The Madness of War - A short story by Malus Darkblade

Sam-Jack-Dunn, Human, 15 years ago

Looking around at the corpses by my feet, at the pool of blood I am standing in, at the way the fresh blood mixes in with the dried and crusted layer of gore that already covers my once pristine combat boots. Smelling the unmistakable stench of burnt flesh tickling my nostrils, I cannot help but wonder what happened to the revulsion, horror and sorrow I used to feel when confronted with such carnage.

The blood seeping into my gloves has stained them a dark brown, an ugly colour and a far cry from the natural green that they once were. But, I can barely remember what they looked like when they were clean. Same goes for my boots. They’ve been covered in gore so long, it seems like they’ve always been this way.

I should be dead.

I have no idea what possibly could have kept me alive, why I have succeeded where so many before me have failed. I have no clue where this talent could have arisen from, like a terrifying monster rising from the inky black depths of my corrupted soul.

Looking down at my latest victims, all in various states of dismemberment, I see in their blank empty eyes the reflection of my own damnation.

The voice whispers that they are nothing, and that they weren’t anything to begin with. That they were weak and pathetic. It is their fault that they died at my hands. It tells me that I did them a favour, relieving them of their pitiful existence. It sounds so reasonable, such common sense, so in order with what I’ve seen. So true to what I have been through in these past days. I find myself agreeing.

I stopped trying to argue with it long ago.

I have little doubt now that the voice is the sole reason for my continued existence, for the fact that instead of one of those broken corpses I am the one standing over the bodies, trying to catch my breath and avoid looking at their cold, dead eyes. The voice awoke my only talent.

I push at a small button on the side of my rifle, and don’t even look at the empty ammunition clip as it falls free from the rifle and bounces off of the face of what I can only guess from the elaborate detail of it’s uniform was once a leader. A general, maybe.

I don’t care for such things as rank and title anymore, and those gold stars on his blood-soaked cap certainly didn’t do him any good. I grab another ammo clip in my gloved hands, and slam it into the rifle’s berth, ignoring the fact that my hands are still sticky with blood, and that the rifle is also matted with chunks of flesh, and covered in gore.

It is only then that I hear a quiet gurgle, a noise of desperation and pain, sounding from behind me.

Turning slowly, I realize with horror that one of the corpses is, in fact, still alive. Only just, though, by the look of him. And here I was, thinking that this hell could no longer hold surprises for me, could no longer shock and disgust me. I don’t acknowledge the fact that the real thing that I find horrifying is the lack of horror that I actually feel.

He’s using one of his hands to hold his innards in, trying to keep his guts from spilling out all over the floor, trying to keep the blood that is spurting from the wound from going everywhere. Not a particularly easy thing to do with just one hand, but the other one is a few feet away. With the rest of his arm.

If memory serves correctly, I got him straight in the guts with a grenade. Not as completely as I thought, obviously. He must be pretty tough.

Doesn’t matter. He’s going to die here. I’m going to finish the job. As I walk over towards him and place the rifle against his head, I cannot help but smile, listening with half an ear as the voice whispers to me of glory, of being a hero. Of blood.

The man sobs loudly as I place the barrel of the rifle against his bloodied temple, having to move it slightly to avoid a piece of shrapnel that’s sticking out of the side of his head. I wish he’d just realize that he’s dead already.

“Oh please don’t…I don’t want to die…oh god oh god please don’t I’m begging you have mercy…â€Â

I find his voice annoying. I wish he’d just shut up and die like a man.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can tell something is amiss. Something isn’t right here.

But the voice is having none of that, not with the promise of shed blood so near. It’s telling me to kill him, going back and fourth between ordering me to kill him, and whispering promises of glory and victory into my bloodied ear and shattered mind.

But killing unarmed prisoners is wrong, isn’t it? I know that killing someone who cannot defend themself is bad. Or, at least, I think it is. After all I have seen, after what I have done, how can I honestly see things like right and wrong clearly anymore?

This thrice-damned war is killing my soul, rotting my heart and poisoning my mind.

As the man pleads for his life, so pathetic, a voice in my mind tells me that he is going to die anyway, that he’s doomed to die a slow and painful death and that by killing him now I’m really doing him a favour, that he’s doomed no matter what I do so I might as well just take his life right now.

The frightening thing about it is that I cannot tell whether that voice is the voice, or my own.

As he pleads for his life, I plead for my sanity.

In the end, neither of us gets our way. As my finger tightens on the trigger, the rifle bucks in my hands, the sobs and begs and cries are replaced with a harsh, final ‘Bang’. The evidence of my becoming a war criminal is painted on the already blood-soaked walls. I don’t even notice that the round from the rifle lands in what is left of his now empty skull.

The voice congratulates me, tells me that I did well. That I did not only the right thing, but the only thing. I carved my way through the enemy battle lines, left a trail of destruction and horror in my wake, took the enemy Command Post, and killed their leaders. Good job; that might just end the war.

But I know that my war will never be over.

I search the corpse for ammunition, the horror of the situation and my own actions completely lost to me. It’s standard procedure, but nobody ever expected it to be easy. I know the others never found it easy. For some reason I do, and that scared me.

Nothing in his pockets but an old, battered wallet. Opening it up, more from curiosity than anything else, I notice the picture taped to the inside of it, now covered in blood. He’s standing there next to what looks like…me.

Funny, I don’t remember him. Still, you picked the wrong side, buddy. Tough luck.

That’s when I hear a voice barking from down the tunnel.
A voice in the harsh, guttural language of the enemy.

All thoughts of my soul and sanity are wiped away in an instant by the promise of more killing. A guilty smile is already smeared on my blood-slicked lips as I raise my rifle, hungry for more blood, for more killing.

I wish the killing would never stop.

The voice roars.


Tell me what you guys think, eh?

FireHunter, Human, 15 years ago

You brutal bastard!
Haha, good story, I'm just wondering what that voice was...

Sam-Jack-Dunn, Human, 15 years ago

Insane people do tend to have voices in thier head. In Malus's backstory, he eventually (years down the track) goes insane. This is just as he crosses the brink.

If anyone can get the hidden sub-plot in here, lemme know. It's hard to spot, but I bet someone here is bright enough to manage it.

FireHunter, Human, 15 years ago

Oh oh oh! is it the fact that he isn't killing enemy soldiers, he's killing his friends!

Sam-Jack-Dunn, Human, 15 years ago

Why yes. Yes it is. Smart Xenomorph, it seems I have underestimated you.

Atin_Fordo, Human, 15 years ago

I personally liked this. I hadn't caught the whole killing his allies thing the first time I read it, then I took a closer look. Hadn't thought about the picture.

superxinyang, Human, 15 years ago

i thought hewas killing enemys. the writer should make it clearer who he is killing.

Atin_Fordo, Human, 15 years ago

The guy's supposed to be crazy. He thinks he's killing enemies, but he's really killing his allies. This is hinted at by the picture in the wallet.

Sam-Jack-Dunn, Human, 15 years ago

I prefer a writing style of 'showing, not telling', so that the reader has to use their brain to figure out what's really goin on. Mmhmm.