The Soldier

There was blood everywhere. The street was coated with it, darkness pooling in potholes and cracks, splatters painting the pale gray sidewalks. The soldier could feel it on herself, heavy drops crawling down her face, smeared on her cheeks, trickling through her hair. Dripping. Slowly. So slowly. Thickness coating her hands, seeping into her skin. She could smell it, the sharpness, taste the coppery notes on her tongue. Choking.

Suffocating. Drowning.

She should move. Get up. Leave. Do something.

But she couldn’t. The soldier stayed where she was, frozen. She didn’t know how long she had been kneeling on the pavement—she distantly noted the dull ache in her knees, the ash stinging her eyes. But it wasn’t important.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the smoldering remains at her feet. Nothing but a heap of fractured concrete and jutting beams and gray cement. All of it coated in blood. Blood, blood, blood. Thick. Red. Everywhere.

Oh God, it was all over her. She could feel it, crawling like an insect, dancing along her skin, taunting her with its vivid color. It was choking her, filling her lungs, seeping in her eyes, devouring her inside out.

Her own breathing rang sharply in her ear, faint, trembling gasps rising in pitch as she fought to breathe through the thickness consuming her. Red. Bright, vivid red. The color of the roses her mother had sent her last weekend, tied with a pretty pink ribbon, velvety petals bright against leafy stems. Such a pretty color. It was splattered all over the street. On her hands.

Get up. Get up. The soldier forced herself to stand, legs shaky as she rose from the gritty pavement, trembling hands scrabbling on the ground for balance. They looked so pale next to the darkness of the cement.

The street was silent save for her staccato breaths. Eerily silent. No chirping birds, no faint chatter of residents, not even whispers of the wind. The world was still, holding its breath. A moment of silence, mourning, for the 200 souls who had been in the building when it crumbled.

The soldier tore her gaze away from the smoldering remains, the vivid red coating them, and staggered out of the street. Here, there was less smoke, and sharp sunlight stung her eyes as she tried to cobble her thoughts together and figure out what to do. The base. She should return to base. She’d have something to eat, give her report, and take a shower. Wash off the stickiness coating her.

Yes. This was a good plan. Very logical, practical. Good.

Now with a clear directive, the soldier began to make her way back. Get to the car. Go to base. Eat. Report. Shower. She replayed it in her head, a desperate attempt at blocking out the whispers taunting her. The seeping of the blood into her clothes, hot wetness sticking to her skin. The image of a little boy's smile.

The soldier had met Isa two months into her relocation. She was assigned on patrol, a late night shift all newbies were forced to suffer through. She had been tense, on edge: jumping at each shifting shadow and light rustle, unsure of what to expect from the new area. She kept her hand on her holster as she drove, wary of the violence and rabidity of the locals.

A sharp rattle made her flinch. The soldier whipped her head towards the source of the sound, parking and slinking to the entrance of a narrow alleyway. Another rattle, this time followed by a sharp cry. The soldier braced herself, pulled out her weapon, and twisted her head to look into the street.

They were...children. The soldier relaxed slightly, but kept her weapon close. You never knew.

It looked like a group of young boys, no older than ten. The rattling had been from the impact of the soccer ball they were kicking against a chain-link fence.

“Curfew was two hours ago, you know,” the soldier decided to make her presence known. “You shouldn’t be out.”

The kids startled, whipping their heads towards her, eyes widening and scrambling back at the sight of her green uniform. It was amusing how quickly their demeanors changed from the loud whooping and roughhousing only seconds before. Still, though, the soldier left her hand hovering by her waist.

An older-looking boy looked down, his voice shaky as he apologized. “We’ll go right now. Ma’am,” he added after a moment.

The soldier nodded, the children looking suitably sheepish and apologetic. But one of the boys, the one holding the ball, a short, scrawny little thing with the messiest curls she had ever seen, took a step towards her. The soldier tensed.

The boy was scowling, looking her right in the eyes. “The soldiers never patrol this side of the city.” A question. An accusation.

The soldier gave a soft scoff. “I’m good at my job.”

The boy glared. She admired his buff. But it was also stupid.

“Look kids, just go home. And make sure to follow curfew from now on.” The soldier made sure to make her expression stern. “I don’t want to catch any of you out here again.”

The children all nodded frantically, save for the one still glowering. One of the other boys pulled on his arm, but was shoved off.

“Isa!” The frantic whisper was ignored.

“We have a game tomorrow. We need to practice.” The scowly kid—Isa—sounded petulant, but there was a hint of resolve belying it. His eyes gleamed, meeting her gaze defiantly.

The soldier groaned internally. It was too late for this and she didn’t have the patience to argue with a whiny little snothead.

“Go home.” She forced steel into her voice. She saw the kid’s eyes flick down to her holster, saw him hesitate, take a small step back. Good.

The children murmured assent, and began to disperse, even Isa. But the soldier didn’t trust that challenging gleam in his eye. You never knew with these kinds—better to snuff it out before it grows, her sergeant had always said.

“You. Bedhead.” The boy turned. “You’re gonna come with me.”

His breathing hitched. The other boys froze, looking between them.

“I’m gonna drive you home. Make sure you actually follow the curfew.”

She could see the kid’s shoulders lower fractionally, a soundless sigh of relief escaping the group of boys as they relaxed. And, finally, started leaving.

Isa followed her wordlessly to the patrol vehicle, and the soldier kept her gaze on him as they strapped in. He was quiet, eyes downcast, fidgeting slightly and casting wide eyed glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

The soldier cleared her throat gruffly. “I’m not gonna murder you, kid.”

His head whipped around to look at her, inspecting her, before seeming to decide she was telling the truth. Isa slowly sunk back into the chair, his posture slackening.

Apparently though, the assurance worked a little too well, and the soldier immediately regretted her attempt at being nice when the kid opened his mouth again.

“I thought these would be cooler on the inside.”

The soldier sighed.

Isa inspected the console, poking at the seat and walls and whatever his grimy little hands could reach. “What do these do?”

She slapped the kid’s hand away when it started creeping over buttons on the controls. “Stop it. Where’s your house.”

The kid ignored her, instead humming as he opened and closed the compartments by his seat. “You know, we do have a game tomorrow.” He tried to roll down the window. “I’m really good at soccer. My baba says I’m like Messi.”

God she hated kids. They never listened. “Where’s your house.”

Isa finally turned to look at her. His feet were swinging, kicking at the console. He was wearing ratty Spiderman sneakers. “I live in an apartment, not a house.”

She was going to gut Richie for making her take this shift. “Fine. Where’s your apartment.”

Fortunately, the kid obediently spouted off directions, and the soldier began the drive to the south side of the city. Unfortunately, the kid also spouted off a steady stream of random facts about his life, his friends, his amazing soccer skills, and a bunch of other drivel she couldn’t care less about. He chattered endlessly, sometimes directing questions to the soldier which she acknowledged with grunts. That still didn’t dissuade him.

Isa didn’t shut up the entire ride.

She really hated kids.

“And then he flips in midair and kicks—”

“Is this it?” The soldier interrupted harshly. She was ready to throw the kid out the window. Isa popped his head up to inspect the decrepit gray building they had pulled up in front of. “Yup!”

He hopped out, arms wrapped tightly around his ratty soccer ball. Before closing the door, he turned back to the soldier.

“You’re really weird.” On that cheery note, he skipped into the apartment complex, leaving the soldier blinking in bewilderment.

God, she really hated kids.

The soldier finally got rotated out of the night shift a month later. But she still ran into Isa during the day—he began to follow her on her routes, hitching rides in her patrol vehicle, taking her grunts and monosyllabic responses as permission to prattle endlessly in her ear. She found herself putting a trash bag in her vehicle for his goddamn pistachio shells and snorting at his awful Jackie Chan moves and giving him ideas for how to bother his little sister. He was annoying and snotty and never shut up and she still hated kids, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to have company sometimes.

The canteen was loud, chatter and laughter echoing off the metal tables and floor and walls. The soldier went through the motions in a haze, grabbing a tray and making her way to the usual table.

She sat, humming a noncommittal greeting to the others through a mouthful of food. Eat, report, shower. A mantra, a lifeline—just another set of orders to follow.

The blood was splattering on her food, dark rivulets dripping from her fingertips to the plate and table. The rich color was stark against the shiny metal surface. The soldier felt the few meager bites she’d choked down twist in her stomach, threatening to rise.

She shoved her plate aside. It left a red streak on the table’s surface.

No one seemed to notice.

Distantly, the soldier could hear the others bickering, Richie boasting about his heroics during patrol last night as the girls scoffed disbelievingly. She kept her eyes on the half-written report in front of her, trying to keep down the bile.

“So how was the operation?” The soldier looked up, meeting Hel’s questioning look across from her. “You seem quiet.”

The soldier shrugged. “Fine.” She turned back to the report. Standard procedure, she marked, flipping the page to write the details. Residential building #1208-72. ASF B-34 explosives. All targets eliminated.

Her hands were trembling.

“God I hate the stupid missions they send us on,” Richie was complaining. “You’d think they’d be giving us the bigger stuff by now.”

Hel scoffed. “They’re not gonna give anything to you, idiot.”

“I can’t wait to do something more exciting,” Richie sighed, slumped over the table. His gaze was wistful as he turned to the soldier. “Do you think they’ll finally upgrade you soon?”

“Yeah, miss top of the class,” Hel bumped her shoulder teasingly, but there was something sharp in her eyes. For once, the soldier couldn’t bring herself to care. “Put in a good word for the rest of us when you’re cozying with the commander.”

The soldier kept her gaze down, shrugging. The bile was rising now, thick and sour in her throat. Or maybe that was just the blood.

The soldier’s assignment was long that day.

Isa had found her an hour into her watch, and, after bullying the soldier into letting him sit by her post, proceeded to regale her with updates on schoolyard drama while fiddling with a piece of notebook paper that had seen better days.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” she finally broke in.

“Nope!” The paper was now resembling a deformed frog. “School’s canceled today because of the demolitions.”

The soldier scowled at the hideous art project before turning her gaze back to the street.

“Besides,” Isa’s voice was smug. “You’d miss me if I left you all alone.”

She shot him a withering glare, the same one that made the rookies tremble and got her first in line at the canteen, but his sunny grin remained firmly, annoyingly, attached.

She scoffed, giving up the attempt at intimidation and facing the street again. “Brat.”

He just hummed, clearly pleased with himself. They sat in silence for a few moments, just the hum of the city at midday and the crinkling of Isa’s paper.

“You know, I’m top of my class.” She looked down to where Isa was sitting, cross-legged and hunched over his origami. “I’m a capable, intimidating officer of the law.”

“Uh-huh,” his tongue poked out as he attempted to wrestle his paper monstrosity into submission. He didn’t even spare her a glance.

God she was going soft.

“What do you think?” Isa finally held up the paper, arms outstretched as though he was carrying baby Simba.

“It’s a ball of crumpled paper.”

He pouted. “It’s a car.”

The soldier raised a brow, unimpressed. Isa sighed dramatically at her expression, as though she was to blame for his lack of artistic talent, before flopping backwards to slouch against the stone wall of the embassy.

“I’m bored.”

“Hng.”

“When can we leave?”

“There’s no we.”

“I thought doing stuff during the day would be more interesting.”

“Go find interesting stuff to do then.”

Isa huffed, loud and dramatic, slumping further down against the wall. But he never got up to leave.

Silence met her report. Time stretched—the soldier could feel the commander’s steely gaze inspecting her. She forced herself not to fidget under its weight.

“This was your last base operation,” The soldier flicked her eyes up, met cold blue eyes. “I’ve been impressed with you. Your efficiency, work ethic. Loyalty.”

Her breath caught. She could taste iron in the back of her throat.

“I’m moving you up to command,” the commander was looking at her expectantly. “You’ll assist Officer Keese in managing operations and, if you perform well, have the opportunity to work your way up.”

Smoke. Screams. Blood. Thick, hot, dripping, coating her, choking her, everywhere red red red.

The commander's voice softened imperceptibly. He stepped closer. “I see potential in you, soldier. What do you say?”

Isa loved soccer. His front baby teeth had both fallen out, making his “r”’s sound more like “w”’s. He bounced his legs whenever he was sitting. He carried a bag of pistachios everywhere with him, leaving behind a trail of shells wherever he went. He had a dimple on his right cheek but not his left. He had the entire multiplication table memorized except for the sevens. He always wore his ratty Spiderman sneakers, holes worn into the toes of the faded red and blue fabric. His hair perpetually looked like a bird’s nest that had been set on fire and then kicked around like a ball. He wanted to become an astronomer when he grew up. He collected ants to stuff in his sister's lunchbox. He never went anywhere without his soccer ball. He thought girls were stupid and also kind of gross. He was obsessed with karate movies.

He was supposed to play in the soccer championship this weekend. There was a cheap plastic trophy for the winner, bragging rights for a whole year. He was supposed to litter her patrol vehicle with pistachio shells, flecks of green flying out his mouth as he prattled on. He was supposed to complain about math and run around in his stupid Spiderman shoes and show off his karate moves. He was supposed to—

There was redness pooling at her feet. The soldier looked up, blood dripping from her fingertips. “I’d be honored, sir.”