The Time Loop

Private Kiriya-1

When the bullets start flying, it’s only a matter of time before fear catches up with a soldier.

There you are, steel death whizzing past in the air.

Distant shells thunder low and muddy, a hollow sound you feel more than hear. The close ones ring high and clear. They scream with a voice that rattles your teeth, and you know they’re the ones headed for you. They cut deep into the ground, throwing up a veil of dust that hangs there, waiting for the next round to come ripping through.

Thousands of shells, burning through the sky—slices of metal no bigger than your finger—and it only takes one to kill you. Only takes one to turn your best buddy into a steaming side of meat.

Death comes quick, in the beat of a heart, and he ain’t picky about who he takes.

The soldiers he takes quick—before they know what hit ’em—they’re the lucky ones. Most die in agony, their bones shattered, their organs shredded, leaking a sea of blood onto the ground. They wait alone in the mud for Death to steal up behind them and wring out the last drops of life with his icy hands.

If there’s a heaven, it’s a cold place. A dark place. A lonely place.

I’m terrified.

I grip the trigger with stiff fingers; my arms shake as I send a rain of scorching steel down onto the enemy. The rifle kicks as I fire it. Vunk. Vunk. Vunk. A beat steadier than my heart. A soldier’s spirit isn’t in his body. It’s in his weapon. The barrel warms until it glows, the heat turning fear into anger.

Fuck the brass and their f*****g pathetic excuse for air support!

Fuck the suits and their plans that aren’t worth a damn once the s**t starts flying!

Fuck the artillery for holding back on the left flank!

Fuck that bastard who just got himself killed!

And more than all of ’em, f**k anything and everything aiming at me! Wield your anger like a steel fist and smash in their faces.

If it moves, f**k it!

I have to kill them all. Stop them from moving.

A scream found its way through my clenched teeth.

My rifle fires 450 20mm rounds per minute, so it can burn through a clip fast. But there’s no point holding back. It don’t matter how much ammo you have left when you’re dead. Time for a new magazine.

“Reload!”