Job Allegory

Rain fell and seemed to fall through him into the thick mud as he stood bent over in the field. Water pooled in the livestock prints and soon covered them in muddy puddles.

Escape was unlikely. There were guards. And even the weakest of them would be a challenge in his current condition. If he made it out of the perimeter, the terrain was a woven mess of jungle. He hated to let thoughts of failure enter his mind. But he new self delusion would also make him an easy target. The reality was that he could never make it on foot. Their drones would have him by daybreak.

So he sat as the deluge flowed around him. Drifting in and out. He stared into the green wall of plants in front of him. His best chance of escape would be to just melt into the ground and let the water take him away. He could flow down the hill into the river. His body mixing with the sediment. He could flow out to sea and evaporate into the air under the baking sun of this stinking planet. He could float back home. Float back into her bed.

He snapped out of it. "Can’t pass out now."

The cords on his wrists dug deeper as he tried to change positions. He muffled a cry in pain. He felt his swollen hands and pictured purple sausages sticking out of white dinner plates.

Hate kept him awake. "Bastards."

His words went no further than a whisper in the downpour.

"You sons of bitches should have killed me. Why didn't they take the shot like we discussed?"

He broke down. He remembered yesterday. Or two days ago, he wasn't sure.

They had been on patrol all day only to find a few of their prey. The team quickly discussed options, fire angles, escape. Hosfelt and Bramhal stayed back in sniper positions. He set out ahead into the slimy grass, slowly creeping towards the ridge where the enemy camped. He broke cover on point and they had him within a few minutes. The plan had worked until then. The six or eight men they had seen in recon were being reinforced. Eight became ten which became fifteen.

Just as well. He liked the contingency plan. He knew this was his last time out. His handlers had hinted as much. And he would rather not shuttle home as anything other than an agent.

He waited for the pink mist of his captor’s brains to appear as they tied his hands. He had never seen it this close. "Not a bad thing to see before I die," he thought. It relaxed him more than any last cigarette could have.

But it never came.

No silenced round broke the air around him.

Where were they? They could still shoot him and take a few of these bastards with him! Like they planned! Like they fucking planned!

Fifteen seconds. A boot in his back as they grabbed his hands.

Thirty seconds.

"Shoot." He had whispered. "Shoot me god dammit!"

Nothing. It wasn't coming. They were going to let him be captured. He couldn't be captured! One hand free, he reached for his Sig and lightning shot through the base of his skull.

Then thunder. Then rain.

Then he woke up here. In the mud. In pain.