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The Healing of Death by russ687
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The Healing of Death - I
Date: 12 May 2006, 5:26 am
The Healing of Death
I
For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable
Thou shouldst not grieve.
Bhagavad Gita
The sun was bright and assaulting, hanging menacingly in the sky and beating the occupants of this earth with radiation and heat that only brought upon the natural responses of perspiration and dehydration. Clouds did not exist in the heavens, and humidity could not hope to subsist in such a dry and featureless climate. This was the true definition of a wasteland, of a world where very little existed to fight for—or defend.
Sand and rocks spread out for miles, and only the occasional shrub protruded from the hard, grainy earth. In the distance were the intermittent cacti and lean, old trees, and in between the horizon and these rolling dunes of desert were the rising hills of rock and sand, beckoning to be walked upon, to be discovered, to be a part of something greater than the silence that plagued this land. Only the unimpeded wind made noise as it swept over the earth, pushing small particles across the ground as the only visible movement in the still scene.
The heat was oppressive, and the mirages manifested among the distant terrain in a taunting display of slow yet firm power possessed by the burning star millions of miles above. To any unprepared man or creature, this sweltering land would be fatal, and to any unsuspecting or ignorant being, this land would be painful and insurmountable. Only the very adept or adapt could live under these conditions, and as the dark entity that silently prowled the rocky hills and sandy valleys wished, very few came to this place. And, for those who did taunt its undeniable power to destroy, very few ever left.
So it was evident that traveling through or living under this unbearable land was not desirable, nor was it rightful for someone to order another to this place. Yet, as fate and reality cruelly manipulated, such was seemingly always the case, and in spite of this darkness that wordlessly asserted that no man or creature should traverse these deadly grounds, some always found a way in. Whether it be by the actions of others or the arrogance of oneself, someone always inhabited this wasteland.
It was inevitable.
Yet, even for someone of decent intelligence and understanding of these facts, enduring these elements was a necessity. The obvious question was why. Why would someone, without argument or refusal, negotiate this environment? Perhaps it was the unfaltering obedience that had been beaten into them prior to arrival, or maybe the false illusion of pride or responsibility in the authority that dictated their actions. Or maybe it was the patriotism that coursed though their veins at the sight of propaganda. Or perhaps it was the sense of defiance that whaled up from within at the sight of seeing worlds fall and thousands die mercilessly by the hand of a faceless enemy.
Whatever it was, or whatever combination among them that applied, it did not defy the reality of being here. Under this scorching sun, breathing in this dry air, and sweating any water left within the fatigued body, it was apparent that whatever had allowed oneself to accept these abhorrent conditions is what kept them from leaving. Whatever respect for authority, respect for one another, or respect for their future was keeping them from resignation and simply walking towards those distant hills which offered the only hope of freedom. Yet freedom was a constricted idea, one that didn't exist anymore. Freedom, in all its forms, had been banished decades ago as the nemesis of humanity made known their intentions.
Now, every soul of every age was conscripted into this war. Every former way of life was erased from existence and replaced with some globally asserted party line to instill within all the will to fight, the will to survive. This very totalitarianism issued over a once free network of civilizations was what forced the men and women who had no desire to occupy this land to defend it. It was sickening, and it was continuously contemplated ways to escape, though all with most of their sanity remaining understood the damning fact that escape was not an option. Rather, in a depressing though undeniable fashion, each and every person understood that only three things would come to pass before their release from this hell could be warranted. Victory, defeat, or death.
To all, every option seemed viable at a time like this. Anything but remaining here was acceptable, and one way or another one of those three options had to be achieved. While the authorities called for the first and denounced the second, every soldier slowly became aware of the last one. Despite the genetic structure and intrinsic will of men to live on, to persevere, to elude death, one rarely found the gene of self-actualization, and in desolation like this the realization that it would not come to pass crept in and tainted the mind. And sometime thereafter, when the contemplation of life and meaning slowly subsided and the realization of a terminate future came into acknowledgement, life and victory became but little unachievable utopias of the mind.
And sure to follow was the persuasive voice of that dark entity that prowled this wasteland. With its persistent manipulation and forcible ways to breakdown the mind and will, it quickly asserted the third option—the one option that a single man could hope to grasp—as the only option. In all honesty, if the first two were out of reach, either by the junta of one's authority or by the defiance of one's enemy, then was there really three options at all?
As the hours wore on into days, and the days into weeks, the acceptance of that fact settled surprisingly easily upon the mind. Men that once believed that life would last forever, that happiness and fulfillment would come to pass, now conceded to accept their own mortality. And slowly and steadily, resignation settled upon them, and only one act remained to be accomplished. With the evident truth that there was only one way out of this madness, of this scorching earth of no value, the decision was finalized. Some would call it insane, wrong, or even eternally damning, but the certainty remained.
It was the only way out.
Eyes that once would have stared wide at this sight now only narrowly looked around. No nervousness remained, no second thoughts, only the acceptance that life had come to a wall, a wall that was not traversable nor avoidable. And with grim belief that nothing was to gain, the mind quickly concluded that there was nothing to lose.
Staring at one another, faces neutral and lips pursed, the hands fumbled with the syringes on the cot before them. Sweat from the burning heat outside the darkened tent poured down their faces, and each man took in the resignation that their actions would alleviate this pain and suffering. They didn't know where their minds or souls would go after this, but it was better than living in this hell. Even if this act condemned them to the mystical hell that many spoke of and feared, what was there to lose? Just for one brief moment out of this depression, out of this sickness, out of this sadness was worth the risk of eternal damnation.
All they had wanted was out. All they had wanted was to leave this desolation. And all the weeks and months they had spent fighting for it, fighting for the opportunity to ascend into the heavens and away from this despair they had forgotten the one thing within their power to escape it. Now it was evident, and now it would come to pass.
Without a word, the empty eyes stared jadedly at one another, and in one barely perceptible motion, the long, sharp ends of the syringes pierced through the skin of the lower arm and into the brachialis. The liquid was then squeezed into the bloodstream, its deadly properties quickly going to work against the body. Neither man made any effort to resist as the killing substance coursed through their now dying body, and rather fell back slowly onto the olive green cots, staring at the dark, green tent ceiling above them. Their departure from this life was now only moments away, and soon they would no longer need to endure this world or the depression that had asserted itself upon their afflicted minds.
Without anticipation, the feeling in their limbs slowly evaporated. The minds glazed over and the visions slowly narrowed to nothing. In one last effort, each man remembered their past and what they had left behind, and what had been taken from them by this war. Everything passed before their fading consciousness in one fluid motion, every face and event, before the end of the reminiscence descended upon them. In painless transition, the bodies ceased function and the minds expired.
Now, nothing but the afterlife was left to discover, and the apparitions from both men ascended away, never to return to this hell. Nothing but the blinding light encompassing their awareness remained to be confronted, and slowly they drifted towards it. Fear, love, hate, happiness and faith all were stripped away, and emptily they faced the kingdom beyond.
For certain is death for the born
And certain is birth for the dead;
Therefore over the inevitable
Thou shouldst not grieve.
The Healing of Death - II
Date: 19 May 2006, 4:16 pm
The Healing of Death
II
Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.
J. R. R. Tolkien
Lieutenant Simon Mardaroni brought a hand to his head, trying to shake the images that flowed through his idle mind. It was almost every day that he encountered these memories, and every time it took increasing determination to shake them. It was as if they were asserting themselves upon him, and that each day they grew in intensity and power, slowly yet surely devouring his ability to dislodge the feelings that flowed through his body.
Was this the inevitable befalling him? The rumors and stories weren't false, and he had witnessed many times the outcome of these memories. This wasn't the kind of thing you could just shake off, or endure and keep living on. This was the type of thing that consumed your thoughts until nothing remained, that devoured your will, and that demolished your ability to see the future. Nothing could live past this darkness, and despite every attempt to deny it, he could feel himself slipping into this other mindset. It was thoughts composed of despair, of resignation, of relinquishment.
Of release.
Once again the images crossed his mind, and he could not eradicate the feeling overcoming him. He suddenly didn't care, or even want to care. The anguish was thick and prevailing, and the silent, wordless uttering of this dark entity inhabiting the hills around them only aided in this feeling. Nothing was worth fighting for here, nothing was worth defending, and certainly nothing was worth living for. There was no future in this wasteland, no victory that his superiors spoke of, and unquestionably no way to leave this world. He was stuck here, and as such—in wake of this truth—why should he delay the inevitable? Why should he endure this sickness and misery?
The only way out would find him sometime in this futile future, so why try and elude this bereavement? If nothing was worth living for in the interim between life and death, why live at all? There was only vainness in his constant breathing, and only desolation in his thoughts. With all the truth and facts and persuasiveness of this situation, his only release was to end his own consciousness and to propel himself into some other land that would offer peace to his own anguish.
Memories, those memories of that tent washed over him once again. The sight of those two men on their cots, eyes wide open and the syringes sticking out of their arms flooded his vision. The emptiness in their eyes haunted him, and the cold, stiff bodies seemed to grab his thoughts. They had found their way out, and were now away from this desert wasteland infected with an enemy greater than the physical one they fought against. No alien foe was truly feared here, rather only that darkness that slowly broke men and took lives.
If he was not able to beat the more powerful of those two, then the only thing left was acquiescence of its superiority, and then submission to its demands of release. There was no other way to escape this, no other way to live on.
Mardaroni reached over and grabbed his rifle leaning against the dark brown rock, the weapon issued to him to defeat the physical enemy that slaughtered thousands of his own. Yet, in the wake and resignation of this silent darkness, he would use this tool to cave in, to stop resisting this inevitability.
The barrel twisted in his hands and slowly pointed at him. The officer closed his eyes and relaxed his neck, his head leaning forward and resting on the muzzle. His hand slowly moved down to the cold trigger of the weapon and rested upon it, his mind running off into another realm as he began remembering his past, and like those precursors who had paved the way into death, remembered what had been taken from him. His family, his love, his future, his life. And now that all those were gone, he could concede to death and find sanctity from this place, from this oppression.
Slowly, and with a distinct click, the safety was turned off, and the round snapped to semi-automatic. His index finger then rested upon the trigger, and he took in one last breath, one last substance of life before his own end.
Sir?
The word echoed indistinctly among his thoughts. The officer willed his finger to apply pressure, and as time slowed he felt the firing mechanism engage, activating the hammer in the weapon to trigger the round in the chamber. It was done, and now all he waited for in this timeless moment was the sought after death to envelope around him and take him from this life.
No.
Without realization, the muzzle pressed against his forehead slid to the side, seemingly slow yet fast enough to counter the weapon firing in his hands. His fists clenched with anticipation and his heartbeat doubled in expectation, and his mind lavished on the impending kismet to take him away.
Crack!
Suddenly, all the resignation was gone. Mardaroni's eyes shot open and he winced in pain as the rifle firing next to his head inundated his ears. All the nostalgia, all that carelessness and all the relinquishment was abruptly gone, and he now stared in utter surprise at the face before his own, still trying to figure out what was happening and what had just happened. His ears were numb, but his eyes were not blind, and he watch as soundlessly the man in front of him ripped the rifle back and out of his hands, yelling something that was wholly indiscernible amidst the ringing flooding his hearing.
What had he just tried to do? He closed his eyes tightly as he answered that question without remorse. End this despair, release from this sickness, leave this wasteland.
The soldier pointed at him, a mixture of concern and anger across his face. Mardaroni slowly and scarcely shook his head, bringing up his hands to rub his eyes. He sat still as reality returned to him, his senses and—to some degree—his sanity. He winced as his awareness returned to him, and shifted his back as the pain of the rock he was leaning against shot through his body. The officer rolled over from his position and onto his hands and knees, rising from the dry earth that had almost claimed his life.
Mardaroni stared in shock at what he had just tried to do, and brought a hand to his left ear—the one that had taken the brunt of the rifle firing next to his head—and grimaced as he touched it, sharp pain filling the side of his head. He brought his trembling hands back into view and stared silently at the red substance that was apparently running from his eardrum. As his mind went awash with thoughts—thoughts of confusion, not death—he conceded to the weak sensation in his legs and sat down upon a dark brown rock next to him, bringing both hands to his face and letting his head fall towards the grainy ground.
What was happening to him? Why was this land consuming his thoughts? Perhaps even more frightening, why did every moment of peace end of with suicidal visions? The quiet, tranquil moment that had preceded this near-death incident had quickly gone from restful to a rifle aimed at his head, with his own finger pulling the trigger. It would appear that sanity was quickly eluding his grasp at every lonesome instant, and that it was now only a matter of time before this darkness devoured the last remnant of his judgment and he found himself once again staring death in the eyes, yet by his own hand and will.
…Tell me something!
Distressed at his own actions, Mardaroni looked up slowly, wincing at the sunlight blaring down from behind the figure before him. His right ear was ringing now, which was a good thing, but his left ear only responded in pain. Though he didn't care, and shook his head slightly in aching, trying to force the tenderness to subside.
The man made hand motions at him, though they were wholly indiscernible from the sunlight flooding his vision. It was obvious, despite his lack of hearing and inability to see clearly as he looked nearly directly at the sun, that this Marine, one of his subordinates, was trying to figure out what was happening. Though he couldn't see his face, his instinct told him it was his Platoon Sergeant, one of the twenty-one survivors out of what was formerly a thirty-six man unit. The man was probably the only one who really knew him, but even thinking that was a stretch. The only thing he shared in common with the troops he led was the battles they had lost and the men who had died besides them.
…Sir? Can you hear me?
Mardaroni looked up again, slowly and deliberately, squinting at the sunshine that offered more hurt than healing, more distress than peace. He took his hand and felt the blood running from his ear once again, his face contorting from the acute paint that almost paralyzed his neck. It was time to return to reality, back to this God-forsaken life that was banished to fight among the rocks and endless dunes of sand. If he had been lucky, if he had managed to pull this off without anyone stopping him, then all this discomfort and depression could be a distant memory—or, better yet, he wouldn't have any memories.
"Sir? Can you hear me?"
The sound came through his right ear only, but at least he could hear. Was he supposed to be thankful? Or consider himself lucky that the rifle that had just discharged next to his head had not actually killed him? He didn't want to appreciate life anymore, nor did he want to be grateful that he wasn't a bloody corpse without a head lost in the rocky kills of this desert.
"Lieutenant," the Platoon Sergeant, Gunnery Sergeant Jason Levett, said slowly yet firmly, leaning in closer and stopping only inches from his face. "You can't do that now, sir, you can't."
Mardaroni stopped squinting as Levett's head blocked out the sun shining on his face, seeing the hard eyes clearly and the wrinkled expression. "And why is that?" His tone was more of ignorance than malice.
"Because, sir," Levett said, standing up and away, allowing the bright sunlight to wash across the officer's face. "There are nineteen men on the other side of these rocks, and they need their commander."
"Sergeant, you could take these men the rest of the way." It was his last words of trying to rationalize his attempt at his own life.
"That may be true, but they need a leader, not a hardass sergeant who gives them shit on the top of every hour."
Mardaroni leaned back and closed his eyes, hearing footsteps approach them. He felt the responsibility of leading what was left of his platoon, of keeping those young men who were also a mired in this wasteland alive, and keeping some sense of hope within them that there may be a way out of this hell. The officer tried to shake the feeling, the duty that had been emplaced over him when he received these young Marines, but the more he thought of it, the more he couldn't deny it. He couldn't leave this life just yet, in spite of the sun, the featureless earth, and the darkness that grasped his will every time his eyes closed. He had to stay.
"What the hell happened?"
He opened his eyes to see several silhouettes darkened by the sunlight.
"Misfire, Corporal." Levett responded tersely. "Now get to the perimeter and keep an eye out."
"Yes, sergeant." The figures moved off from behind the dark brown rocks.
The Platoon Sergeant took a step closer and leaned in. "Now get your ass up, sir, and put your game face on. The last thing I need to do is clean up a bloody officer, and then explain to these boys that he just couldn't hack this shit anymore."
Mardaroni didn't appreciate his subordinate's instruction, but he knew full and well that he was no longer a Platoon Commander capable of leading men into battle. No, ever since this darkness began controlling his thoughts, and even now his actions, he had lost that ability. Nonetheless, if he didn't have that duty anymore to this unit, he did owe them enough to stay alive. Despite their discouraging and overwhelming encounters with their physical foe, they were still alive, and that was because of each other—and the sacrifices of those who no longer stood among them. He would have to fight this one out, or in one deathful motion invalidate those deceased Marines who had taken the ultimate fall for their right to life.
And that, as he believed every Marine could affirm, was unacceptable. To disgrace the lives of those who fell under the sword of battle was not an option. While he couldn't deny his urge to just leave this place, to just end this near torturous existence, the words of his Platoon Sergeant were true and justified. He couldn't do this, not now. The lives of more than just his own rested upon it.
The officer felt the slight vibration from his personal communication radio, and felt around his Load Bearing Vest to activate the device. He reached over and picked up the headset that was in the sand and slid it over his head, wincing as the small left speaker pressed against his ear.
"Tangos in sight," came the whispered voice over the radio.
He got to his feet and gazed up the rocky slope to the peak of the hill they were on. At the summit were two barely indiscernible figures—he could only make out the shapes because he knew they were there—and he followed the direction of the long object protruding from one of the figures; it was pointing to the other side of the hill, meaning the entire Platoon was easily out of sight of these new found enemy.
"Number and range?"
The Spotter looked through the high-magnification optical device, pausing for a moment. "Twenty dismounted infantry and two transport vehicles with suppressive turrets atop. Heading due south without haste, looks like a standard patrol, sir. Range is 990 meters and dropping; they're heading our direction but will only pass within half a kilometer of out location."
Mardaroni stood up, looking around slowly for his helmet and gear. Slowly and surely the memories crept back into his mind, and he vividly recalled wandering back here away from his men, his will already set on death and the end to this suffering. He had dropped all his gear, save for the LBV around his body and the instrument that would end this life, and the officer had found a suitable place to complete the deed.
He looked over to the rock nearby where he had sat down, and stared emptily at it, his eyes glazing over and his consciousness pausing. For all odds and reasons, he shouldn't be alive right now. Rather, his head should have been in a sticky, acrimonious state splattered against that brown rock, and his awareness should have been no more. Yet now, under the scorching sun on the side of this rocky hill rising above the rough valleys below, with nothing in sight but more hills like this one and a distant horizon, he was still alive.
Had this been within his first week of arriving on this earth, he may have considered the sight interesting, if not beautiful. Though now, eighteen weeks later, having subsisted amongst these rocks and sand dunes with a physical enemy roaming the same expanse, things had changed. His outlook on life had changed, his viewpoint on their situation in this wasteland had changed, and his perspective on this entire war had changed. To him, this was no longer a righteous cause, nor was it an effective one. Rather, all this was simply conscripting for futility, and he found no more motivation in this cause—and even worse, no motivation in life.
Levett handed over the rifle roughly as the Lieutenant grasped it, taking the sling and flinging it around his body. Mardaroni then walked over to his rucksack, picking up the sixty pounds of gear and throwing it over his head while placing the straps quickly over his shoulders. He flexed his shoulders and quickly got accustomed to the weight he had been carrying around for the last five days, and pulled his rifle out in front, clutching the grip and turning back to his subordinate. Before speaking, Mardaroni pulled out the black-tinted sunglasses and placed them over his eyes, dimming out the blinding star that this world was orbiting around.
The Sergeant looked at his CO for a second, then forced one side of his mouth pull up in a grin, though it was apparent that the Sergeant was still skeptical of the man now contemplating his own will of life. "When this is over, I'll shoot you myself, but for now we've got work to do."
The words hit home with the Lieutenant, but his expression remained unchanged. Obviously, this man had little confidence in him now, but for the soldiers waiting for their orders, he was willing to let him make the calls. He tightened the strap on his helmet. "Get our men geared up."
Levett nodded and moved past him, his dull grin disappearing and his eyes scanning him, climbing over the rocks to get to the small gathering of the rest of the platoon. Mardaroni paused in thought and stared once again at the spot of his attempted suicide. Not yet, not now. There was no doubt in his mind that he would never leave the surface of this world, but he could firmly attest that his death would not be on this mountain side. The time would come for his release, but until then he would have to fight. Not for this war or for the propaganda poisoning humanity, but for the rest of his troops still grasping some splinter of hope.
In the end, none of this would really matter, but before the inevitable befell him, all of his actions would count. They would count to save his men, and offer some faith that their end was not destined to be in this desert, unlike his own. And in supplement to this, Mardaroni remembered the one thing his own CO had composed over ten weeks ago, written on a small piece of paper balled up in his hands as they found him, dead in his tent from a single round to the forehead, the pistol in his other hand. He vividly remembered the bloody scene and reading the paper, not understanding why his CO had decidedly left this world but believing in full his final words.
Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens.
Then, eight weeks later, the note left by two soldiers in their tent after their own self-demise. The words etched upon that paper stayed with him, and were reinforced as he and his platoon traversed this wasteland on foot for five days. In a conflicting and twisted thought, he found himself believing both ancient passages, one that kept him alive in the moment and one that killed him in the future.
Over the inevitable
I should not grieve.
The Healing of Death - III
Date: 30 May 2006, 8:21 pm
The Healing of Death
III
There are some defeats more triumphant than victories.
Michel de Montaign
If there was anything worse than traversing the rocky earth under a scorching sun with over seventy pounds of gear, Lieutenant Simon Mardaroni couldn't think of it. With perspiration soaking his dark brown and tan fatigues, and sweat stinging his eyes, he couldn't think of anywhere he wouldn't want to be. His legs ached consistently as they fought to uphold his laden body, and his chest painfully reminded him that such a load was on the breaking point of his limits. In spite of this exhaustion and soreness, he kept his the rifle firmly and defiantly placed against his shoulder and the muzzle oriented forward as he moved along quickly, forcing every ounce of energy out to keep moving.
The platoon of twenty-one Marines moved along at a brisk jog, their rucksacks pounding up and down against their backs and their heavy breathing nearly breaking the still air. Their hard boots hitting the earth offered something aside from the persistent heartbeat filling each man's hearing, and as a group they moved wordlessly down the other side of the hill they formerly resting upon, stepping cautiously around large rocks and navigating the slope with vigilance. Rifles were out and ready, and they moved hurriedly to cut off the approaching Covenant patrol that was now less than eight-hundred meters out.
Below them was the rocky and sandy valley that stretched out for two kilometers until another hill similar to this one rose into the sky. The ground was a complexion of tans, browns, and deep reds, and was only broken up by the barely green shrub bushes scattering the terrain and the infrequent tree. No animals could be seen inhabiting this rocky desert, and as such the only movement any of them could make out was the distant pair of vehicles raising a small cloud of dust behind them.
They were relatively close to this Covenant patrol, but each Marine was confident of their camouflage to keep them concealed against the side of the hill they were descending. Moreover, the sun was fortunately shining against the patrol from their direction, which meant that nothing short of a supernatural alien could see their rapid decline from the hill. Their fast actions were called for, despite the weight of their gear and the blistering heat that painted everything nearly white, and each Marine pulled out every shred of strength remaining to follow their leader hauling aggressively ahead of the pack.
The platoon had been assigned long range patrol duties, which meant each soldier carried all the gear and ammo they would need for operation in the field for seven days. Usually, satellites or air support would comb over the massive expanse of this desert, but much to the wishes of the menacing darkness that occupied this wasteland, such provisions were not available, forcing men to endure this environment directly. As fate would have it, nothing that flew remained operable on this planet—whether that be human of alien—and every soldier found themselves in the same damning situation that had no forewarning, and no escape.
It was why the option of victory was not viable, not even to the distant commanders themselves. Rather, in a depressingly self-evident situation, every soldier that was hauled to the surface was subsequently left there as priorities shifted among their leadership. Formerly—nineteen weeks ago—this planet had been a vast focal point, one that both the UNSC and Covenant poured resources into it. Though now, with the wake of the fall of Reach and the attack on Earth, both sides neglected the troops already surface-side.
In a hasty pull out, ships were destroyed on both sides, and the Marines on the surface watched as the night sky lit up in flames as the wreckage of Covenant ships plunged through the atmosphere, lighting up the ground as if it were day, only to be followed by the remains of human ships. Those several days over twelve weeks ago proved to be interesting, at the least, yet if they could have known that the battle raging above and the massive withdrawal to save "more valuable" planets would condemn them to this hell, nobody would have paused in interest—or hope.
Now, months after everything and everyone had left this system and the troops to fend for themselves on the surface, the war still raged on despite the futility of it. Of course, in some sickening "humane" gesture they had been told that ships were return for them within the month, maybe to offer some shred of hope to the thousands of troops left that they would get out of here. Though three months later, what remnants remained among the expeditionary force—being survivors of the constant skirmishes with the Covenant also left to rot here or men with enough hope in their future not to commit suicide—still fretfully awaited for someone to return for them.
Some had come to realize that it was never going to happen, and that they would be stuck here to burn to death under the scorching sun or meet some unfitting end by their physical enemy. Those soldiers, in the ultimate display of despair and misery, turned their own instruments of war on themselves, forever leaving the anguish of this world. And to date, with the scarcity of Covenant troops to fight and the shortage of supplies, more and more had turned to self-extermination than to a life watching the stars every night, hoping that someone was coming back for them.
Those who did choose to stay alive and persevere, to try and wait this one out while concurrently trying to defeat the Covenant in the same situation, fought a marginal battle. Moral was nonexistent anymore, and after the men in charge of leading these soldiers departed from this world by the will of their own hand, nobody held much hope that things were going to improve. Water and food were nearly gone, and units were subsisting only on their own ability to hunt and kill what rare creatures lived in this wilderness. Rounds were still being used for survival, but their intents were on food, not killing their nemesis.
It was not a light issue—or one to causally ignore—and accordingly the suicide rate was the fourth killer, led only by the casualties of combat, starvation and then dehydration. Even Mardaroni's platoon was short on supplies, the only aspect that was even partly plentiful was ammunition; and even that was less than half. Nobody had eaten in over a day, and each man carried their last MRE. It was a grave future ahead of them, one that nobody wished to contemplate but one nobody could deny. Every Marine in his unit would be lucky if they even made it back to "base"—which was really just a graveyard of empty crates and shredded tents, with a burial ground nearby with the helmets of all the Marines of their Company who past away protruding from the ground.
Mardaroni closed his eyes for a split second as he ran down this hill, vividly seeing the image of that necropolis. The sticks with those eerie helmets hanging above them, just behind the rise of earth that loosely covered the body. He reopened his eyes and clenched his rifle, the rage washing over him yet again. Their commanders in orbit had condemned them to death; they had explicitly left without them, they had overtly left them to die. In the wake of this war, of this futile defense, they were deemed nothing more than expendable. If the man who made this decision ever came before him, his instinctive action would be clear; before those lips parted to exhume some excuse, the man would have dropped to the ground by the force of a bullet.
Though, much to his displeasure, he knew that such an encounter would never come to pass. They were gone, never to return, and the surviving Marines on this planet would not live to see them come back. All that was before them was a terminal future; it was as if each and every soul was mortally ill with a disease that would erase them from existence all too soon.
He breathed in hard as they reached the bottom of the hill, now in the flat valley with the enemy patrol that was steadily moving their direction. Was there anything different from that? Didn't they all have that terminal illness, yet most failed to recognize it? The Lieutenant gasped in another breath of hot air as they continued moving over the rocky, flat earth, heading towards a long dried up ravine that snaked through this valley. He recognized this illness, this sickness, and for the first time it had almost killed him. This disease of the mind was already within each and every being on this planet, and it was only a matter of time before the symptoms became thoughts, and the thoughts became actions.
It was the clincher, it was the ending act that was wholly evident. Every man would die by his own hand or by the sword of another, unless he chose to die slowly and horribly from starvation in this wasteland. It was hard to imagine a whole Expeditionary Force spread out over this continent falling to such disgrace, to such death, yet before his own eyes he was witnessing it happening. Nothing in training, nor anything else that prepared them for war, had ever addressed the possibility of being left behind.
And yet here they were. Mardaroni continued his quick pace up as they descended into the ravine, running along the dried up river bed that probably hadn't seen water in decades. It was fairly wide, but more importantly it was at least three meters deep, which meant they could run out to intercept the approaching patrol without being seen. He wasn't sure why he was doing this, why he was pushing himself and his unit so hard to kill their enemy, but certitude was not necessary for action.
Maybe it was his will to release his frustration, anguish, and despair. If he couldn't die just yet, then killing others seemed like the only viable option. The rationalization was clearly twisted, but Mardaroni already knew that had had lost his sanity when the barrel had pressed against his sun burnt forehead.
The Lieutenant stopped and raised a balled fist, causing the Marines behind to come to a halt behind him, their heavy breathing finally breaking above the stomping of the boots. Sergeant Levett, already knowing why, dismounted his rucksack and placed it softy on the ground. The nineteen other soldiers quickly followed suit and placed their gear on the rocky earth.
"LBVs only," Mardaroni said, barely above a whisper.
The Marines nodded with anticipation, preparing to engage the enemy. He looked over and saw a Corporal speaking to him, yet the words did not register in his head. Then the recollection of his rifle discharging next to his head occurred, and the officer brought and hand up to his ear, feeling the dried blood and tenderness, yet not hearing anything from that side. He took a step closer and turned his head.
"Say again."
"Sir, how are we going to take out their vehicles?"
The most powerful thing they had were grenades, and not many of them. "Just fire your weapon, Marine."
Mardaroni set his rucksack down carefully, then checked his rifle over and his ammo load. Three damn clips. "Ammo situation?" He asked to the men around him.
They raised fingers, and the results were not good. Each man had less than five clips of ammunition, which meant that suppressive fire was not an option here. This encounter was already meeting problems, and doubt began creeping into the Lieutenant's mind. Nevertheless, it was their job to get rid of this patrol, and even if it wouldn't matter in the long run, for now they would be combat effective and kill every foe that came across their path. Besides, at the very least, if he died a dirty job would be accomplished, one that he had already tried to do.
It was this type of thinking that got men killed, but he couldn't avert his thoughts or his intentions. They were going to combat this enemy patrol, no matter what. It was the reason they had trekked over miles and miles of rock and sand, and it was the reason they were on this planet in the first place. Aside from that, he knew that the victor, in all honesty, would turn out to be the conquered. The defeater of this imminent incursion would have to endure more days like this one; more days of starvation, of thirst, of unbearable heat, and of misery.
Perhaps that was his purpose here, to indirectly put himself and his unit out of this desolation. Maybe his motivation here wasn't for some small victory, but for quick and unavoidable release from this place. When fighting this foe, there was no one to save you, no one to rescue the situation. It was only your weapon verses theirs, and then the actual fight that would determine who fell to the earth in silent liberation or who survived in gnashing deprivation.
Then it was obvious as Mardaroni and his platoon of Marines turned to face the incoming enemy that victory now would only lead to suffering later. Triumph now would only lead to the hunger, to the thirst, and to the longing for release from this hell. To him, defeat was the longed for option, not the fear-invoking failure that had once tainted his will prior to engaging the enemy.
Mardaroni flicked off the safety on his rifle, looking back once more at his Marines, wishing that the thought coursing through his veins and heart did not exist. If only this never needed to be; if only if they could have avoided this fate. If only they could have never been sent to this barren world. Yet reality assaulted their wishes for a better future, for a better life, and forced them into a dead-end kismet. This self-evident future was not wanted, but nor was it deniable as their hearts raced and their body's tensed in anticipation.
The inevitable was upon them, and with final realization, the Lieutenant understood. He wasn't trying to reassert morale into his troops, or be "combat effective," or release the bottled up anguish in his mind. He was trying to die here, and end the pain in his heart, end the suffering in his soul. If he couldn't do it to himself, either by the cowardice of his own hand or the saving action of another, he could fall in combat before this enemy.
They claimed millions of lives and destined countless more to see this bloodshed, and dying intentionally before them seemed like only giving into their wishes of complete eradication of humanity, but he wasn't about to fight them with the intent of merely losing—of becoming another statistic. He was about to fight them to end the never ending torment and this hurting emptiness.
Indeed, he finally understood.
There are some defeats more triumphant than victories.
The Healing of Death - IV
Date: 16 June 2006, 5:53 am
The Healing of Death
IV
Death is nothing to us, since when we are, death has not come, and when death has come, we are not.
Epicurus
The rifles opened fire simultaneously, each individual explosive crack flowing together as one. The sound ripped into the slight hum of the soft breeze, and quickly overshadowed the distant whine of the two vehicles. The muzzle flashes were indeclinable in this white heat, but the hot tracers bearing down on their enemy were fully perceptible, and each Marine watched through their rifle's sights with grim satisfaction as the barrage of rounds cut through the patrol, the first wave of bodies falling back in a bloody eruption that quickly spattered on the ground, covering this wasteland with the life that had now passed on. With only a hundred meters between them and their foe, the screams of death were hauntingly unmistakable to the Platoon.
It was almost too clear in Mardaroni's mind the assuage granted to the darkness that preyed upon these rocky hills, and he watched as yet another life vanished from existence under the sunlight. Clearly, this darkness had no ulterior motives or false intentions as it silently broke each being, either by its own maddening hand or by the hands of the occupants within its province.
This darkness had only one cause, only one intention, and it was to take each life roaming the deserts that only it could subsist in. And now, as he pulled the trigger again, a round discharging from the rifle in his hands with a deafening crack and a sharp recoil, Mardaroni couldn't help but know that he was now an adherent to this entity. He was not fighting against it, fighting to contain its persuasive voice and its slaying hand, but rather abiding to that soft, cold voice in his head. He was following this darkness, his very actions then and there clear proof of it.
With immeasurable emptiness—emptiness that could only be found in the eyes of the dead—and suicidal intentions, Mardaroni kept his rifle shouldered as he stepped out of the safety of the ravine and began moving towards the Covenant patrol, picking out targets calmly in a half-hearted attempt to actually win this fight. While he felt the ever present gnawing of responsibility and accountability to his men, every virtue and every inkling of leadership and guidance was dying within.
In a taunting gesture, this darkness reminded him that it would consume all—one way or another—and a sharp heat wisped by the Lieutenant, passing on harmlessly over the heads of the Marines still in the ravine; men who watched with wide eyes as their commanding officer walked defiantly forward, his intentions or reasons momentarily unclear to them.
The white-hot plasma rounds had no color here, and Mardaroni watched in distant concern for his own life as the bright pallid and quite deadly return fire sped by, the heat even more intense than the dehydrating and burning sun overhead. He felt his lips crack from the dryness and excessive heat, and could feel his face harden to numbness as those aliens fought to defend themselves.
The white desert, surrounded by the rocky hills, echoed with gunfire as the two forces exchanged words—words in the form of actions and actions in the form of arsenals—with both sides succumbing to the influential darkness that had poisoned their hearts and minds. The distant mirages, only broken by the occasional cactus and shrub bush, seemed to beckon peacefully amidst this skirmish that would claim more lives as each second passed. The blue sky overhead offered some sense of peace, but to each man's discontent it was mostly blinded out by the scorching star that this hopeless planet revolved around.
Mardaroni came to a knee, hitting the ground with his padded leg and taking more careful aim at the small figure stumbling upon the top of the large vehicle to operate the turret. He pulled the trigger repeatedly as his shots ricocheted off the dirty alien armored troop carrier, refining his shots until one tore into the alien's right arm, the being falling back out of sight with a barely discernable mist of blood climbing into the dry air.
With a maddening click, the charging lever snapped forward, forcing the Lieutenant to pause and reach into his Load Bearing Vest for another clip. His efforts to reload were met with a very frustrating search to actually find another clip amongst his empty pouches, and he padded himself down quickly, his training briefly causing him to react like a Marine rather than a despondent man.
He looked back when he found a single clip; gazing back twenty meters to the ravine, where his troops remained. They were not pressing the attack, they were not following him into battle. Instead, their eyes betrayed a newfound understanding for why their commander was in the open without remorse or rationale. They had followed him this far, far enough to engage the foe that had birthed this hell—a hell none of them could hope to escape—but their following ceased at this ravine. With a stark realization, the Lieutenant understood that these men knew what he was trying to do here.
He was trying to die.
That realization almost pricked his mind out from this darkness's control; the recognition that these soldiers now knew what he was trying to do. It served as an eye-opener for the despair consuming his heart, but it ultimately failed to save the dying and dejected mind from death. As rounds passed by him, both from the Marines in the ravine and from the Covenant cowering behind their vehicles, it became evident that not even the disappointed eyes of his men could save him from his own will to escape this misery. Nothing could save him from this darkness. Nothing.
Slamming his last and final clip into the rifle, he turned forward and pulled the charging handle back. With kicking recoil that drilled into his decaying mind his longing for an end, rounds shot out towards the enemy that had caused all this; this enemy that had taken away from him everything he had, his will, and his life. With hazy awareness, he watched as more of those beings fell, and in spite of the return fire that passed around him, he remained alive and able.
The rifle ran dry, and again the charging lever snapped forward, though never to be pulled back. The Lieutenant dropped the instrument of war into the sand, bringing himself to his feet in the process. Ignoring the lingering thoughts for his own safety, or for the responsibility he held for his men, he began walking forward towards the now immobile vehicles—and the few remaining aliens. This firefight had defied his own preconceptions, and instead of these aliens mercilessly gunning him down as he sat in the open, the Marines behind him had all but eradicated them from existence.
Sweat dripped from his nose and his lungs huffed in the hot air as he stepped slowly over the rocky, sandy desert towards the two vehicles, his eyes loosing focus and disregarding the few figures that still fired back. The sounds of war, of rifles and explosions, slowly faded out as he walked empty handed towards this nemesis. He was no longer a fighter, a defender of his own kind. Rather, he was now a defeatist, a searcher for his own release.
As the officer neared the two vehicles, no alien being remained in his hazy vision. Only bodies littered the vehicles and the ground around them. In the background, the rifle fire ceased and silence over swept the entire desert valley once again. Was this battle over, along with the only enemy that could justly remove him from this torment? Had his way out found its own way out?
He stopped short of the two vehicles, staring at their light lilac bodies dirtied with the tan sand that dominated this world. Were they all really gone? Was his escape no more? As his mind glazed over in a mixture of anger, despair and pain, he slowly began to realize that this darkness, this fiend that pushed him towards this end, had now snatched it away.
Maybe this darkness wasn't the seeker and producer of death. Maybe this entity that prowled the dunes and valleys did not wish for its occupants to die and move on to a better realm and escape this hell. Rather, perhaps this darkness's only intent and purpose was to keep its occupants in their own hell, their own suffering. For those who feared death, that is what they were served. For those who longed for death, that is what they were denied.
His longing for death, for release, was the very essence keeping him here, alive and breathing in this hot desert full of emptiness. It was his desire to move on and join something else in some other place that kept his heart beating and his senses aware. This darkness was not the beast that gave a way to another realm, but the beast that kept all men in their own hell, full of their own fears.
Mardaroni slumped to his knees and let his head fall, feeling his uniform stick uncomfortably to his sweaty back. He was destined to a hell no matter what he did, and there was no changing that. He would never escape, no matter if he died here and passed on or remained here and persisted on. There was no escape, there was no release.
Death is nothing to us.
Before this condemnation, this damnation to this world, death was a far away thought, only feared by those with the fear of what lay beyond. But it was always a far off thought, something that would never come to pass. It was always something beyond the scope of actuality.
Since when we are, death has not come.
Men all believe that their demise will come at some far away moment. They all believe that it will come, but never now, never in the moment of the present. Perhaps it is universal to all existence and is what keeps life moving forward, rather than pausing in the reflection that life does not last forever. It is the belief that death and the passing on will never come, in spite of the fact that it remains inevitable. It is the belief that life could exist with out the inherency of death.
And when death has come, we are not.
Broken men, those who long for the release of death, find that the fiend that many fear or ignore will itself ignore those in pursuit of it. Those who search for the release, to leave the torment of the present and find rectitude somewhere else in whatever may lie beyond, are those very beings who are denied the release of death.
Simon Mardaroni stared at the sandy earth, his heart and mind now understanding what this darkness really was. It was not death, the instigator or deliverer thereof, but rather the creator of man's worst reality. It provided anguish in any form, whether that be in the supernatural or the natural. It was hell itself.
He would not leave this world, not through death or rescue. He was condemned here, to exist with this darkness over him. There was no release, no relief from the pain coursing through his mind. There was only anguish to endure, all because this darkness had evoked a Covenant to breathe fire upon the life that inhabited all of creation. Upon them were spawns from the depths of hell, dwelling in the figures that composed this nemesis, waging an unending war against humanity in the natural and in the mind.
It was now clear to him. This darkness existed not only on this desolate planet, infecting the hearts and minds of those caught in its grasp. No, this darkness was in the hands and swords of those hordes that marauded their lands and slaughtered their kind, and it was in the eyes and hearts of those men forced to kill for their own life. This darkness was the hand of the hell itself, and had brought into existence a war to assert a hell over everyone; a war that took the innocence and blamelessness out from the sons and fathers, and imposed lust and blood thirst into the beings that set each world afire.
This darkness was more than his own personal torment, but that did not change the worst part of it all. It did not change the sinister truth that it would stop at no means to rain down suffering onto all, whether that is to take life or preserve it. It would stop at nothing.
And the worst part had already befallen him.
The scars of life
Are many and few
The fears and pains
Are all and one
The search for escape
Is ever present and true
Only to be removed
By the healing of death
Yet forever denied
Yet forever denied.
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