May 27 2057

  I haven't slept in over 20 hours. I'm so fucking tired. The sounds of soldiers fighting for the lives of dying men and women surrounded me. My hands are shaking, and my vision is failing me. I've been in this hell for 18 months, with no end in sight. At least the pitter patter of rain on the tent roof kept me grounded.

  When I got to the theater, we were at the Polish-Belarusian boarder. We were going to have the V Corps go for a breakthrough. The attempt to destroy Pact defenses failed, and lines have been back peddling for months. We've been pushed to the Vistula, and now the sounds of artillery grow every night, inching ever closer to our BCT headquarters and field hospital 20 miles west of Warsaw.

  My problems aren't real; this man's problems are. His brachial artery was severed by a piece of shrapnel. I'd gotten the shard of metal out without making it worse, but the man is in critical condition. I'm trying to clamp the artery, so he doesn't bleed out on me. I clamped off the artery before the man could bleed out on me, and I called for anyone who could get me a minute away.

  Fucking Pact artillery. Can't have shit anymore.

  “Can someone give me a hand? I need a drink of water”, I lied.

  I needed a go pill. I was so fucking tired. I could barely stand.

  “You have five minutes, but I got you”, Specialist Johnson said, taking over wsorking on my patient.

  I ran to the sink, and ripped the gloves off my hands. After throwing the gloves out, I washed my hands. Blood ran of my hands and swirled in the sink before disappearing down the drain. I dried them off and used hand sanitizer afterwards.

  I went to my pack in the corner of the room, among a pile of the same packs. After a few seconds, I found mine. I was glad to keep a carabiner on the handle. I unzipped the smallest pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills.

  Dextroamphetamine, my king.

  I took out two, and put the bottle back into my pack. I pulled my water bottle from the pack and took the pills. I was a few minutes away from chemical bliss.

  I started putting on another pair of gloves as Lieutenant Adams came by to take me awayk, “Another ambulance arrived. Help me bring in the wounded”

  “Yes, sir. I'll let Johnson know”, I said, beginning to wheel around.

  “No need. I let him know, so come on”, he said, turning.

  “Tracking”, I said reflexively.

  We left the medical tent, and my strained eyes were glad to have the softer light of a heavy cloud cover. Lieutenant Adams pointed toward the MRAP, an M4 Powell. It had the turret removed for a better optics system, and a heightened roof for more room for stretchers.

  “This one should have six more to drop off. If we're lucky, seven” he said while we jogged to the back hatch.

  The hatch opened, and blood seemed to trickle out of the vehicle as if it itself were hurt. Two soldiers carried someone out, and we followed suit. We carried the seven souls back to the awaiting operating tables. The division commander was lucky. Someone poured quick clot into the wound, saving his life. Back and forth we went, bringing the dying men in.

  As we carried the last soldier in, I felt weak. The go pills had started kicking in, but with the lack of sleep I've made myself tired, faster. My legs fell from under me, and I dropped to a knee. Because I fell, the stretcher twisted out of my arm, and the man tumbled onto the ground. He was screaming, writhing in pain.

  I failed him. I failed him like I failed myself. Why can't I stop fucking up?

  “Clarke, what the fuck man? Roll him back on the stretcher!”, the lieutenant said.

  We dropped down, and we rolled him back on. The soldier screamed as we got him back up.

  “Sergeant, we're going to talk after we get inside.”

  “Fuck”, I thought.

  I was about to be chewed the fuck out.

  We brought the final person inside, where we then maneuvered him onto an operating table. He was screaming until the morphine hit his bloodstream.

  “Sergeant Get the fuck over here”, Lieutenant Adams said while taking me outside, fury bleeding from his eyes.

  “I can't have you fucking dropping patients. Did you even go to sleep after your duty yesterday?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You've been working all night in this?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, fuck. I can't let you work on any patients until you've slept, but I can't let you off duty. We're swamped. You know what? Go be useful, and check our medical inventory”, he said, completely done with me.

  He just ordered me to take a nap, and I didn't even have the heart to tell him I'd taken go pills. I grabbed my pack and headed towards our inventory connex, knowing just how lucky I'd gotten off. If I couldn't get any sleep, I figured, I could at least eat.

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  I got to the connex, and opened the door. I went inside, turned on the light. The cot we left in here was left out, since we weren't trying to hide this as a way to allow soldiers to sleep. We didn't have enough people, and at least the the soldier needing sleep could count boxes to help fall asleep. They did have to get the inventory check, after all.

  I set my pack down, and grabbed an MRE out of it. Chili mac. I opened it, and got to eating. It was cold, but so was I. I finished eating what I could, and kept the crackers and cheese for later. I had a stockpile of about twenty of each, and that's how I've been getting the go pills for people. Pilots get hungry, and who doesn't like to slurp a tube of fake cheese?

  I started counting the inventory, going box by box, shelf by shelf. I found the sleeping tablets, and

  in a moment of weakness, pocketed a box. Before putting it away, I took a pill or two, in my amphetamine addled haze. Soon the bootleg speedball took control and I managed to get a few z's in.

  I woke up to a terrible roar enveloping the world. The connex rattled and shook. Boxes fell from the shelved, clattering to the ground. At least one glass vial holding a liquid medicine had fallen.

  I jumped in terror, rolling off the cot and crashing into the floor. Because the light had burned out in here, I momentarily saw stars in the pitch black connex. I forced myself to my feet, and struggled to find the door. The roar lessened to a low rumble. I got to the door, and opened it.

  “Fuck”, I said, looking to the eastern horizon, horror growing within me.

  I saw a mushroom cloud, growing in the air. The clouds around ground zero had cleared away. Light was shining through the clouds, like a god's eye boring a hole through to the Earth. I imagine she'd be quite upset if she was watching. It kept growing, and I soon realized I hadn't any protective gear on me.

  “Fuck”, I said under my breath.

  Someone finally raised the base alarm on the giant voice box. A warbling tone pierced the air around me. I brought my hands to my ears, attempting to block as much noise as possible.

  “ALARM RED. ALARM RED. ALARM RED. ATTACK UNDERWAY, SEEK HARDENED SHELTER”, the giant voice box shouted.

  I ran to my pack, and dumped the contents out. I can deal with the fallout for my drugs later. I ran and grabbed as much as I could from our radiation sickness stockpile. It would have to do, and there wasn't time. Finally, with my pockets and pack as stuffed full of as many meds as possible, I stepped back into hell.

  I headed to the smoke pit first, thinking that if anyone happened to be there they'd need immediate help. My heart pounded as I sprinted. I felt alive for the first time in weeks. Or maybe dead. I couldn't tell you what time it was, and I'm sure I was still rolling from the speedball. Arriving to the shelter, I found Private Moore holding Wojek, with a bandage around his head.

  “Shit, thank fuck, sarge. I've been trying to get Wojek to calm down. The window, man. I- I got blinded in my left eye-”, said Private Moore

  “Moore, hand me the cat and take this bag. We need to get to the shelter, and we don't have any fucking time”, I said, almost shouting.

  I took the cat from Moore, and helped him to his feet. I stuffed the cat into my blouse to keep him secure, even if he was mauling my chest. After, I slung the pack on Moore's back, and taking him by the arms, we stepped off.

  We left the connex, and I led us to the hospital tent. I saw the wounded carrying the dying. Everyone was desperately trying to get as much as they could to the shelter. So much was left behind in the confusion. I heard shouting from an operating room, where a doctor was shouting about if he moved the patient he would die. Others shouted nothing could be done and was going to die anyway.

  I decided he was right and went to the shelter. We moved with the river of men and women. Nobody could believe it had actually happened, yet here we were. Someone actually did the first strike. Some people had donned their protective gear, others saw no point. I saw one man who had lost it, and instead of donning their mopp gear, had pulled a bottle of hooch and started drinking.

  Better to die drunk than sober, I guess.

  The entrance to the bunker was nearly a crush, but we slowly streamed in. We were packed in tight, with barely any more room than to sit. A lucky few people, at least lucky enough to be early, managed to grab a spot to lie down. The rest of us were resigned to our fates of standing or sitting on benches.

  I wasn't lucky, so I sat on one of the benches in the shelter. People kept pouring in, and soon it was sweltering inside the dark bunker. Someone nearby started to play a harmonica, adding a melancholic positivity to our internment. At east someone decided our last few moments needed some brevity.

  I looked down, and saw someone laying on the ground, staring up. I felt Wojtek claw his way up, popping his head out of my blouse. The soldier on the ground turned his head and saw the cat.

  “Fuck yeah, dude. Wojtek's gonna make it!”, he shouted.

  The soldier let me take his spot on the ground, and the air grew less tense. Another soldier gave me his woobie for Wojtek. Several others came by to pet the little guy. Hell, just for saving him, I got a pack of smokes. In the end, we all embraced a friend one last time.

  “Fuck”, I said, blowing the smoke from a freshly lit menthol cigarette out, into the bunker.

  A second launch never happened, and twelve agonizing days later, we were relieved. Unlike the commander, we were going home.