First of all, this is based loosely off of real events. Not everything in here is true, (I never knew anyone on Mars, for instance!) but its not all false, either. I’m sorry if this resembles a situation you may have been in, but I promise you it is exaggeration, fabrication, and truth all mixed together. Some of it is my personal experience, some of it is second-hand. Thanks.
The heat was oppressive. Unbearable. The Orbital Sun beamed its heat and energy onto the red Martian desert, baking the rusty soil into a hard and unforgiving surface. The Orbital Sun was a diminutive star manufactured by the big brains and scientists of the Federation, and colloquially it was known as the Orbisun. It was created to sustain consistent heat and climate on Mars while the same brains and thinktank scientists began their arduous task of terraforming. The colony was just out of infancy and growing into toddlerhood. The atmosphere was in place, the Orbisun was stable and consistent, and slowly a few small cities were forming. The sprawling shanty towns spread their filthy tendrils further and further into the martian wastes, replicating the repulsive urban sprawls that existed back on Earth.
Many came to Mars to make their fortunes. Explorers, scoundrels, and all manner of low-lifes and outlaws fled the war-torn ravages of Earth. They saw it as a new frontier, a way to reinvent themselves, or simply a way to exploit those with more money than sense. Not everyone was willing to stay during her grand rebuild, and Earth saw just as many refugees as outlaws flee her atmosphere. They all reached out to Mars, the land of opportunity, to find their fortune, fame, and security. So much of the rocky red planet was yet unexplored, and the thrill of discovery and adventure was too enticing to pass up.
It was the Year of Our Lord, 2103. That’s how the old-timers would say it, but there weren’t many worshipers left these days. On rare occasions some ancient and decrepit person would stand mewling on the street corner, howling at anyone that would listen, warning about the impending doom, and how we are all damned to eternal hell and suffering.
It was hot in Hell, but it was likely hotter on Earth right now.
But God was the Martian heat unbearable, like the inner rings of hell hot. A young soldier named Griff stood guard atop an old Martian structure. The building was effectively a pyramid, but stepped in such a way that you had easy access to every distinct rooftop, and a person could walk the perimeter of each floor. The outer perimeter of the rooftops was crowned in a parapet roughly chin-high, and the whole building was made of what Griff had assumed was the Martian equivalent of concrete. It was one of the few structures they had discovered during the initial colonization.
He was ten stories high, looking out at the dust-covered shacks and flat-roofed buildings that surrounded him. The Orbisun blasted him with light and heat, cooking him in his uniform. Sweat poured from his skin and rained from his helmet.
At least it’s a dry heat, he thought to himself sardonically.
Salt stained his collar and starched his uniform so stiff that it crunched when it moved. His body armor hung and chafed, but would on rare occasion shift in such a way that it allowed outside air to pass against his skin. The air wasn’t cool, but it sure felt that way in the moment. It was the only respite on this god-damned rooftop. Across the building from him he could see his squad leader, Mac, and another squadmate, Jones, having a discussion.
Griff smiled to himself as he watched the two of them.
Mac was a small man, sinewy and lean. He was handsome in an odd way. He looked like someone that looked like a famous movie star, sort of a Dollar Store Tom Cruise kind of thing. His nose was exaggerated a little bit, and his hairline came down and covered too much of his forehead, which provided ample fodder for teasing. Jones, on the other hand, was a bear of a man. He was at least a foot taller than Griff, putting him over six and a half feet tall, and his body was covered in a layer of muscle that was wrapped in a tortilla of fat. A thin layer that kept any real definition from showing. His face was broad and flat, and he had this sort of pronounced neanderthal brow and chin, and Griff found himself wondering what cave he was recruited from.
Mac had been pointing out sectors of fire to Jones. He really didn’t need to, as Jones was a great soldier and knew his job well, but Mac was thorough and always gave direction to all of his troopers, this way they always knew what was expected.
As the two men spoke Griff looked around at the miserable bullshit around him, squinting in the bright heat. His shooter hung on his neck by a sling, one arm rested on the butt, the other hung bent with his thumb jammed into a crook in his armor just by his armpit.
Shooter, he thought, That’s a bit on the nose.
It was part of the local jargon, just like orbisun. The soldiers stationed on Mars got a lot of old relics, like the slug-throwing rifles of yesteryear and the 70 pound armor to go along with it. They didn’t get the high-tech killing machines, all of that was reserved for the soldiers back home on earth spending time massacring each other. You only get nice things if you intend on butchering another human, otherwise you get antiques.
Fuck this helmet, Griff thought, Its so fucking heavy.
At almost 10 pounds, prolonged usage made your neck stiff and sore. It was hard and uncomfortable, and the only redeeming quality it had was that it made a decent enough stool when you needed to break for chow. These boys were wearing the same things issued 100 years ago in the deserts of Iraq. From one desert to another, how fitting.
Griff wondered how they wore this shit as he looked over to Jones. Jones had started to form a small puddle beneath him as he leaked rivers onto the rooftop. The sweat in his shadow mixed with the iron dust covering the roof and coagulated into a messy muck. The sweat that landed in the sun, and exposed, seemed to evaporate almost instantly.
This was Mars. Nothing happens here. There was no war, no action, just guarding and protecting. Protecting and guarding. If one got tired of guarding, they could always protect. Once and a while scrappers found some remnants of a Martian civilization, but never any signs of actual Martians. No little green men with antennae had popped out to greet anyone, and no skeletons nor remains either.
Griff continued to ponder on this, the absence of alien bodies and skeletons, as well as other grand and important issues, such as how a soldier ends up on Mars. He had once decided, after spending some time with his new unit, that there were only three ways a soldier got stuck on the desolate red rock. You either got stuck there through bad luck and “needs of the Army”, which is how new boots such as Griff end up there. Or you get injured so badly that the body tanks cannot heal you, so you are sent there to perform administrative duty until you opt out or reach retirement, or, as in the case of Mac, You manage to piss off the wrong people and get shoved there. Into the most secluded and desolate hell hole you go, and you stay there to rot. Mac was a wonderful soldier, likely a lifer, and was superbly good at his job. He also knew it, and had no issues with voicing his opinion or correcting others, even when those in his company were senior officers. Mac never overtly claimed this is why he was here, he would never do that.
“You bitch uphill, not down,” he would say.
The words hung in Griff’s head as he continued to stare blankly out into the unending heat. While he stared out into the red desert he overheard Lewis, or Lew-Dog, was talking with Kim. Lewis was a heavy set man of average height, his pock-marked face had a pleasantness to it, probably because he was always smiling and had a very friendly disposition. Kim was a short and stocky man that came from the eastern federation. His home was in New Seol, a city established after one of the corporations managed to buy out the North Korean Government prior to the formation of the federation. He was gruff, loud, and had a permanent scowl. All of which added an almost comedic element to him, since he, too, also had an affable disposition. At the time both men were arguing about the relative attractiveness of some random celebrities. Each one making points and counter-points about why their chosen actress was the hotter of the two.
Griff was laughing quietly to himself, creating his own arguments in his head about why the woman he thought was more attractive was light years beyond the two that the other soldiers were discussing. These were the funny games soldiers played to fight the only real enemy, boredom.
Ten stories below Griff watched as soldiers, science-types, and all of the civilians were crawling through the streets. They were little ants working together to build their colony, and Griff felt like a big kid peeking through the glass on his ant farm. He wondered what each person was doing, and even made up little stories about the different people as they walked through the hot martian streets. He was in the middle of creating a small backstory for a group of people standing next to an overpass down across the street from him. A tiny man was waving his arms frantically while the woman across from him was just as animated with her response. He imagined that the man and woman were lovers, having some secret affair and that one of them was trying to break it off.
You break it off with me, and I’ll tell your husband, Griff imagined the argument heading this kind of direction, and he let out a small chuckle.
He was about to turn to call over one of the other soldiers, any of them, as they all enjoyed small games like this as another way to fight boredom, when his life changed forever.
S small but vivid flash of light briefly blinked by a make-shift overpass. The flash was immediately followed by an explosive cloud of smoke and dust and a cacophonous bang. The small group that were having their meeting were enveloped in it, and following the deafening thunderclap a spray of fleshy bits covered the immediate area. As the human confetti filled the air and came down with sickening splats a second flash, followed by a second boom. The delay between was almost negligible, as the both happened immediately in front of Griff, the only thing preventing him from also becoming confetti were sandbags and with inches of whatever the fuck Martians use as concrete.
The blast knocked him back and he hit the rooftop with a hard smack. He looked around, his vision distorted and blurry. Purples and greens swam across his eyes, and a high pitch ringing sang in his ears like a shrill siren’s song The faint sounds of yelling and screaming could be heard, but the voices were tinny and distant. He swore his squad were miles away. Rough hands began pulling him up be the shoulders, tugging at his armor. Griff’s vision steadied and he could see Mac’s face. Could feel his breath, but his voice was so distant and hollow.
“You Good?” Mac’s voice floated lazily through the air, drowning in the siren song that was still whining in his ears.
Griff nodded, and as he moved his head up and down he could feel a slight popping in his ears. Each pop seemed to open them up just a little more, and the sound slowly come trickling back in.
“Get back to your position! Check for Shooters!” Mac was yelling, pointing, and in total control. He was a veteran of the corporate wars, the only combat vet in the squad, and decked out in schools and qualifications. If the government had devised a new and more interesting way to kill another human, Mac made sure he learned it immediately.
He expertly directed his troops, making sure Lew-Dog, Kim, and Jones were scanning and looking for the source of the attack. While the soldiers crouched behind the chest-high red walls and scanned the streets below, Griff took his position once again behind the sand-bags.
It was so hot. Fuck was it so unbearably hot. Sweat was raining down around Griff, flooding his eyes and stinging them as he tried to find the source of the attack. He was back in his position scanning his sector when the most terrifying thing he had ever heard started ringing through his ears.
A deep thumping noise filled with bass followed by a high speed buzzing of bees whipped by Griff’s head. Chunks of Martian concrete were flying all over, and Griff had to get back down as pieces embedded into his cheeks.
Oh fuck! Thought Griff, his mind racing. The machine gun pounded like a maniacal drum, and concrete kept raining down on him.
“Keep your God-Damn head down”.
Now there’s God.
Mac was yelling, once again he was the traffic controller on the roof. It was too late, though. Angry bees tore through the sky, ripping through Jones’ head. They punched a hole into the front of his helmet no bigger than a thumb, but exited leaving a hole the size of a baseball. Chunks of meat and spray spouted from the back of his head, brain and bone exploding through the final layer of kevlar.
Oh fuck. Oh god. Oh god. Griff’s heart was more crazed than the machine gun. He was unable to tell the difference between the two at this point.
Jones fell to the ground, his rifle slapped and clattered against the concrete. His mouth was open and slightly twisted, leaving a terrifying and contorted look on his face as his body followed the rifle and slapped into the rooftop.
The sounds of combat faded as Griff stared back in horror at Jones’s corpse. He watched as small pools of blood slowly seeped from the entry wound in the front of his head just below the helmet. As shock took over his body and mind, all he could see was his own face as he looked into Jones’s hollow eyes. The dead orbs were a mirror of what could have been, and what very well might be.
“God Damn it, Griff, get off your ass!” Mac was back in his face, shaking him. And with a start Griff snapped back to the real world. Griff jumped up to his feet, grabbed his rifle and leaned hard into the sandbags. His breathing was hard and fast, his heart still a machine gun in his chest. Dirt and sweat had begun caking on his forehead, the salt and red Martian dirt still burning his eyes. He wiped them as he began aggressively scanning.
We should have a Machine Gun up here, one of the many thoughts that were racing through his mind. He thought also of home, and his mother, and wondered briefly if he’d ever get to see his family again.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The shooting started again. Mac had crouched down and was still scanning. Lew was manning his position anxiously. He stood erect, barely taking cover as he stared out into the sprawling city, but he kept tossing looks over his shoulder, even occasionally walking towards Mac, who had taken up Jones’ position, only to have Mac scream at him to get back into place. Kim, too, was anxiously watching his corner of the building. He barely scanned his sector as he kept glancing at me, and constantly asking Mac to let him move over to Jones’ position over the radio.
Griff had finally settled his nerves. Adrenaline kept him from realizing how badly his head hurt, and he managed to keep his overwhelming fear in check. Chips of wall sporadically rained down on him when the hidden gunner decided to open fire at his position. Suddenly Mac started screaming and pointing.
“There!” he yelled, as he stood up from his position. His finger aimed down towards an intersection, and Griff’s eyes did their best to follow. As he looked he saw, once again, the remnants of the group that had been standing in that unfortunate spot just a few minutes ago. It seemed like hours. Time seemed to be crawling right now. Further down the street he noticed a small trail of bodies littered throughout the road. So many lives taken, and no one even knew who had done this, let alone why. His eyes left the many carcasses that lie discarded on the street, to an intersection further down.
In a dark window of a squat building that Griff recognized as one of his favorite local restaurants, he could see muzzle flashes. Flash-Thump. Flash-Thump. Flash-Thump. Having now seen the source of the angry gun-fire brought some measure of peace to Griff. He knew he may very well die, but knowing what it was that was trying to kill him made it much easier to accept his situation and further calm his nerves.
Griff and Mac began lighting the building up. Round after round flew from their shooters, and down below the gunner must have experienced the same fear and panic that Griff had. At least, that’s what Griff hoped. He hoped that whatever was shooting at them felt the same terror that had rushed through Griff. In the darker recesses of his mind he had also hoped that they managed to kill the bastard. The thought made Griff uncomfortable. He always knew he may have to shoot someone. It was in black and white, right on his enlistment papers. There was never any confusion there. But he was hoping that he had killed someone, and that feeling unsettled him.
“Reload!” Mac yelled, and he crouched down to change his magazine. This was Griff’s cue to make sure he was keeping his fires up. Try to deny the gunner an opportunity to begin shooting again while his squad leader reloaded. As Griff leaned heavily into his training, and trusting his muscle memory, he found himself wondering what had caused the explosions. They had been so worked up over the machine gun that no one had even thought about the explosions that had kicked this party off.
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