Waking Nightmare
Chase Clayrens Wikolay
Why can't I feel any pain? There should be pain, shouldn't there? I should feel something, shouldn't I? I'm pretty sure I should be feeling something. So why can't I feel anything? There should be a burning, a slicing, a…a…a something, shouldn't there? I know that I'm not dead, and I know I'm not fine, so where's the pain?
I push with my hands, pushing my head up off the ground. I have to see if there is something wrong with my body. But when I see, I am confused. My legs…my legs are missing. Why are my legs missing? I didn't…didn't do anything to them, did I? I try to remember what may have happened that could have caused my horrific dilemma. Was it a bomb? A grenade? A rocket? But I just can't think straight.
The memories flood back, rushing in like a great dam just burst. I was standing in the area of affect of a Wraith tank. I tried to dodge a blast, but I reacted too slowly. I felt nothing, nothing except a searing pain at my knees. I continued firing at the aliens in front of me, watching as my fellow soldiers, my brothers, ran ahead of me. They ignored me, to enraptured by the fight to worry about a fallen, likely dead, soldier. Then...then I think I must have blacked out.
Then it comes: a pain, a terrible pain that starts at my legs, or what's left, and works itself up my body. It is the pain I remember feeling before I blacked out. And as the pain comes, I see something else: a Brute, drool dripping from its fanged mouth…no, not a brute. It's a Brute Chieftain, wearing an honorific headdress, and wielding a massive gravity hammer. It raises the hammer above its head, and brings it down on my head.
"Aaaaaagh!"
I bolt upright, and turn my eyes cautiously, first one way, then the other. I'm in my bunk, in the barracks on Reach. The wind ruffles my hair, and I shiver; it is then I notice that I am drenched, head to toe, in glistening sweat. It was just a…a nightmare. I run a hand through my hair, and sigh. I watch my breath condensation, noting the cool chill in the air. Turning my wrist upward, I see that it is only 0200. I lie back down, but try not to fall asleep. I can't fall asleep. Not with that nightmare hanging in my mind, not with my heart beating against my chest.
"Left! Left! Left Right Left!" Thump! Thump! Thump Thump Thump! The pounding, along with the Sarge's constant yelling, beats a hard rhythm into the powdery soil. I don't know why Sarge has us running laps. But right now I don't care. All I care about is finishing; all I care about is ending this run. I puff, and shake my head. Thoughts don't help you run, actions do.
I keep running, and the rest of the platoon keeps running. We don't stop, we don't slow down. We all know that the pain our bodies feel is a warm shower compared to Sarge's wrath. We have all experienced Sarge's way of dealing with "insubordinates," as he calls those that don't do everything exactly right. We have all lain down on our bunks, arching our backs from the wounds he has inflicted.
I shake my head again. The run is almost over. I can see our base ahead, maybe five or six miles away. I sigh in relief, glad to be close to the end of our run. My legs…my legs are like jelly. I can barely stand on them, let alone run. But somehow, I keep running. Just like somehow, the UNSC keeps fighting the Covenant. I think I have come to the conclusion that that is the purpose of our runs: to remind us that we should never give up.
As we reach base, codenamed Camp Cherokee, Sarge nods. The platoon gasps for breath, simultaneously as an entity. I feel my legs buckle beneath me, and allow gravity to take over. I sink down, my legs collapsing beneath me. I watch my fellow soldiers follow suit. I wonder what menial task Sarge will have me—not my squad, platoon, or anyone else, me—do today. I hope that it will have at least something to do with guns. I've always loved guns.
I see Sarge walking toward me. Sarge isn't really a Sergeant, he's a Major. But everyone calls him Sarge; and the funny thing is that no one seems to know or care why. I see him glare, in that odd affectionate way of his, at me. I see him stop. I stand, and go to attention.
"At ease, Sergeant," he says. I put my hands down, behind my back. I am no more "at ease" then when I was at attention. "We have a shipment arriving from Earth. I want your squad to take charge of the operation, and guard the shipment."
"Sir? You want us to guard…supplies?" I'm confused. Why would a squad need to guard supplies? But maybe they aren't supplies; maybe they are weapons, or explosives, or…or…something else.
"I never said that, did I? I just said you were going to guard our next shipment arrival. Am I clear, Sergeant?" My eyebrows come together. If the shipment is not supplies, then what is it?
"Perfectly, sir!" He nods, and gives me the details of my squad's new mission. He nods again after he is finished, indicating for me to prepare my squad. Knowing exactly where they are, for they are always in the same place every day, I turn. I turn toward my barracks, and walk toward them. The pain I felt earlier is gone. I reach the door, and open it, to see my squad idling.
There's Privates Riley Johnson, with his small stature, muscular build, and shaggy brown hair much longer than regulations permit. There's Privates Ling Su and Lei Su, identical twins that I can never tell apart; they have short black hair, dark skin, and extremely thin frames. I watch the three of them play poker, Texas Hold 'em if I'm not mistaken. Ling and Lei are good bluffers, and they always win. But Johnson, he always was lucky.
I see Private First Class Jason McRow leaning against his bunk. McRow always thinks he's the coolest soldier out there. Private Shirlie Banks is sitting across from him. I could always tell they liked each other, but they never showed it. They were talking animatedly now, conversing no doubt about some music group or other. Private Jeremy Damen, a stolid young man, walks past them, cutting off their views of each other. Although McRow seems annoyed, Damen ignores the glares. Damen is a large man, a native African-American with enormous arms, glaringly white teeth, and a shiny bald head. I find it surprising that Damen's uniform even fits him, but somehow he manages.
My second in command, Corporal Gregory Mitchell, is taking a nap. He is extremely short, only around 5'3". He has a dark tan around his entire body, and he keeps his light blond hair at about 4", so it "looks nice, but professional," as he would say. He always manages to cheer up the squad, cracking jokes, encouraging us, and complimenting us. Definitely a must in my squad.
Then I see the last member of my team. He stands at 5'7", has a slim, muscular build, and short black hair, shorter than even regulations. He has slightly larger than average muscles, and is currently wearing only his uniform bottoms. He wears a sleeveless tank, and has his uniform top tied around his waste. The man is young, the youngest member of my squad; he is 21 years old. But the most interesting thing is that he is looking in a mirror, watching himself standing in the doorway. He is me, Staff Sergeant Michael Greensburg.
"Attention!" I call out. My squad scrambles to stand, and with a resounding THUMP, the table that my squad was using falls over. Cards spill out across the floor, but no one scrambles to pick them up. I look over them one more time, then nod. "At ease." As they put their arms down, I clear my throat. "The Major has a mission for us. He has assigned us to guard the next shipment arriving from Earth. I don't know why, and I don't care why. We have our orders, and we will follow through completely." I pause for a moment, and glance towards Mitchell, then continue briefing them. "We are to be at landing pad G5 at 0730." I relax, and indicate for my squad to continue their activities. I motion to Mitchell, and head into my private area, nicknamed my "office." He follows, and shuts the door behind himself. Before I get a chance to speak to him, he starts firing off.
"Sir, what is the meaning of this? Why would the Sarge send a squad of marines, Helljumpers even, just to guard the arrival of one shipment? What is in that shipment anyway?" I sigh, knowing someone was bound to ask me that. I give him the same answers that Sarge gave me, and let him out of my office. I know he is not satisfied with the answers I gave him, and I'm not either, but there's not exactly anything I can do about it. I press my fingers into my temple. Sarge's mission is giving me a headache, and Mitchell's questions don't help. I look at the watch on my wrist: it reads 2045. It's late; we must have run longer than I thought. I fall onto my cot, and close my eyes, falling into a dreamless sleep.
I wake up early, earlier than even required for today's mission. I get up, and push my hands into the air in a morning stretch. I take a quick shower in the squad shower, then get dressed in full combat gear. After I am fully clothed, I walk down the barracks, waking my squad from their slumber. When they are all awake, and hurrying to get dressed for today's mission, I look down at my wristwatch: 0551. We would be almost two hours earlier than needed, but that would be fine. When my soldiers are assembled and ready for the day, I pace around them, making sure that they are fully prepared for the day.
"Alright men, let's get our weapons and get to that landing pad," I say. There follows a chorus of "Hoorahs," and my squad and I file out of the small barracks. We stop at the small armory storage compartment outside, and grab our weapons (since weapons aren't allowed inside the barracks). I grab my standard BR55HB SR battle rifle, along with a custom sidearm. My handgun, called Christina after my best friend before I joined up, has saved my life time and time again. I remember her fondly, as she is the only woman I have met that was not part of the Corps. I kiss Christina on her barrel for good luck, just like I always do before a mission, then push her into my hip holster.
I sling my battle rifle across my shoulder, and whistle to get my squad's attention. They turn and follow me, each with their own special weapon load outs. I walk, my back rigid straight like it has always been for the past three years, towards the landing pads. As we walk, I notice that Camp Cherokee is empty. Sarge must have taken everyone else out on a run. I wonder why he didn't bring my squad, or why he even went out on a run, considering our mission today. Oh well, I don't really care. I'm just a soldier; I'm paid to shoot, not think.
When we reach the landing pads, my squad shifts their weapons nervously. I feel for them, but don't show it. Something isn't right; someone should have been here to greet us. I glance down at my watch: 0725. We are just barely early now, so a guard should have been posted. I put my hand up in a halt, and my squad immediately stops. I motion for them to hunker down and wait for the shipment, although I don't move an inch.
Five minutes later, a Pelican dropship arrives. First it's just a speck, a dot in the sky. But as it gets closer, I can make out its distinctive shape.
"Squad, form up!" I yell, and the squad hurries to obey. When the Pelican finally touches down, I move up to pull out the supply crates. But when the Pelican's back descends, revealing its interior, I can't see any crates. There is, however, a man dressed in a strange uniform.
"Gentlemen, thank you for joining me on this quaint morning." A sharp pain stabs in my back. I sense my squad mates falling around me, then I slump to the ground, unconscious.