Þessi hugmynd er búin að vera í hausnum á mér í nokkra daga, alveg síðan ég horfði á Jarhead í annað skiptið (þó ég hafi ekki klárað hana…). Ég fékk fullt af nokkuð góðum hugmyndum með þessa sögu, en einhvernveginn gengu þær ekki upp. Ég verð að viðurkenna að þetta er ein lélegasta saga sem ég hef skrifað, enda skrifuð á milli 00:30 og 1:30 í gærkvöldi…try to enjoy…



Sergeant Johnson shook his head in defeat, as he reached for the radio, currently lying a feet away from private Joshua's lifeless body. This had gone way out of head. How could they be loosing?
He ducked quickly, as he saw a bullet make a huge hole in a tree nearby. Immediately recovering, he picked up the radio,
“This is…” God, he didn't remember. Which unit was he in? What was his code name? Make the bullets stop flying! “This is Sergeant Johnson, requesting…” he stopped again. How did the military language go again? Ohh, fuck it, “Requesting some bloody bombs to be dropped on area five, over!”
No answer.
“This is Sergeant Joshua! Requesting some real, American bombing, now!” Another bullet. Another tree.
“This is the control center, what is your position?” he could have broken the radio, right there. He's fucking dying! Who cares about his position!?
“Area five. Requesting an air attack. We're being over powered, ”was an ‘air attack’ the right word?
“They're on their way, then, sergeant. Over and out,” Even though he was the one requesting the attack, Johnson couldn't help but being over powered by a new wave of fear. He dropped the radio quickly, before standing up, intending to tell his men to get out of there.
Another bullet. Now it was Johnson, who was hit.

***

Henry Wilson had always been afraid of death. It was a secret of which he did not share with others. As he looked up, he saw Johnson fall to the ground. Dead. He looked to the left. Smith, struggling to breathe. Death. Behind him, Douglas was looking for his foot. Death. It was all around him. Suffocating him. He wasn't going to make it. He was going to die. He was going to suffer in hell for all eternity. Hell, for what he had done before in his life, he'd probably get in the inner circle with Satan.
He felt a bile of vomit force it's way up his throat, as Douglas finally found his foot, and was lifting it up.
Fuck.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that caught him completely off guard. Fin was laying on the ground, his gun out in front of him, shooting in random directions. However, that was not what surprised him. The fact that the young British man was singing was what he found completely and utterly unbelievable.
Seeing as Wilson didn't know what to do, he decided to crawl over to Fin's shaking, singing and shooting form.
“Stop shooting, Fin. We're not going to win this one,” was his hello. Fin didn't let go of the trigger, but he looked at the only person that had become his friend in this shitty place.
“I can't stop singing. It doesn't get out of my head. It's coming and coming, and it doesn't stop! I'm fucking dying, and the only thing I can do is sing Sublime's ‘Santeria’! Why can't I stop? What's wrong with me!?” and then, he started crying. Wilson didn't know what to do, so instead, he started singing,
“I don't practice Santeria, I ain't got no crystal ball. Well, I had a million dollars but I, I'd spend it all,…let's sing. Sing ‘til we die, alright?” he said, putting on his bravest face. Fin sniffed.
“Let’s sing until we die,”

***

Tim Darren was, by no means, less shaken then the rest of his squad. However, he was the only one that was actually shooting. The only one that wasn't giving up without a fight.
Got, how he wanted to.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his kids again. He wanted to love his wife again. He wanted to be home in Wisconsin, and he wanted to be there now.
But he wasn't.
He could smell the blood. He could hear the pain. He could feel the fear. What is the point of all this? Is there actually a meaning?
He looked around, his eyes landing on Fin and Wilson. They were talking, and Fin was crying. He wasn't surprised about that one. Fin was never one to hide his emotions. However, he couldn't help but be stunned as Wilson started singing, and Fin joining in. Fucking idiots. They were going to die like cowards. Singing and crying.
But not Darren. Darren wasn't going to die like that. He was going to die a brave, young soldier. A hero.
So he stood up, raising his gun, and started running in the direction of the shooting.
In a matter of seconds, he was laying dead on the ground.

***

Chris Dallas was probably the only one who witnessed Darren run to his death. He wasn't surprised. Darren was a hard-core, brave, stupid-ass yankee.
Dallas was also probably the only one who heard what Sergeant Johnson had said into the radio. He was ordering bombs. The young man knew he had to get out of there, but he wanted to take as many as he could with him. However, as he looked over the area, he didn't see anyone alive. He knew that not everyone on the squad was within eyesight, so he ran away from the shooting, hoping to come across some alive friends of his.
He found no one.
Then, he heard the planes coming. The air force was closing in.
In desperation, he quickened his running, moving faster then he had ever moved before, trying the best he could to get away from the explosions of which were requested to happen.
Then, everything went black.

***

***

Lucy Johnson was happily doing the dishes, listening to Elvis Presley and dancing. She was going to a party later on, with some friends from work.
However, her good mood vanished completely, as she noticed a little, black car, with the American flag, driving up to her house.
No. No, no no.
She ran to the front door, opening it swiftly. Just as she did, two men in uniforms stepped out of the car, one carrying a neatly folded American flag.
“Are you Mrs. Johnson?” The man with the flag asked, shaking her hand.
“Yes…yes I am,” her voice didn't seem like her own.
“I'm sorry to inform you-” his voice was overpowered by the poor woman's cries.

***

Amelia Terrance was having a rather nice time with her friend, Jack, when her doorbell was rung. She groaned, rolling out of bed and putting a robe on,
“Wait here, I'll be back in a second,” she said, winking seductively. Jack grinned after her, as she made her way to the front door.
As she opened it, she was annoyed to see two uniformed men standing in front of her. She knew her boyfriend, Henry Wilson would be kicked out of the army, sooner or later.
“Good morning. Are you Ms. Terrance?” the man said. It was then when she noticed the flag in his arms. What did that one mean again?
“Yes, I am. What's it to you?” she asked, leaning against the doorway.
“Ms. Terrance, I'm sorry – on the half of the American army – to inform you about Henry Wilson's death,” Amelia didn't register what he just said. Then, when she finally did, she looked coolly at the man with the flag,
“Yeah. So, do I get the flag instead of the life insurance?”

***

Rosie Darren was watching the news when her knock came. She sighed, pulling her 74 year old frame up into a standing position, as she made her way to the door and opening it, revealing a pair of young men, one holding a flag, and both in a uniform.
“Hello, are you Mrs. Rosie Darren?” the one not holding the flag asked. However, Rosie wasn't listening to him. She was staring at the flag. She knew what that ment. She'd seen that flag before, when her husband didn't come home from Vietnam.
Indeed, she hadn't even answered, when she was down on the floor, sobbing hysterically.

***

Alex Jackson was sitting out on the porch, reading a book, when he saw a small, black car driving up to his ranch. He sat still, as the car stopped, and two men stepped out. They didn't seem to notice him, as they walked up to the front door,
“Oy! What are you lot doing at me farm?” he asked, standing up. The men looked at each other, and then at Alex.
“Are you the owner of this house?” one of them asked, raising an eyebrow,
“Aye, I'm Alex Jackson,” he said, raising an eyebrow,
“You are? Alex isn't a girl's name?” the man said, rather rudely,
“No…why?” neither of them answered,
“I'm sorry to inform you about Charles Fin's death,” they didn't look sorry. Bloody homophobes.
However, Alex didn't care about that. Charlie was dead?
“Thanks for letting me know,” was all he said, before making it clear to the men that they could leave now.

***

Fear rose in Yvonne Dallas' stomach, as she noticed the little black car she had seen so often in the movies, driving up to her house.
“Ohh, lord, no,” she whispered, flinging the front door open, “no, no no no no no,” she continued saying to herself, until the door opened, revealing two men. One was wearing a hat, so she couldn't see his face.
“Are you Mrs. Dallas?” she froze, before forming a ‘yes’.
“Come and give you're husband a proper hello!” The man with the hat looked up, revealing Mr. Chris Dallas.