Jameson surveyed the battle-scarred landscape. Shadows rose from the mud, moving through the fog obscuring the carnage. The sharp smell of cordite hung in the air. Jameson’s ears were numb — the only sound was the agonizing wail of an injured soldier on the ground beneath him. Shrapnel had shredded the man’s face; his stomach was a gurgling pile of entrails. Jameson read the patch on the man’s blood-soaked uniform. The name was familiar: T. Jameson.
Damn it, Jameson thought, recalling the whistling of the incoming mortar. Direct hit.
He sighed, then joined the other shadows in the fog.
Looking for more? Check out all the free stories, drabbles, and podcasts. And be sure to follow @warrenbenedetto on Twitter.
Get new stories and updates via email.