Hi all! Part 2 of the vampire story is coming soon, but here's a nagging story that pestered me the whole week. I had to get it out of my system. Enjoy!
***
The car inched slowly toward the traffic lights. Ethan's knuckles flared white from gripping the wheel. His teeth gritted at the thought of being stuck with everyone else in rush hour traffic.
"At least 50 people were killed at 63 people wounded in a clash in the Anbar region," the radio's newscaster announced.
Ethan yawned as he took out a stick of cigarette and lit it. He figured that once he was done with it, he would have passed the traffic lights, the worst part of his daily commute.
"Women and children were among the casualties."
Ethan looked ahead. Almost there.
***
"Are we there yet?" asked Jeremy.
"Not if you keep asking," the driver said.
"Can't wait to get back to base is all, Mike."
"Tell me bout it. I could use a cold one ri--"
A plume of smoke rose in a mushroom five yards ahead. Jeremy felt a punch in his innards as the shockwave hit a split second later. The cloud of dust seemed to eat the vehicle ahead of them. Gunshots rang as the sand and smoke coalesced to form a brown cloud of death. A rain of debris peppered their vehicle. Jeremy couldn't tell if it was rocks or bullets hitting their truck.
"Shit! Go! Go! Go! Go!"
Mike jammed the accelerator, praying that he wouldn't ram into the vehicle ahead and end up stuck in the kill zone. When he managed to clear ten yards, he prayed that the guys ahead made it out alive. He knew the driver and his children, even broke bread with them in Ohio once.
"We gotta make sure they're alright," Jeremy said, but before they could make sense of the situation, another blast went off to their left. It wasn't a direct hit, but it was as if God himself came down and thwacked their truck with a newspaper. It teetered over the tipping point, and Jeremy felt the truck's equilibrium shift in slow motion.
Metal crunched on dirt, and Jeremy turned to see the driver falling on top of him. He grunted as his right shoulder bore the brunt of the impact. Pain seared through his shoulder and neck, but there was no time to think. "Out! Out! Out!" Jeremy slapped Mike on his helmet repeatedly.
Mike shoved the door open like a trapdoor. He clambered out and jumped roof side for cover. The dust was so thick that it blocked off the sun where he stood. The only reliable sense left was his hearing, and judging from the gunshots, it would probably be the last sense he'll get to use. Jeremy jumped down beside him.
"You alright man?" Jeremy asked.
"I'm fine, we gotta call for--" Mike's helmet flew off along with part of his skull. He dropped so fast that Jeremy was still waiting for him to complete his sentence.
"Fuck!" The dust cleared a little and Jeremy made out two silhouettes in the distance. Jeremy opened fire. One of the shapes fell, while the other ran for cover. The figure seemed to run back out, screaming. Jeremy squeezed the trigger, spraying the target with a burst of lead. It fell down but didn't die. It dragged itself towards the body.
Jeremy's extremities were numb, but his skin was hot, and he could feel acid in place of blood in his veins. Another figure broke cover, but Jeremy could tell its lack of training in marksmanship. When he looked carefully, though, he realised why.
The boy aiming the gun at him was barely older than his son. No time to think. Jeremy put two shots into the boy's heart, and trained his sights back on the crawling figure. It was hugging the body, and let loud a wail that killed any last semblance Jeremy had of a soul.
He looked carefully and saw a woman crying over a boy. Did I just--
Insurgents closed in from every direction, taking potshots at him with their AK-47s. Jeremy did a quick count, then sighed. He dropped his rifle. He had many regrets in life, but his biggest one that day was not telling his wife that he loved her. He regretted the silly argument they had on Skype that morning, which now seemed like the most trivial thing on earth, in the grand scope of things.
The men screamed orders at him as they neared. Jeremy recalled the mangled bodies he recovered from search and rescue missions. Missing body parts were a sign of the suffering they had to endure before their death. He also remembered how prisoners of war were beheaded with combat knives, and wanted no part of that.
He drew his pistol and whispered his last goodbye to his wife and son. He shoved the barrel into his mouth, but other bullets found him before he could pull the trigger. He slumped, knelt, and became another statistic in the Iraq war.
***
Ethan finally passed the worst part of traffic. From that point onwards it'd be smooth sailing all the way to his office. One day. One day I'll get a job that's closer to home. Then I wouldn't need to bother with all these jams.
"A growing number of malaria cases in Giyani and Phalaborwa sparked an outbreak threat in those regions."
Or I could work from home. No need to commute, even better.
"About 250 deaths have been reported, and the death toll is on the rise."
***
The boy sat beside his father, the old man's breath coming and going in short spurts. The boy's tears dotted his father's chest. He had slept beside his father for two days now, only stopping to drink after he'd fed his father some water. The father was too sick to take in anything else. Water was scarce in Giyani, and since the incident, food looked to be short in supply as well.
Mom died last week, and she was buried in their backyard with only a stick and a few pieces of stone to mark where she lay. At first it was a fever. Then her joints hurt. One day, she couldn't get up from bed, and was flashing in and out of consciousness, and her skin was hot enough to boil an egg on. They did not have the money for medical expenses, so father and son watched her slowly die.
Then daddy got sick, and the horror was repeating itself all over again. The boy had to walk an hour's hike--one way--to get enough water for their daily needs. His dad couldn't work, and the trip to the market was three times farther than water, so the boy had to stomach stale bread for the past three days. It's not that bad. If daddy gets well again, I won't mind eating stale bread for the rest of my life.
In between his laboured breaths, the father would whisper "Boy... my boy," and all the boy could do was hug his father tighter. The boy had no one to go to for help. He knew nobody in the village, and in his arms lay everything he had left in his life.
After days of struggle, the wrought look on his father's face turned to one of acceptance. He looked at the boy and smiled.
"I... love...," he said, and let out a mix between a groan and a sigh. The boy saw a glazed hue take over his father's eyes as he made the transition from life to death. His father's face remained the same, but was different at the same time.
"Daddy?" the boy called out. "Daddy? Daddeeeeee," as he sobbed the night away in his father's breast.
***
Ethan finally pulled into his office car-park.
"It is the seventh day of search operations and there still is no sign of the missing pl--"
The radio cut off as abruptly as Ethan parked and killed the engine. Such boring news on the radio these days.
As the automated doors opened, cold air emerged to give him respite from the heat. He gulped a mouthful of water from the water fountain and proceeded over to his cubicle.
"My life sucks," he muttered. "Nothing could be worse than this."
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