Chapter Fourteen
He sat, shrouded in the shadows by the wall of a trench.
It had been a good day in the end. He hadn't even had to do much fighting. He trailed a thumb across the line of knives that he had gathered along his belt. Their weight was reassuring. It would be a good haul by the time he was finished.
There was another fight taking place around the corner. When the screaming stopped he would make his move, see what they left behind. He drummed his fingers impatiently as the screaming lingered on. He hated it when they didn't kill cleanly, there was no need for people to suffer unnecessarily.
His eyes flickered with fatigue. He still wasn't sleeping properly. That was nothing new. He pulled a knife from his belt and inspected the sharp, slightly curved blade. It didn't look like the SubWar blades. It wasn't standard issue. He wondered vaguely where the original owner had found such an object. Not that there was any way to ask a dead man anything. And if he could ask the dead some questions it wouldn't be about some knife.
He frowned as his thoughts wandered, irritated at himself for the distraction. He spun the knife between his fingers and aimed the blade at his skin.
The metal cut into his thumb easily, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. It seared into his consciousness and he was fully awake once again. It was no time to let tiredness make him sloppy and the pain would help him focus.
Movement on the ridge above him caught his eye. A boy and a girl were walking along the bank, they may as well have been trying to get themselves killed. He shook his head in disgust and turned his attention away from them. Stupid people always sent his temper rising.
The gunshots finally cut the screaming short and he heard the victors move away. They never thought to take weapons from the dead which was perfect for him, even if he couldn't understand it.
He slipped from the shadows towards remnants of the fight.
Five bodies were laid out along the ground. He stepped between them and started removing guns and knives, strapping them to himself in any way he could.
The final body wasn't quite dead yet. Blood poured from a wound in the man's chest. He didn't have long. He reached forward to take the man's revolver.
"Help," the dying man gasped.
"Sorry mate, but you're done. Make peace with whatever you believe in." He turned away but the man caught his ankle.
"Finish it." The man coughed as some of the blood found his lungs. It was a nasty way to go. He almost kept going, but there was no reason for the man to suffer.
"I hope you find a better place," he said as he slid his knife home between the man's ribs. He died before he felt the blade.
Footsteps. There were soldiers coming down the trench towards him. He ran and jumped, pulling himself up onto the ridge. Most of the soldiers weren't strong enough to climb out of the deep trenches which made the ridges safer. But he would also be more exposed.
A large piece of corrugated metal jutted up from another trench, creating a shadow. He moved into its cool embrace and waited for the soldiers to move away.
The boy and girl hadn't gone far. They were having trouble jumping the trenches. Idiots.
The soldiers were sneaking along in the trench to his right, a group of opposition were heading towards them from the other end. It was about to get messy.
The girl stopped and looked around. There was blood smeared across her cheek and he wondered if she was injured. She turned to face him and his breath caught in his throat. She must have seen him. He shrank back into the shadows and her gaze moved on. He couldn't take his eyes from her.
The boy was waving and shouting something.
Gunshots started up in the trench.
The girl's hair was whipped backwards in the wind. And he was running.