approached.

'They never make it easy, huh? These pricks just keep on coming- has to have been one... shit, maybe even two regiments.'

As the crunching of underbrush and snapping of branches neared the man, an odd foreign speech filled the air. Although the man was by no means fluent in his enemy's tongue, he parsed the general understanding of their words.

'These guys think I'm already dead - must be why they're walking up so haphazardly. Dear Lord, I'll be bringing a few souls with me to Your judgement.'

Through his dazed state, the man dropped his right hand to his waistband. He fumbled momentarily as he reached inside a small pouch tied to his belt; he pulled a small incendiary grenade from it. In the sticky humidity he placed the mass of it between his teeth, before he hooked his thumb into the ring and pulled it free. Only the spoon clamped tightly between his teeth prevented the grenade from detonation.

The seemingly casual conversation was but a few steps from his hollowed tree.

With the remainder of his strength, the man reached again towards his waist; this time towards his holster. From it, he drew a weathered pistol, heavier now then it had ever been.

'Feels like three or four left in the magazine... plus one in the chamber, call it five total. Not all too much magic I can make with five bullets and a thermal explosive.'

As the steps and conversation grew to being directly next to the hollowed tree, the man blew out a faint snort from his blood-encrusted nostrils.

'I'll see you later kids.'

*****

As the small squad of eight combatants reached the tree, the point man heard it creak and groan.

"Hul mall mal tair! Hul mall mal tair!" He cried out.

The lumbering tree had finally given way to it's own weight, as it fell faster than any of them could have expected. All eight men looked at the hollowed tree before diving back onto the path they had just walked. Two of them were too slow. The point man and the man just behind him were crushed; viscera and chunks of flesh and bone exploded from between the tree and ground.

Immediately, the man to the rear of the group popped back up, his eyes trained down the length of his submachine gun. For less then a moment, he saw the flicker of a body roll away from the hollowed stump. He squeezed the trigger too late, as his brain matter and eyeball were ripped through the hole his skull and helmet now adorned.

The five men remaining did not waste the time their compatriot had bought them, as they rapidly backed off into the cover of nearby trees.

The men screamed out to each other, doing their utmost to regroup and recollect themselves. It had taken but a few moments for them to gather their mental. Two of the soldiers peeked out from behind their cover, fingers prepared to open fire on their enemy.

Just then, a shot rang out; this caused the men to look amongst themselves. Only now had they realized their compatriot furthest out was face-down, slumped over a thicket of brambles. His rifle awkwardly slung across his shoulder. The side of his neck and a portion of his throat sprayed crimson on the forest floor.

Afeared from the sudden onslaught, the men's psyche slipped: their rationality took a steep decline into fight, flight, or freeze. Three opened fire into the brush of the immediate area nearest the corpse; the fourth man fled.

A brief burst of gunfire screamed out from the trio, two of whom emptied their entire magazine on flora.

Ping

Another bullet sounded out as one of the shooters immediately dropped to the ground, the round having barely missed his heart. The man nearest him dove down, as he clawed for his injured compatriot's gun - his own firearm now dry.

The third shooter took off like the man before him, shedding his gun to gain even the slightest morsel of speed. A fallen tree lay in his path. As he clambered up it to the greatest of his ability, he heard another two shots ring out. Just as he made it over the mass, he glanced at the two men that had stayed behind, only barely making out their corpses piled upon the forest floor.

The man took off once more, heart threatening to beat through his chest. With each step he took he felt the weight of death ease off him. One foot after another, step by step, until he finally tripped over a root into a stream hidden by the underbrush.

Panting and exhausted, the man felt an inkling of safety. Safe from whatever manner of man his regiment stumbled into. As he winced, he realized his adrenaline was slowly wearing off. A pang of thirst struck the man, so he cupped his hands into the water to refresh himself. Although, this water tasted bitterly of iron... of blood. He looked towards the stream, laden in red. His eyes traced the red upstream, towards a man laying not but four paces from him.

He recognized this was the fourth man, the initial craven soldier that fled. He was little more than a body now: gored upon a thick jagged root, protruding through his ribs and out his back. The shock nearly took his consciousness, as tears rolled down his cheeks.

Yet, something was off. In his zealousness, he overlooked the blood oozing from his compatriot. Albeit steady, it did not remotely darken the stream enough. Tension took hold of his heart once more, as he glanced towards his own person.

A visceral gash had made itself home just above the left of his hip. Realization struck him: the dual gunshots were not exclusively for the two men that stayed behind. One had been intended for him - and it hit its mark. In his adrenaline induced fervor, he hadn't even felt the bite of lead tear through his abdomen.

He knew then, he would bleed out. He would die there. Alone. Surrounded by the peace brought about by nature, and by the violence bred by his countrymen. No... by the violent monster that slaughtered them.

He refused it, despised it. He forced himself up to his knees. Tears and snot streamed down his face as he clutched his gushing wound. He would do it. He would find help. He would live. However...

Clink

A dull splash came from between his legs. Followed by a soft sizzle, as if his wife had prepared him a side of eggs and rashers. He looked towards his crotch and almost mockingly, there sat an incendiary grenade. He screamed, or at least attempted to... before a searing heat ripped through his flesh.

*****

Gingerly the man walked onwards, having fashioned a crutch from one of the rifles of his enemy. His left leg screamed at him, crying out at the brutality of holding the man up by its lonesome. With a cautioned gaze he moved back the underbrush and peeked into the stream.

'Good. They're all dead. At the least, my men won't have deserted me for nothing.'

Having gone far beyond his limit, he too, collapsed into the stream.

'Thankfully it all worked out, somehow... should have used the explosive when they were grouped up though.'

The man reflected upon himself. The stream grew darker still with the addition of his own blood.

'Blown off right leg, utterly useless left arm, and feels like... what... twelve bullets dispersed throughout me?'

He let out what sounded to be a laugh, cut short as he coughed up black bile and blood.

'Always knew I was tough, but this... shit... this is certainly beyond what I thought I was capable.'

Slowly he looked up, the glimmer of sunlight marring his disheveled face. He raised his right arm once more, fishing two necklaces from under his vest. The first was a silver cross. He placed it upon his lips and made a solemn prayer. The other was brass or bronze, the man knew not which, and was ovoid in shape. He depressed the small button on its side, as it revealed two photos within. One appeared to be a more youthful him surrounded by some younger children, the other of a couple - seemingly younger than he was now.

'Hah, damn brats...'

He tried to cry, but no tears could be shed from his eyes. The moisture and colour had long since drained from his body.

'All of you, you'll be just fine without me... right?'

As he thought that, his breath slowed. His extremities grew cold. Sluggishly his eyelids waned, closing as they immortalized the final image the man would ever see. The image of his younger siblings. The image of his deceased parents. The image of his own muddled reflection in the thin glass that held the photos.

His heart neared to a stop. His eyes had finally shut. Until, ultimately, the final breath of life left the man's lips.

'... Please Lord... watch them... for me... would ya?'