Surviving nothing
"God is dead and we have killed him." —Friedrich Nietzsche
He awoke, sweating bullets as rounds nearly grazed his face. His bandolier was gone. Panic set in. He did not remember where he was, or what he was. A loud thunder boomed overhead, sending shells soaring across the sky, smashing skulls and smiting whoever was unfortunate enough to stand in its way. Around him, craters opened and red mist replaced silhouettes — perhaps of unfamiliar faces, possibly of animals.
Under the sun-damned sky, he wormed his way to a rifle. The ground beneath him became flesh, then bone, then flesh again. He paid no mind as his ears rang, and grasped the gun as though it would mean leaving this godforsaken, glorified slaughterhouse. Then he remembered. A line of black helmets and mangled carrion advanced, fell, and renewed as muzzle flashes illuminated their fates. I must advance, he thought. Captain's orders.
The day was warm, but his uniform was warmer still. Blood clung onto his body, reeking of death. He had no way of knowing whose corpse it previously belonged to; regardless, he did not want to know. The uniform was his death row cell, silent but loud.
He crawled, under bodies suspended in blood-stained wire, over mud freshly trampled over by dead men.
Behind him, artillery fire merged with the horrible cacophony of screams and gunfire, bombarding him from all directions. A silent scream trilled, blending into the noise around him.
Then it all fell silent.
