I can't sleep. It's been five fucking days and I cannot sleep. My side arm is itching for release while my fingers ache for some rest. Five days of nothing but shelling and shocks and ceaseless chatter. I pull the slide back and check the chamber. Live. The safety is off despite repeated warning to keep our weapons safetied while inside the bunker. Where the fuck am I? Last I remember I was just outside i-95, somewhere near Richmond, waiting on sarge to give the go-ahead. I want those fucker's heads on a platter. I want sleep!
Last mission was hell. No, it was worse than hell, somehow. It just wouldn't stop. They kept coming. they seem to have endless ammo and all you could do is drop for cover and pray to god, just hope on a star, that they would fucking jam or have to reload. I wanted one of their rifles so I could do to them what they had been doing to us. Slowly we crept up on them, taking neighborhood by neighborhood. We took shelter in homes that otherwise would never shelter us. Third amendment flew out the window when those bastards invaded. We walked through hallways we never would have been in had it not been for this stupid war. I entered the rooms of children, teenagers, maybe even young men serving in the same battalion as me. I just want some fucking sleep!
I dropped my m4 on the floor and I just sat on my cot, .45 service pistol in hand, and sighed. I rubbed my eyes to ease the burning pain. If only we were given some eye drops, this burning sensation would not haunt me. Five days and no sleep! I saw the bodies of the helpless civilians caught in the crossfire and their blank stares. Bullet-ridden children and senior citizens. I swear I thought I was done with the killing, the senseless killing, of other people. I was wrong.
And I can't sleep.
"All right men, time to boogey."
But I just want some god damn sleep.
"Ivan is not letting up and they're taking most of dc—"
The white house has fallen.
"—it's time for Ivan to taste what we're made of. Let's go."
I can end this. Right now. I'm live and I can end this and get some sleep. Pull the slide back, place the barrel against the temple and squeeze the trigger. The .45 can penetrate the bone and mess the brain around before coming out the other side. Instant death. Maybe then I'll get some sleep.
"Ramirez, you've got point. Wake up and go."
We're running down a long tunnel—underground bunker—and the muted sunset hits us hard and steady. My eyes adjust from the onslaught of dim sunlight and I trip over a god damn rock. I run up a trench and make my way to the Hoover building. Sniper rounds wheeze by my ears, deafening me all the while bogeys on the second and third floor fire at us. I trip and eat dirt, the wind knocked out of me all the while my squadron marches forward. I open my eyes and notice the dead bodies around me. Weapons lying around. Fresh magazines littering the floor, and all I can think is dear god let me sleep. I turn over with what little strength I have and I get up, only to be knocked down again. My vision goes blurry and I hear sarge screaming at the top of his lungs. He's screaming at me, or to me, or for me—I'm not sure, but the weightlessness has already claimed me. I can't feel my arms, I can't feel my legs. I look down and a gaping hole is what I see. My fatigues are drenched and I'm screaming in my head. I don't want to die, but I want to sleep!
idon'twanttodieidon'twanttodieidon'twanttodieidon'twanttodie…
I open my eyes and sarge is yelling at me. I'm just outside the tunnel looking at the Washington memorial, m4 in hand, loaded, and ready to take the Hoover building.
"God damn it Ramirez, move, move, move!"
Déjà vu? I run towards the target and I trip over something, causing me to lose my balance but I correct myself and keep going. Sniper rounds wheezing near my ear, and it feels like my eardrums are going to pop. Two or three bogeys on the second and third floor are taking shots at us. Target building is straight ahead, and if I can get to those fuckers I can end this misery and get some fucking sleep. I trip and land in a trench, wind knocked out of me. Dunn grabs me by the arm and pulls me up. Point, he says. You have point. Get up soldier and fight. Fight, right. Ivan is who I am after. Ivan killed my mom. Ivan shot down the helio carrying civilians from the shelters and killed my mom. Ivan is the reason I can't sleep. I run right, parallel of the Hoover building while using the trench for cover, to get just one yard closer to my destination. My eyes are burning and my fingers ache and my brain is near the breaking point. Sleep is my motivator. Sleep. All I want. All I need!
I reach the end of the trench and immediately take the trench that heads left, straight for the Hoover building. So close I can almost touch the doors and enter the building and open fire on those sons of bitches. Point. Point. I have point. I must enter that building and take out the guards at the front door and then the bastards that have set up camp on the second floor of the atrium. Point. Point. First guard, he doesn't see me. Fire from the hip and take him down. Squeeze the trigger softly. One. Two. Three short bursts and I lift the butt of my m4 and knock the second guard unconscious. His head smacks the marble floor hard, but that's not very satisfying, he's still alive, and I can't sleep. Ever since they invaded, and hundreds of thousands of Ivans invaded the east coast, I haven't been able to sleep. His head hits that marble floor with a sickening thud and it's not enough, so I squeeze the trigger and the white marble is stained red.
I stagger back, trip on something, and land on my back. The searing pain I felt at first is now gone. My arm was hit, then my shoulder. I hear sarge give the order to take cover. Cover, I must find cover. The emptiness pulls me again, filling my head with sweet darkness: bliss. Sleep. I want sleep. Dunn is beside me again. He's got his hand on my arm and he's pulling something out of his breast pocket. I want to thank him, place my head on his shoulder and cry, but I can't. It's physically impossible to do so. He's got me pinned against the wall, keeping pressure on the wound. That's when I notice Ivan on the third floor. Far, far back but I see him. He's aiming at us, exposed, and he's going to kill us both. I try speaking his name but my mouth won't open. He's keeping pressure on my arm and this is what's going to get him killed.
It's going to be my fault.
I punch him on the face, amazingly enough, and this stuns him. Good, he's loosened his grip. I pick up my foot and place the sole on his abdomen and fling him away from me. Forgive me Dunn. Ivan takes aim and fires three consecutive shots. I go down, nay, get dragged down while the other two shots embed themselves on the wall. I hear my name shouted and I see Dunn's mouth wet with spit. He's crying. I know it even if I can't see any tears on his face. Sleep. I just want sleep is what I want to say. And as the darkness takes me I smile. Finally sleep. Finally, some fucking rest.
"Ramirez! Get some cover! Use your grenade launcher and take out those targets on the second floor!"
Sleep. Sleep! All I want is some fucking sleep!