Author: Matt Ivy Richardson

The man marches through mud and muck and gore. One foot in front of the other, pulse rifle at the ready and helmet crushed tight on his head. There are others at his side and behind him, marching through mud and muck and gore, burying bones into the wet earth.
If the man was aware of what lay under his feet, he would stop and scream. He would run.
He does not do this. He pushes a skull into the mud and keeps moving.
It is dark, pitch dark, and all the man sees are the green silhouettes of his night vision. His helmet tells him where to go, how far away he is. Nine hundred metres from the camp.
If the man could feel, he would be angry with the commanders in the ship above who sent him down here. He would be scared for his life, for the lives of those around him, for those already stolen. He would be a lot of things.
But he is not anything except a soldier.
His helmet picks up distant noise. Voices. Orders to evacuate, to prepare for a fight, to keep each other safe. The helmet, cinched to his ears and his temples and the back of his neck in a way that once hurt, projects the voices directly into his mind like they’re right next to him.
If the man could hurt, the shot that embedded itself into his thigh an hour ago would send him to the ground. The helmet does not let this happen, injecting him with a concoction of amphetamines that keeps him moving—keeps him marching through mud and muck and gore.
Five hundred metres to the camp. Their enemy—the man’s enemy—have only this small stronghold left. One final fight, one final spray of gun fire, and the province is theirs—his? The man lifts his pulse rifle. It will leave only warm blood and bones to be pressed into the mud, left to the whims of history.
If the man could think, would he run? Would he rip the helmet from his head and vomit into the mud, no matter the pain it would undoubtedly cause? Would he throw the rifle away? Would he raise it higher?
He is not going to be given the option. He has not been given the option since conscription.
They do not bother to sneak into the camp. Those within already know they’re coming. A shot fires. Proximity warnings blare in the man’s helmet. He is fine. The shot landed somewhere in the dark.
He raises his rifle. He fires. A scream, piercing. More bones in the dirt, blood and sinew falling to form more mud. More shots, the deafening rabble muffled by the helmet. The man does not take cover. It does not matter if he is shot.
Bodies fall, dissolving into almost nothing, until the camp is silent. It takes almost no time at all, after so many months and years fighting, but this was never anything but insurance.
If the man could dream, he would have nightmares for the rest of his life. Of the bones under his feet. Of the skeletons in the silent camp. Of the helmet embedded in his skin and his bones and his mind.
But the man can’t do much of anything, not anymore.
He stands in the mud, a femur at his feet, and waits for pickup side by side with all the rest. Fifty metres from the camp.