Lifted

word count, 679

    Dirt exploded to Cal’s right, showering him with pebbles and soil.  There was nothing left of the four men that had been there, small bits of green, nothing resembling a man remained.  A constant onslaught of shots and screaming explosions surrounded him; men were falling with frightening regularity.  Cal wanted to move, to run for cover, but he couldn’t, he was frozen in place his legs wouldn’t move, the bazooka he carried was stuck to his shoulder.

    Cal clearly saw the opposing forces; they were also taking heavy casualties.  There were grey men toppled over all around, their bodies grotesquely distorted in sudden death.  Everywhere voices were yelling.

    “We’re winning, we’re winning.”

    “Get that guy on the left; take him out before he does any more damage.”

    From behind him, “No damn-it, shoot them first, lob another shell at that bush, yeah that one, they’re all around there.”

    “Damn-it what are you doing?  Get some artillery on that quad.”

    There was a flurry of screaming explosions, Cal’s ears rang with pain, he couldn’t focus with the noise.  Soil rose in majestic plumes all around him, raining death down on his forces.  Nothing could be seen through the settling dust.  He heard a shot as his loader disappeared behind him, Stick, Stick his friend was gone; he’d just disappeared somewhere behind him.

    Cal was hit; half his face pushed to the rear of his head as he was lifted off the ground and forced back several feet before landing.  His one eye stared into the sky, clouds of dust drifted by obscuring the white, pure clouds farther up.  The dust settled and he heard the Gods speak.

    “That’s it, we win, all your guys are down.”

    A second God responded, “Damn, okay let’s pick ‘em up, it’s almost dinner time anyway.”

    Cal watched as best he could, his one eye staring aimlessly into the darkening sky.  He watched as the God’s hands reached for his fallen opponents and comrades, picking each up, beginning each warriors trip the “Great Hall”, where there was always plenty of beer and scores of warm, willing women, it was the warrior’s reward.  No bullets, no bombs, no days of endlessly waiting in an old cigar box for a few hours of terror.

    A God’s hand came into view, clutched Cal and lifted him to the heavens.  Suddenly the motion stopped and Cal saw a God’s face, dark curly hair over a sun burnt nose with freckles across the Gods face.  Dark eyes scrutinized Cal, they were such young eyes, he had expected a God’s eye’s to be older, wiser.

    “This one is no good, you shot half his head off Mark, crap. No more BB guns guys.”  The God cocked his arm and flung Cal far from him.  Call flew, spinning and tumbling, losing all orientation; he hit a boulder and fell to the ground, clutching his bazooka.  Refused by the Gods, passed over, .there would be no “Great Hall” for Cal, no cool beers and a warm loving woman for him.  He was destined to bleach for eternity under the open sky.  Cal tried to squeeze a tear from his eye, but the eyelid wouldn’t move.  He waited for the gathering darkness, he wasn’t afraid.  Cal knew the scavengers didn’t like his kind.

    It was a long night, the first of an eternity Cal thought.  He watched as grey light crept into the sky, then illuminating the low clouds a golden pink that faded to a dark grey.  The dawn breeze blew over his open eye and the half of his head that remained.  The wind increased and he saw pieces of grass and leaves blow high above him.

    The wind blew with a violence Cal had never experienced, a funnel cloud came into view.  The fury increased and suddenly Cal felt himself bodily lifted and spun in circles, rising higher and higher with each revolution.  He was being carried to the “Great Hall” by the wind.  Clutching his bazooka, he tried to squeeze tears from his plastic eye, but none would come.

word count, 679