I'm the dead body on the left

                                                            I’m the dead body on the left


I’ve just been shot again. 

I’ve lost count of the number of times this has happened, and it’s beginning to annoy me.  Last time, I managed to hit the b*stard, but he came straight back and unloaded his gun into me.  I didn’t have time to blink before he was standing a few paces away, pointing his weapon at me, and then I was falling to the floor, shredded.  I watch the blood seep away, taking my life with it.  I close my eyes.  I may as well.

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HAH!  Got you, you b*stard!  You weren’t expecting that, were you, because you ran in more slowly that time.  I got to the pillar before you knew it, and saw your head pop round the corner.  Then I nailed you.  I approach the black suited body.  Everything fades out.

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It’s nice, late at night, when the mall’s pretty much closed.  There are a few shoppers moving around, in some sort of zombie like trance, just letting the colours of the shop windows smear themselves on their eyeballs.  The mall looks clean, new, as though it’s just been opened.  And I – wait, there he is.  Sneaking up on a different side this time.  That’s OK, I still saw him before he saw me.  I close one eye and centre my gun on his head.  Blast!  He ducked and rolled, but he still hasn’t seen me.  I just roll gently round the column and oops!  There he is.  Looking towards the other Tactical team members.  Bang!  That got him moving.  Straight into the waiting gun barrel of my colleagues.  We walk towards him.  Fade out.

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I always wanted to serve my country.  My family were incredibly patriotic, flag of allegiance and all that.  My dad used to stand with tears in his eyes whenever there was a news story about ‘Nam or Afghanistan – whoa, don’t mention anything about THAT war to him.  Far as he’s concerned, we went in, we’re all heroes, any other soldier is a pansy.  I’m proud of my dad, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes I think he’d have been better off being born in the ‘40s.  My mum wanted me to study and become a doctor or a vet or something but you could always see my dad wanted me to join the army.  And sure enough, as soon as I hit the big one-eight, I was in there.  The life was good.  We learned – ah, I thought he was never going to show up.  We heard some shots before, he sounded like he was just randomly shooting.  Maybe trying to find a way out, so he didn’t have to come through here.  They all have to come through here.  In the end.  He’s obviously tired.  He walks in and fires off a few shots, just to attract the attention of my colleagues, I bet.  He shouldn’t have done that.  They react with typical ruthlessness, and let him have it.  He doesn’t resist.  We walk towards his crumpled form.  Darkness.

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Boy, morning already!  I thought it was night time a second ago.  The mall looks pristine in the sunlight.  In fact, you’d think you could see pretty much anything –

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I’ve been shot again, haven’t I?

At the age of twenty, I was already more than just a grunt.  I had more kills to my name than any one else in the squad, and they called me ‘Predator’.  I’d wanted ‘Nimrod’ 'cos of the myths – the hunter, out for justice – but the squad fell about with laughter when I tried that one on.  Then I thought, “Nemesis”, but when they found out that the character was a woman – well, let’s just say I wish I’d never mentioned it.    Was that a - ?  OW!

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Dying doesn’t hurt as much as they said it would.  First off, this guy just lets rip.  He shoots us seven, ten times over, three or four more times than he needs to.  But I can see his point.  This armour lets us absorb some bullets, so although we act like we’ve been hit bad, we just pop up again and shoot him.  He has no armour, so I feel kind of bad taking him down, but orders are orders, and he’d only shoot me if he had half a chance.  Secondly, it only lasts for a second and then you fade out for a while, just until everything starts again.  And each time it’s different, and I always believe that I’m going to win.  Right up to the moment where I feel that bullet entering me again, and I may as well just give up.  I feel compelled though, if I’ve only been hit a couple of times, to fight back.  Not to run and get help.  No, my orders are plain.  If we don’t want this to be a suicide mission, we have to succeed.  We have to shoot him first.  I just wish I knew when we’d won.  Even if we shoot him, everything just starts again.  Is it the same guy?  Is it the same day?  The same mall?  Am I the same person, John Smith, Tactical Team member, with 3,457 kills under my belt since….since….I can’t remember.  You know, it’s weird?  It’s like having a background but no future.  I can remember – blast!  He’s nearly made it across, what the h*ll was I doing?  He’s forgotten about me….or maybe he has never seen me before.  I shrug, and point my gun at the back of his head.  I drop him.  We walk towards the immobile man.  Twilight falls.

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Wait.  Wait.  Before he arrives.  Before it all ends.  I have in my pocket….a picture.  Look!  A wife!  Oh dear god, my lovely wife.  Jane Smith, Jane Doe as was.  And my son, Andrew.  I wanted to call him Anthony, but my wife, she said that it could be shortened to Tony, and she wanted to make sure he’d always sign his name “A. Smith”.  So he’d never forget his family, his identity.  I have never forgotten my family.  I love my wife.  We met whilst I was on leave.  That’s usual.  You either marry into the army or you have to wait until you’re off duty, grab what you can.  The army is great as a family but it gets a bit oppressive sometimes.  So we were in this bar, and she walked in.  Amidst the cat calls, she noticed me, and came over.  The rest is history.  We got married four years ago, and Andy came along two years later.  I love my son.  We’re going to have another baby, just as soon as I get off duty.  I’m not sure when that’ll be.  When I get back, Andy will have changed a bit, I guess, I missed him walking and his first word, and his…..first day at school…..and his first….how old is this damn kid?  Wait.  Wait.  I left them when he was just a baby.  We’d just had –

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Got me again, huh? 

I’m staring at this picture.  I’m sure I had it taken just before I left.  He was….a baby.  He was two.  No, I remember thinking how sad I was that he walked when I wasn’t there.  He was…..a baby.  He was learning to talk when I left….after he walked…before he….he was a baby, I held him in my arms, felt that fragile warmth, cradled that tiny body.  I wish I were with him now, I want to feel that pride of father hood again.  He was SO tiny.  I want to see those limbs wave about, and his dark eyes meander across my face.  I want him to suddenly recognise me, to smile, to laugh.  I want to see him sit up, to grab his toys, to stuff them in his mouth, to spit out his food, to throw his bowl across the table.  I want…..Oh god.

Maybe I can beg him not to shoot me.  Maybe I can just walk out of here.  There must be more to this place than this one room.  This time, he points the gun at me and shouts something.  Something about his not coming quietly.  I drop my gun and get to my knees, just like he asks.  I hold my hands in the air.  He comes closer, holding his gun out.  The other guys close in, despite him shouting that he’s going to kill me.  Stay back, I think.  No good. 

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Perhaps if I walk towards him and surrender?  No, I still don’t know if he shot me last time because of the guys, or because he wanted to.  They say of him that he’s a cold hearted b*stard and that I should never trust him.  I just want to go home!  Is my wife still waiting for me?  How long have I been here?  It feels like the fairy world – do you know the legends?  An English woman told me once.  You go to Fairy land, eat some food and stay there a thousand thousand nights.  When you come out, all your family are dead and buried.  Is that where I am?  I hear a crackling noise, and realise it’s my radio.  I grab it and lift it to my mouth.
“Hello?” 
Static answers me.
“Look, I just want out.  I don’t want to fight any more, please can I go home?  I have a wife and kid for Chrissake.  I need to see them.  I just want –“
“GET THE H*LL OFF THE AIR, SOLDIER!”
I drop my radio quickly and catch a black suited figure from the corner of my eye.  It seems I have attracted his attention.

He watched the body fall to the floor dispassionately.  He thought he remembered someone shouting about a wife and kid, but this did not concern him.  He needed to escape this place, to move on, and the only way to do that was by killing everyone in sight.  He was about to leave, when he checked suddenly.  There was a scrap of cardboard on the floor, a woman holding a baby.  He left it, as it was of no use to him, and he’d seen it before. He wondered if these poor schmucks realised that they all had pictures of the same woman, that with the uniform, they all looked the same, they had nothing to identify them.  He wondered who she was, or if she even existed.  Then he wondered about his ammo, and grabbed the gun out of the dead soldier’s hands. 

And behind it all, was the person who risked nothing, felt nothing.  They did not care about the lives of the people they controlled, only if their character got through the game to the next level.  They mowed down countless faceless soldiers, their capacity to care being eroded by every body, their concern over the death of a fellow human being seeping away, fading even as the dead bodies faded from the screen.  They watched people die, cars burn and cities crumble.  But at least they had the highest score.