Last Stand
For the first time Jackson felt fear. He had been scared before, but this was different. This was the wake up in a cold sweat knee buckling fear. He stood in a field of glass, remains of buildings stuck up in random directions, at his feet was a helmet its faceplate was shattered, the writing scuffed, the helmets metal was dull and scratched. His swept his gaze around and saw more armor and helmets scattered across the field, some were resting on the ground, some were embedded in the slag. He bent to pick up the helmet and examined it. The world was silent.
The helmets speakers crackled, and a faint signal came through, dozens of voices spoke in a faint scream.
"Everyone, fall back. Fall back now!"
"We're overrun."
"Everyone is dead!"
"Where's the reinforcements?!"
"Incoming!"
The voices joined each other in a single scream, then the signal died.
Waves of emotions hit Jackson; fear, loss, pain, . . .
The world became silent again, a fog slowly crept up on the soldier. Suddenly, with a loud whine, artillery landed nearby blue explosions, and heat washed over his body, and he ducked for cover. Through the fog he saw shadows; marines cut down by plasma fire; troopers crushed by brutes; soldiers trampled by grunts. Their screams rang in his ears. He ran forward in an effort to save them, but the fog swirled just out of his reach. The air seems like molasses, each step forward was a fight, a slog. he looked down, to the blackened ground stained red, he noticed his boots were sinking into the blood.
He turned back but was blocked by six figures. They seemed familiar and yet mysterious. Two were women, the other four men. their clothes and uniforms were ripped, their face is gaunt and haggard, bodies torn and yet still standing. they spoke in unison, different voices, yet their mouths remained closed.
"Jackson, why did you leave us? Where is your vengeance, our redemption? You left us to die. FAILURE!"
His vision focused; he knew them. His mother, her body broken by a bomb; his fiancé, burned by plasma bombardment. The other two were former squamates; his first deployment, the private; his first combat drop, his sarge.
They reached out as one and grabbed him, hissing, "Failure!"
He tried to pull away, but his arms refused to work they dragged him further into the blood. The level suddenly rose drastically sucking around his waist, over his shoulders, and up his neck. He managed to wriggle free and swim up momentarily, but something grabbed his feet and pulled hard, he swung out, but the red liquid filled his mouth and nose. He was drowning, he tried to scream.
Spartan Jackson sat up in his bed and swung his fist. It didn't connect with anything, and he was almost immediately pinned down again. Someone was calling his name.
"Frank, stand down!"
His consciousness caught up with reality. He was in his bunk; Spartan Sicko held his legs while Blitz held his arms and chest. Speedy stood over him with a worried look on his face.
"Miguel?" Jackson gasped, "what's going on?"
"You were screaming and thrashing around, you tell us." Miguel replied.
Blitz looked at Jackson and loosened his grip, "Nightmare?"
"Yeah, you could call it that. Can you let me up?"
They released their holds and Jackson swung his legs over the side of his bunk. He held his head in his hands and took a deep breath. Miguel, with concern in his voice asked, "Frank, you want to talk about it?"
"Not really," Jackson replied, "Just war memories. Fallen comrades and friends."
Any further discussion would have to wait, for at that moment an alarm began to ring, and an order for all personnel were to report to their battle stations at once.