Here is this week’s installment.
Flash Fiction #2 – Through the Storm
His fingers rested loosely around the trigger as the desert sun grew closer against his skin. Trickles of sweat beaded down his forehead making their own streams. A determined wind blew the powdery sand across his field of view. He recoiled, his rifle angling to one side as he did so. He retook his position and breathed heavily. The scope zoomed in slowly and he observed his team mates edging along a wall, assault rifles in their gloved hands. He brought his hand up over his scarf-covered face and pressed against his headset.
‘Blue Fox this is Eagle-eye. Hold position. Two tangos patrolling southern entrance. Will take them out on the quiet.’ Without waiting for a response he brought out a suppressor from his utility belt and proceeded to screw it on the end of the barrel.
His stomach flipped when the echoed shockwave of an explosion rang in his ears. He rapidly removed the suppressor and threw it to one side, retaking his scope. A mine had gone off. One of his team mates had lost his legs, blood spurting onto the baked ground. Another had lost a good portion of his face and lay lifeless to one side. The other four were backing off, screaming orders to each other as enemies, now alerted, scrambled into action. It was then that the firing began.
His remaining friends went down one by one like dominoes in the wake of a playing master. He squeezed the trigger. One down. He squeezed again. Another dropped. A third shot. He heard the readying of a gun behind him. He dropped the rifle and rested his head on the ground.
‘Get up,’ said a voice in a native language.
He obliged them and stood up slowly. Hands in the boiling hot air he turned around to see a lone man, his face shrouded in a red and white scarf, a pair of brown eyes squinting at him angrily. As the man motioned for him to start walking, something awoke within the sniper. His heart hit hard against his chest. His arms moved fast and furiously. He grabbed the gun with one hand and pushed it away, enough time for his pistol find its way from his belt and let off three fatal rounds into the man’s gut. He kicked the body to the floor.
There was no time to hang around. He grabbed his rifle and moved away, refusing to take a last look at his dead comrades. Lord knows what those people would do to their corpses.
People had lost their lives… and for what? The gratification of the politicians who would tell the populous back home how sorry they were for the deaths of their military personnel? Those guys have no clue what their decisions have done to the families of these soldiers, to the soldiers themselves, and, more importantly, the countries they fought for and against. These people here in this desert land are protecting their homes – they are doing just what any of us would do if it were our country, yet they are painted out to be the enemy…
The sniper spat into the air. ‘Fucking war!’