A Long Shot

by

Lawrence T. Walls

Part I

Through the cracks of a stained glass window, Burham watched the clouds roll in from the north. The clouds were the only peaceful masses he had seen in some time, too long to try and recall; in a life that scarcely existed, in fading memories. No banshees to circle him like vultures, no long-swords itching to engage them. Nothing above but an overcast, and a few squeaking birds fleeing towards the horizon. This was peace, lost since his childhood, forgotten since the war. He recalled sitting at the banks of the Withlachoochi river, the comfort of the rushing water, the music of the song birds. He was a boy then, casting lines out for the monster cats, pulling sea scallops from their sandy hovels. The idea of a war with other worldly horrors, the thought of the end of man; those were but stories from a comic.

But now, those childhood fables were more real then anything from his past. The faces of these invaders were fresher then any memory of youth, and haunted him more so then any boyhood nightmare. The reality of it surrounded him, in the crumbling remains of an abandoned city. It mocked him through smiles on dead men's skulls, and the fading eyes of the critical. He could smell it in the smoke billowing from craters and rifle shafts, he could feel it caking his hands like blood and oil. The reality of war, the reality of brutality, the reality of futility.

He pulled his head back to the world of the grounded; to the skeletal remains of a church, fighting against neglect to keep from collapsing upon itself. Its pews had long sat empty, its pulpit long since abandoned. It was easy for men to lose faith in a god, when their children are dying, and their world Is being stripped from their hands. The promise of a life everlasting was no comfort to the suffering, the hope for the kingdom to come, was but a luxury for those slow in their final breath. Burham was never religious, time enlisted would have certainly changed that, even if he had been. But even for the godless, to see this place of former worship, this house of hope falling into the ashes of once civilized world, was disheartening at very least. His eyes trailed along the debris scattered amongst the main isle, forward toward the pulpit, upwards to a mangled crucifix, dangling like a wooden corpse. Christ laid before it, his head split by a carbine shot, his body broken and dismembered. "A house of god.." He thought to himself, shaking his head at the fallen Christ. " I'm guess'n he wasn't home."
God cared not for fates in the hands of men; In men like Burham. Hardened, emotionless, splinters of humanity. In a forsaken world, amongst forsaken people, only the bold were ordained, only the brave, only the Spartans.

Burham took one last glance around. The light of the midday sun poured over the remnants of a steeple, and spilled onto the weathered rosewood floor below. The light seemed to take a breath, glowing with a sudden intensity before retreating back upwards, beyond the dull gray of clouds. As the world transitioned over to black and white, Burham reached for his sniper rifle resting gently against the window ledge. Today's service was over.

He flung the rifle over his shoulder, a swift sliding motion to keep the barrel from smacking his armor, a veteran trick of the trade. With sure footing, he moved up a nearby plank that extended over one of the churches damaged walls, and stepped off into an open courtyard. "shit."
As much as he hated being exposed, he was left with little options. No comms, no reinforcements, and his spotter was, in all likelihood, dead. Their pelican was brought down only about a mile south of his position; a small crew of 8 recons, all assumed to be killed on impact. At least that's how it will look on the report, but the records aren't usually written by the survivors; more often then not, there were none. Yet, two did survive the crash, Burham was one of them, his spotter Tilsdale was the other. Tilsdale was accomplished for a rookie, with a tough as nails persona held true by his kill tally. He couldn't have been more then 25 years old, though his face was aged with conflict and pain. Burham tried to never get that personal with his spotters, or anyone else for that matter. To know them, is to soon mourn them, and Burham had mourned enough for two lifetimes; So when a spotter took a spike to neck, or a gunner disintegrated in his turret, flinging bits of his flesh across the asphalt, they were no more then a statistic. It was just easier to bury a number, then a name. But, nobody liked to watch a cherry come back in the box; even a cold hearted son of a bitch like Burham. He left Tilsdale with a shattered femur at the crash site, a few rounds for the magnum, and an ominous good luck. The same comfort and care as an underpaid doctor might give a terminal man. That was more then two hours ago, and behind enemy lines. Surely the recovery team was on its way, perhaps held up, perhaps shot down. Burham took solace in knowing that a man would never be left behind, even if only the shell remained. But he was quick to leave Tilsdale, quick to abandon him to fend for himself. And he wondered, would command be inclined to do the same.

Somewhere in the distance, the steady hum of an engine harmonized with the rushing of a dusty breeze.

From the mangled, smoldering wreckage of a downed pelican; the potent and noxious smell of fuel wafted from its remains. Its iron frame lay twisted on the ground; the name "Shevron", visible on a shattered side panel, slowly being eaten away by a hungry flame. Near what used to be a tail end, resting up against a blade prop, was a dazed and battered Tilsdale. He stripped his helmet, discarding it like a broken tool, revealing a dirt laden face squinted in pain. His youthful appearance was lost long ago, somewhere on the training grounds. The light was fading from his brown eyes. Gristly stubble had claimed is checks and jawbone, and the wound over his brow just recently receded to a not so subtle scar. His stomach churned as he looked down at his leg, or what remained of it. A large stub of broken bone protruded from his leg guards, glistening red, with a small bit of flesh still latched to its jagged end. This would bring his short, but accomplished, career to an end, there was no denying that. The idea of life off the front line hit him like a shock wave, more unbearable then the pain in his throbbing leg, and far more troubling then lying alone in a war zone. Even here, deep in enemy territory, with his shooter gone and his security non existent; He had no fear of death. In fact, he would have rested well in flames with the others. There were more frightening things in life then death, and he had experienced them all. But of all the horrors and all the nightmarish events he had witnessed in the past few years, dying a crippled old man, lame and bitter in a hospital bed, horrified him. He couldn't return home, not like this. He thought of his fiances face, the pale shade of horror it would certainly fade to, as she stared at him in disbelief. She'd shudder as she hugged him, whimpering like a child, clinging to the remains of a broken man. Would it pain her less to see him cold in his coffin? He thought not. Yet, in his mind, it was better that she loved him as he was, and not as he is, and should now forever be.

A movement in the haze pulled him back to reality. Squinting through the sting of sand and residue, he made out a figure just beyond a row of buildings to his immediate left. A tall, broad silhouette contorted behind a film of heatwaves, wafting from gasoline fumes. Though distorted, he could make out the distinctive mandibles of an elite. The crash site was just outside the green zone in a city known now as "Dirty Rock", formally Detroit in the northern Americas. Dirty rock was once the engineering strong hold for for the allied forces. The factory's that once pumped out vehicles for Chrysler and ford, were converted to produce scorpions and warthogs. It didn't take long before the covenant made it a primary point of attack. Marines and ragtags from the UNSC managed to hold the city for more then 5 months. But, like most of earths major cities, it too was lost to the covenant hordes, and eventually abandoned. An O.P. Was set up shortly there after, ironically named "Megiddo". Originally used as a base to observe covenant archeological operations, O.P. Megiddo was now one of the last remaining launch points for earth based pelicans, and troop drop ships. The O.P. Was only a few miles away. Looking to the high horizon he could see the towers of the control center. He could see the black spots rising from where the air field would be, sitting atop a cloud for a moment, before fading into the blue. A glimmer of hope shined from each spot, but vanished as swiftly as they did, letting his heart drop deeper into him with each lost opportunity. They weren't coming, not for him, not for his shooter, nor the dead among the wreckage. He was alone, dying, and soon he would be spotted by the devils from the sky. The nightmares he so bravely fought for years, would now make death his new reality.