Dustland Requiem (A Bard's Folktale)

  * * *

  Glenn slowly regained his senses, unaware of how much time had passed. As far as he could tell, he was still caught in the war zone. He looked over to Jake, who was heaving and bloody with his back against the wall, returning fire. “Jake, j-just go,” Glenn spurted out. Jake slapped him upside the head, wrapping Glenn’s arm around his shoulder. “C’mon, Atty, quit bein’ a bitch. You know better than anyone: ya don’t leave a fallen comrade.”

  Glenn tried to walk, but was unable to continue with the knife wound in his thigh. Jake hoisted Glenn up around his shoulders, fireman carrying him across the little remaining ground covered in debris. Sticking to the wall and keeping a low profile, the two made it the hole in the wall.

  Jake knelt, lighting a cigarette as he peered through the hole. Looking through it, he appeared to be checking if it was safe enough to crawl through. Several bullets hit the wall next to Glenn, drawing Jake’s attention to the group of banditos pointing Mexican military assault rifles in their direction. Glenn crawled out in front of Jake, providing cover. Severe pain erupted in his thigh as Jake threw his fist into it, dropping Glenn onto his knee. Jake looked to him, smiling, with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, shoving Glenn through the hole.

  “Heh, take care a’ my sister, Atty. She deserves a real man, not some pussy boy like Lehane. Fuck ‘er good.”

  Glenn turned back only once, watching Jake drop to the ground as a volley of rounds transformed his silhouette into something unrecognizable. Turning his head forward, Glenn scrawled violently through the crevasse in the wall. He struggled, getting caught in the narrow cement passage. Forcing himself with everything he had left, he barely made it out to the other side. He gave his utmost effort, but was unable to push himself any further. He tried to call out with a raspy voice but produced little more than dry air.

  Unable to lift his head, Glenn had nothing left. His body collapsed. He began to suffocate as his head fell into a puddle of mud. Reflexive coughing burned his throat, wet sediment jerking up and down his trachea. It hurt, but it could’ve been worse. It wouldn’t be too much longer until he could finally rest…