Max Carrigan (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
silverhammer) wrote2012-10-28 04:45 pm
silverhammer) wrote2012-10-28 04:45 pm
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October 29, 2012: Day Two
Someone grabs him by the shoulders, by the straps of his pack and hauls him to his feet. His boots slip in the mud and he can't take his eyes off of the guy in front of him.
The body.
The body who used to be another guy in his unit.
"C'mon, man! We've gotta go!"
The voice is right in his ear and far away all at the same time, but Max is glassy-eyed, waiting for the guy at his feet to move. That is, until something goes off next to him and his face is sprayed with dirt and God only knows what else.
He stands, gripping his gun tighter, and he's back. He's got to move. They've got to go.
He's got to go.
Max doesn't know how long he's been sitting there, on the floor of his sister's apartment, but it seems like a few hours ago that the noises stopped and the TV flickered on again, the constant noise of static filling the silence.
He can't just sit there.
Max pulls himself onto his feet. He's gonna go find someone else, because everyone being gone... that's bullshit. There's no way. He tries to remember what the hell you're supposed to do when you get separated from your unit. Most of that stuff, he's tried to wipe out. Max has tried to forget most of what happened Over There, but he hasn't managed to do it yet.
It takes a full ten minutes before he pulls himself together enough to leave. The noises from the night before have stopped, and the city's quiet. He wanders most of the day, looking, but it's just him. Just him and that endless fucking rain of ash. Max keeps having to go inside just to shake it out of his hair so he can see straight, and in some ways it's worse than mud and marsh.
He doesn't know what time it is when he makes it back home, but he has time to eat some leftover Chinese from his fridge-- he doesn't taste it, barely remembers eating it once it's gone-- before the siren starts again. Before the lights flicker and the TV's dies and the city's plunged into darkness again.
The shifting somewhere in the distance starts, just like the night before. Something just loud enough that Max can hear it, but not so loud that it sounds like it's right outside the door. A rustle in the brush just beyond the trees that might just be from the rain, but might be somebody lying in wait.
At least tonight, he's got a candle, so even if Max is still sitting alone on the floor of his kitchen-- his own apartment now-- he's not completely in the fucking dark. But for a minute, he feels that humid air again and his heart starts pounding in his chest, filling the silence.
He loses track of time.
He's so fucking tired.
Max wishes that he couldn't remember the last time he was this tired, but it's still so fresh in his mind, it could have been yesterday. Maybe it was yesterday.
He gets caught up watching the shadows the candle casts against the cabinets. The tip of the flame flicks back and forth and it reminds him of just after they shipped out, before everything went to hell and he lost part of himself in the jungle. Before long he starts to nod off; his heart slows down and quiets and his eyelids are heavy.
A bang from somewhere down the hall jolts him out of a restless sleep, and he wakes up in the dark. The candle's blown out and it takes him a second to remember where he is, after he reaches for his gun and realizes it's not right next to him, sunken into mud that isn't even there.
Another bang, this time louder, and closer, and Max swears to God he hears someone mumbling. And if it's English, then he doesn't know what the hell they're talking about. In fact, if Max didn't know any better, he could swear it was another language altogether.
One more bang and then a mumble. The shuffle of boots in the hallway. Max's chest tightens and he tries not to breathe. He can't breathe. Yeah, maybe it's the Calvary, maybe someone's finally come looking for him in the dead of night, but his stomach twists and something tells him that's not what's about to happen here.
Max flattens himself against the wall, small in the corner, and he waits. Through the wall, he hears the sound of his neighbor's door getting kicked in, that same shuffle of boots and a mumble in another language. A shout.
"Fuck," he says, but his voice is strained, and the words scratch their way out of his throat at a whisper. "Fuck fuck fuck."
He tenses, sit still, and the door to his own apartment flies in, slamming against the wall so loudly that Max almost thinks he can smell the smoke from a gunshot. Boots squeak against the floor, headed closer and Max scampers on his hands and knees, around the kitchen island to keep out of view. But he pushes off on his knee the wrong way and it slips on the linoleum, his leg flying backwards, knocking over the candle holder in the dark.
There's a loud clatter, then silence.
"I'm unarmed! I live here!" Max shouts, and shit, he's supposed to know how to say some of that in Vietnamese, but he never learned. He wasn't paying any fucking attention.
And the next thing he knows, some guy's rounded the corner and Max is there on the floor staring up at him, still trying to get his eyes to adjust to the lack of light.
He's got no face. The guy staring down at Max, the Charlie, the one holding the submachine gun doesn't have a face. He's talking, shouting orders in Vietnamese and he has no mouth. Max can't think, he can't breathe, he's fucking frozen.
Charlie lifts his gun, and there's a click as it's hand settles into place.
Max scuttles backwards, hands slipping on the linoleum, trying to gain traction, and he only just gets out of the way before the sound of gunshots ring out, and that smell of gunsmoke is all too real and his ears are ringing. He makes for the door, head pounding, heart racing, and splinters with the impact of a bullet as he rounds the corner into the hallway.
Behind him, the faceless soldier's still shouting and emptying out his gun at places in space where Max just was.
He keeps running until it hurts.
The body.
The body who used to be another guy in his unit.
"C'mon, man! We've gotta go!"
The voice is right in his ear and far away all at the same time, but Max is glassy-eyed, waiting for the guy at his feet to move. That is, until something goes off next to him and his face is sprayed with dirt and God only knows what else.
He stands, gripping his gun tighter, and he's back. He's got to move. They've got to go.
He's got to go.
Max doesn't know how long he's been sitting there, on the floor of his sister's apartment, but it seems like a few hours ago that the noises stopped and the TV flickered on again, the constant noise of static filling the silence.
He can't just sit there.
Max pulls himself onto his feet. He's gonna go find someone else, because everyone being gone... that's bullshit. There's no way. He tries to remember what the hell you're supposed to do when you get separated from your unit. Most of that stuff, he's tried to wipe out. Max has tried to forget most of what happened Over There, but he hasn't managed to do it yet.
It takes a full ten minutes before he pulls himself together enough to leave. The noises from the night before have stopped, and the city's quiet. He wanders most of the day, looking, but it's just him. Just him and that endless fucking rain of ash. Max keeps having to go inside just to shake it out of his hair so he can see straight, and in some ways it's worse than mud and marsh.
He doesn't know what time it is when he makes it back home, but he has time to eat some leftover Chinese from his fridge-- he doesn't taste it, barely remembers eating it once it's gone-- before the siren starts again. Before the lights flicker and the TV's dies and the city's plunged into darkness again.
The shifting somewhere in the distance starts, just like the night before. Something just loud enough that Max can hear it, but not so loud that it sounds like it's right outside the door. A rustle in the brush just beyond the trees that might just be from the rain, but might be somebody lying in wait.
At least tonight, he's got a candle, so even if Max is still sitting alone on the floor of his kitchen-- his own apartment now-- he's not completely in the fucking dark. But for a minute, he feels that humid air again and his heart starts pounding in his chest, filling the silence.
He loses track of time.
He's so fucking tired.
Max wishes that he couldn't remember the last time he was this tired, but it's still so fresh in his mind, it could have been yesterday. Maybe it was yesterday.
He gets caught up watching the shadows the candle casts against the cabinets. The tip of the flame flicks back and forth and it reminds him of just after they shipped out, before everything went to hell and he lost part of himself in the jungle. Before long he starts to nod off; his heart slows down and quiets and his eyelids are heavy.
A bang from somewhere down the hall jolts him out of a restless sleep, and he wakes up in the dark. The candle's blown out and it takes him a second to remember where he is, after he reaches for his gun and realizes it's not right next to him, sunken into mud that isn't even there.
Another bang, this time louder, and closer, and Max swears to God he hears someone mumbling. And if it's English, then he doesn't know what the hell they're talking about. In fact, if Max didn't know any better, he could swear it was another language altogether.
One more bang and then a mumble. The shuffle of boots in the hallway. Max's chest tightens and he tries not to breathe. He can't breathe. Yeah, maybe it's the Calvary, maybe someone's finally come looking for him in the dead of night, but his stomach twists and something tells him that's not what's about to happen here.
Max flattens himself against the wall, small in the corner, and he waits. Through the wall, he hears the sound of his neighbor's door getting kicked in, that same shuffle of boots and a mumble in another language. A shout.
"Fuck," he says, but his voice is strained, and the words scratch their way out of his throat at a whisper. "Fuck fuck fuck."
He tenses, sit still, and the door to his own apartment flies in, slamming against the wall so loudly that Max almost thinks he can smell the smoke from a gunshot. Boots squeak against the floor, headed closer and Max scampers on his hands and knees, around the kitchen island to keep out of view. But he pushes off on his knee the wrong way and it slips on the linoleum, his leg flying backwards, knocking over the candle holder in the dark.
There's a loud clatter, then silence.
"I'm unarmed! I live here!" Max shouts, and shit, he's supposed to know how to say some of that in Vietnamese, but he never learned. He wasn't paying any fucking attention.
And the next thing he knows, some guy's rounded the corner and Max is there on the floor staring up at him, still trying to get his eyes to adjust to the lack of light.
He's got no face. The guy staring down at Max, the Charlie, the one holding the submachine gun doesn't have a face. He's talking, shouting orders in Vietnamese and he has no mouth. Max can't think, he can't breathe, he's fucking frozen.
Charlie lifts his gun, and there's a click as it's hand settles into place.
Max scuttles backwards, hands slipping on the linoleum, trying to gain traction, and he only just gets out of the way before the sound of gunshots ring out, and that smell of gunsmoke is all too real and his ears are ringing. He makes for the door, head pounding, heart racing, and splinters with the impact of a bullet as he rounds the corner into the hallway.
Behind him, the faceless soldier's still shouting and emptying out his gun at places in space where Max just was.
He keeps running until it hurts.