Oscar's Piece for tuesday

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Oscar's Piece for tuesday

Post by King_of_Crows on Thu Apr 27, 2017 6:23 pm

Oscar Loya
Markus let a stream of curses leave his mouth as he dove into the shaded brush. His hands clasped his cold, wet helmet as bullets whizzed around him. Most of the fire was concentrated behind him, on the mushy overgrown path. The bullets left small indentations on the jungle floor and in the bark of the ancient trees. The fog swirled around the bullets and shrapnel, coating it all in a sticky dampness.
Markus kept his body pressed to the ground, his knees and elbows sinking into the wet mud. For a moment, the young man panicked, then his hands, as if on automatic, reached for his handgun at his side, and he rolled and sat up against a thick tree. His back was pressing against the hard, moist wood. Markus felt safer with his gun. I guess this is an ambush, he thought. It really does just catch you by surprise. He tried to focus on the sounds of battle.
In the distance, deep in the mist, Markus heard Lieutenant Arrow yelling orders to Long and Crow. Michael Long was a short and slender man, a hard target to hit. He was from the sunny shores of California, where his family owned a Chinese restaurant. He always carried a golden dragon charm chained around his wrist. This often caught the attention of the other boys, who mocked him, teasing him to stop fighting his brothers. Crow was a bit more eccentric when it came to his good luck charm. Elwin Crow had a Voodoo doll on a necklace. It was a bit small, but it was covered in moss and cloth and hair. Crow’s mother was one of those New Orleans witches that could kill your most hated enemy with a snap of her fingers. Or at least that's what Crow would tell his platoon. But if his mother had passed anything on to Crow, it was his ability to tell stories. Markus had only been the platoon's medic for a couple of weeks, but he was already familiar with Crow’s stories at the dead of night, whispered out into the cold air. His deep voice calling on goose bumps.
Regardless, Markus couldn’t worry about them because by sound of it none of them were hurt. Or at least without a bullet in their heads. Markus tried to focus on the forest once again, trying to hear if anyone had been hurt. Then the scream pierced the heavy mist. Markus’ head shot up and looked over onto his right. He glared at the dark green and brown. His ears focusing on the gurgled scream. Dalton, was all he could think.
Gary Dalton was Markus’ best friend. Dalton was the first person to show him how the ropes worked. Even though Dalton was only a year older than him, about twenty, his knowledge on the “VC” and on war was endless. As a result to their friendship Markus knew Dalton’s voice like he knew the mosquitoes in the sweaty jungle.
Clammy hands grasped onto the metal pistol. He was grasping it so hard that his knuckles became as pale as a ghost. His breath came in short ragged breaths. The fog felt heavy, and his legs weak. Eyes dilated and his ears focused on the slightest of sounds. Another screech pierced the dense greenery. Then he dove, once again. Deep into the undergrowth of the forest, and as quickly as possible started making his way towards his friend. Markus wasn’t close to the bullets, but he could still feel their veracity, their hunger for blood. Adrenaline ran through his veins as he quickly made his way towards the screech.
He heard a grenade go off to his left. The heat it gave off was weirdly comforting. The noise pushed the leaves and fog around. Markus veered off to the left, he knew he was getting farther away from the path, but it was safer this way. The distant shouts from Lieutenant Arrow, the panicked curses, the chaotic shooting from his fellow troops died away and mixed into the ambiance of the ambush.
Markus saw movement behind the bush in front of him. He pointed his gun, ready to shoot if need be, but he doubted he would be able to hit his target seeing how shaky his hands were. He slowly broke through the bush, not caring how scratchy the plant felt on his face. On the other side, Dalton lay there. His back against an old thick tree. Blood pouring from a deep wound on the left side of his chest. The blood made his clothes darker, more sinister. Another scream emerged from the mouth, his eyes closed. Then the body seemed to slump a bit.
Markus’ feet were being sucked on by the muddy floor. The plant life seemed to take a hold of his shaky body. He was about to make a run towards Dalton when they arrived.
Lanky biceps, tanned skin, yellowed and broken teeth. Their bloodshot eyes scanning the surrounding area. A snarl played onto the muddy faces. Dirt and grim lived under yellow fingernails. Hands wrapped around assault rifles as if they were the only friends these young men had ever known.
They muttered a couple of words, curses by the sound of it. Then a boy, no older than 15 held up the gun. Dalton looked up, his green eyes meeting dark brown. His curly blond hair stuck to his forehead. The gun fired.
It struck Dalton in the neck. Right between his collar bones. He slumped instantly after the shot. As did Markus. He couldn’t hear after the deafening sound of the shot. His hands dropped the handgun and he stared at the dead body in front of him. The smile that used to play at Dalton’s pearly white teeth and thin lips was a grim line. His eyes had no life, cold like a pair of smooth green stones deep in the bed of a forgotten river in the forest. Markus could only hear the deep, harsh pumping of his heart. His breath caught in his throat, a whimper emerged.
The boys seemed to be laughing. A smile was playing at their lips. Then they ran, in the opposite direction to the fire. Within seconds they had disappeared into the forest. Just like Dalton seemed to disappear into the sea of blood. Markus crawled towards Dalton. Sharp rocks and wet moss hurting his hands. He left his handgun behind, the first gun he had picked up in Vietnam. Before the gun he had only carried the things required of him. He hadn’t brought any charms or trinkets. They were stupid, illogical, but Dalton was the exact opposite. He always had pictures of memories from long ago, a small cross, a golden watch, but Dalton’s most prized possession of all was a carving knife. It was only a couple of inches long, but it was beautiful. Napped by Dalton’s late grandfather, he took it out every night to carve on the old wood and moist bark of the dense forest. Markus was always mesmerized by the way that Dalton’s fingers played at the hard wood, coaxing out a beautiful shape.
Markus’ trembling hands reached out to the dead body. His hands ran across the 20 year olds’ pants and found the pocket on his left side. His hands walked into the pocket and found the small knife. His hands wrapped around the double edged blade, it cut into his skin. Tasting Markus’ adrenaline filled blood. He sighed. Retracted his hand, and placed the knife in his own pocket. He stood up shakily, then stumbled backwards, and leaned against the cold wet tree behind him. He let the heavy fog push him down. He sighed and stared at his dead friend.


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Join date : 2017-02-02
Age : 17
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