I step out of the tent, barely standing as a result of my tiredness. Harris didn't even bother leaving the truck, he just leaned the seat back and fell asleep. I walk up to the truck, open the door and grab Harris by his short blond hair, proceeding to pull him from the seat to the dirt.
"What the hell?" he said pulling out the pistol he keeps in his jacket. Then he looks up. "Ohoh~, I see, you dragged m-" I kicked him the stomach to shut him up, he's now laying in the fetal position holding his stomach. "Come on you big baby," I said turning around, my feet kicking dirt into his face.
He stumbles up, like a drunken man, stifling a cough, as he grabs the truck door, still ajar, for support. I look over my shoulder to see him coughing into his hand. I was overwhelmed by a wave of concern, I know I didn't kick him that hard. I turn to face him as he fumbles with his pockets, eventually pulling out a deformed-looking cigarette, and after having his finger slip, he finally lights it.
He takes a long drag then lets out a puff, took a deep breath in and out, and lets go of the truck door and slamming it shut. I had thought he was calmer, apparently not.
"Are you alright?" Ashe beats to question.
"Huh-oh, uh, yeah, I'm fine." He said with a nervous laugh and rubbed the top of her hand like a father would his son.
"Are you sure, I heard a lot of coughing over here, maybe it's this?" Ashe inquires as she jumps, grabbing the cigarette from his mouth, stomping it out on the dirt.
"What the hell do you think you're doing kid?" Harris said, his tone rough and pitch deep.
He loomed over Ashe like a giant, he glared daggers with rage-filled eyes. I walk up to him and patted his shoulder, attempting to calm him down, it worked, thankfully. Ashe ran back to her tent after that, not wanting to look Harris in the eyes.
"Damnit," he muttered, "My last cigarette."
"You don't need," I say trying to comfort him, "You should probably quit anyways, name a better time to start!" I said, jokingly prodding his ribs with my elbow.
"When I'm dead or discharged," he said in a more serious voice.
Harris had always turned to cigarettes to solve his problems, he told me once they calmed his anxiety, and I only wish I could be his solace instead of smokes and a lighter. For as long as we've been friends he never confided in me, he has feelings for me that go unrequited and yet, nothing.
A cold wind blew our way and with it the sound of footsteps. Thousands of them heading towards us, but why? I turned to Harris, who gave me a nod and walked towards the other's tents. I grasped the hilt of the swords on my belt, drawing them an inch, preparing for an attack, possibly an ambush.
As the footsteps drew closer, as did the sound of clanking metal and the smell of iron. I draw my swords, crossing the blades in a defensive stance. The footsteps then ceased, revealing who they belonged to.
A vast army of foot soldiers stood before me, their uniforms covered in rusty crimson and the smell of decay. I covered my face as the sight, rather the smell was too much. Suddenly the soldiers split into two lines and a truck drove in. As it came to a stop the smell grew, and my eyes widened in horror. The bed of the truck was covered by a blue tarp, stained with a ghastly shade of red on the edges. Flies appeared to swarm around it and you could see a rusty blood-stained hand with half the flesh gone, showing only bone. I clench my fist and hold my mouth trying not to puke.
A tall man with dirty blond hair steps out of the truck, he too covering his face. His uniform had blood and the scent of death all over. He had an AR-15 on his back and a pistol at his side. He approached me with hesitance as fidgeted with his fingers.
"H-hello, can you help us?" the man asked in a deep yet shaking voice.
"What happened to you?" I asked looking at his truck bed filled with the dead.
"They came for us, it isn't safe here, you do good to leave right away, orders be damned!"
"Who came for you, why are they all dead?"
"GOD DAMNIT, THERE'S NO TIME FOR STUPID QUESTIONS GIRL, WHERE ARE YOUR COMMANDERS!" the man hollered, his voice reflected pain and fear, and maybe grief, no, guilt.
"HEY, ASSHOLE DO YOU KNOW WHO YOU'RE TALKING TO?!" Harris ran up and right hooked the man's jaw.
"Harris, what are you doing?" I whispered, but he ignored me.
"You want her commanders, heh, good luck, because she is the commander, and so am I!" Harris said as the man found his footing.
"This has to be some sort of joke, you mean to tell me that this gaunt, little shrimp is a commander, don't make me laugh!"
"Yes, I am, you got a problem with that," I said and spit in his face.
"Oh your on," he said reaching for his pistol.
"Commander Izan, don't do this, we need their help."
Suddenly a young boy ran up to the man and pleaded with him to stop. The man conceded and let out a long exhale. He apologized and told us he was from Platoon Four, he said they had an order to come out here, but they were ambushed and almost 3/4 of their platoon was killed. I asked again who it was that did this, but I could tell he was too pained to answer by the look he gave.
And so after 3 long hours of barring the dead, Izan and what was left of Platoon Four departed, their goal, to reach base by nightfall. So Harris and I sent them off and despite Izan's warning continued on.