Lying Prone

My breath eased out, fluttering in the cold.

Tears fell from the murky sky, splashing on the grimy mud. Damp drew into my body, lying prone beside the rubble that once was a house, on the ground that once was a lawn.

I let my eyes close for a moment, listening.

So much had happened, so much time passed, but here I was again.

My finger tensed and I let an eyelid open a crack, peering through the scope. Azure filled the sight and I adjusted my gaze above it, peering upon a butterfly.

I wondered what brought it here, to this barren land. There were no flowers, no life but soldiers'.

Yet, there it was.

I tried to remember when I last saw one, trying to not remember too far back. There had been spiders, cockroaches, others too, but nothing of beauty at the training camp. In the field, there were only rats and maggots.

It must have been ten years ago, that last Summer – the Last Summer.

I sat in the garden, underneath a sprawling and gnarled oak tree. Memories were entwined with it, remnants of rope swings and attempts at tree-forts and family picnics with my parents and little brother.

Laughter almost overcame me as I remembered I was wearing a dress that day. Ten years and the closest I had come to girly clothing since had been a pair of snug jeans and a vest that was small enough to show off my bellybutton.

The difference between men and women didn't matter when there were so few volunteers.

I had no one, nothing. There was no long lost relative to offer me a place in their house and in their hearts or a local philanthropist offering a room and three meals a day while I got some kind of qualification. No government to give me my rights and no government to allow me my privileges.

It was the longest year of my life, scrounging food when the little work I could find didn't give enough. I had some morals and they kept me sane, kept me from becoming like the animals that roamed the lawless streets, kept me from becoming like the commodities that were traded around for as long as they were somewhat beautiful, though not always willingly,

Then the army came to town.

With nothing to lose, I joined. Camp beds were heaven compared to the cramped remains of shelled buildings and perpetual, chilling wind; the regular servings of gruel and soup delicious, the occasional meat exquisite; the daily cold showers taking away the dirt from weeks with heavenly bliss.

It was hard, painful, humiliating, but it was home. At first, I struggled, both socially and physically. The men looked down on me and the other women mainly fell into the tough-as-nails camp, probably to get by. Waking up before sunrise and doing manual labour for hours and hours pushed me beyond what I thought were my limits, so far beyond.

I'm still not sure when the relief of something resembling a civilised life gave way to the resent of my treatment, or when the resent gave way to surrender of myself, or when the apathy gave way to enjoyment, but it happened within a few months.

Based on what I thought later about new recruits, I'd say the others there were waiting to see whether I'd sink or swim before letting down any barriers. Even in my first month, I saw a hundred walk in to the camp only to crawl out after a day, a week, a month.

That wasn't me, though. After the first week, a couple of the “softer” girls would do the smallest things – ask me how I was feeling or suggest a good stretch for the limp I had. After a month, most of the women and a fair chunk of the men would spare me a comrade-smile – a kind of tight, pull at the corner of your mouth smile, something you just learned meant that they cared about you as a fellow in arms and would attend your bare-bones funeral if they were around.

From there, it was a happiness that only a sense of purpose gives. I laughed for the first time since the bomb had detonated; I smiled more than I could ever remember with the people that had become my family; I felt like there was hope for a good future and a place for me in it.

Towards the end of the first year, they picked me up for my marksmanship and, when I thought my shoulder couldn't take any more of the recoil, they signed me up to play with the big boy snipers. Well, they put the offer to me, but it wasn't one I could refuse. I wasn't a coward, but there were two general rules: people wanted to live and great snipers didn't die.

For the scouting parties especially, luck was a huge factor as to whether or not you came back alive. I wasn't invincible, but at a good kilometre or so away, the biggest threat was another sniper, my skill against theirs.

Unlike practically every other part of the establishment, the snipers were mainly men. I could throw around reasons that I came up with, but at the end of the day that's how it was. In a team of nine for the camp, it was just me and they really made sure I knew I was a girl.

Of course, with hindsight I know every trick they pulled. It was their job to demean me so I would rise above it. Maybe it wasn't consciously for them, but the instructors sure as hell made it obvious. Every sexist remark, every quiet joke followed by glances and laughter: they pushed me.

Seven years later, they were still trying to come close to my end-of-year records, let alone the ones I'd set since.

A long breath in burned my lungs, the constant stream of adrenaline crying for action.

I relaxed off the trigger, watching the butterfly. Ten years ago, sitting under that tree in my girly little dress, reading some soppy romance story, wishing that Jack would ask me out already – a typical little sixteen year-old girl, a butterfly stopping at a rosebush my mum loved like a third child.

Sometimes I wondered if I had dreamt that life.

The problems of then seemed so trivial compared to those I had faced since. If I wanted to date someone now, there's no way I'd sit on my arse and hope that they'd notice my longing looks and nervous smiles. Heck, I can't even remember the last thing that made me nervous in that sort of way.

I knew what made me nervous though. I damn well knew what made me nervous.

Seven bodies: one ally and six enemies, dead on the ground; eight of ours remaining, at least two of theirs, but likely three based on standard squad size and always the possibility of more; one enemy sniper, last known to be hiding in the brush on the hill by the far side of the little town.

I had frozen the first time I was in this kind of position, watching the people I knew fall to the ground, gaping holes in their chests or heads. Seven had gone down before I pulled myself together and I took that bastard out, one shot straight through his left eye.

Never again. The last time I lost more than one member of my team had been five years ago and I wasn't going to let anyone take that record from me, those friends from me.

My opponent was moving, I knew that, but the slight mist, swirling in the gentle wind, ruined my chances. I had found where they had been, seconds too late. Now, all I had to guide me was what I knew.

The butterfly danced through the air, leaving me for the distance.

My other eye eased open, looking through the scope. Gently, I raised my end, tilting it downwards. The hill couldn't offer enough cover, not without the element of surprise. Imagining the relative positions of the soldiers, I shuffled left, bringing the gun's muzzle to the right.

Taller buildings dotted that area, but no one would risk boxing themselves inside one, not when they didn't know where their enemy was.

My heart beat faster and faster, undermining the control I always tried to exert. I focused on my breathing. Deeply in, deeply out, slowly bringing peace.

The butterfly fluttered in the distance, filling the scope, and I smiled. It was hope, hope that one day these lands could be the great nation they once were. Hope that one day there wouldn't be the sombre presence that forever boiled in the background, making me question which of my friends I would ever see again.

Then, like hope, it left, yet something important stayed behind.

I adjusted my vision minutely, scanning over the area I'd have chosen if I was in their shoes, but there was a lot of cover. Moving would give me a better position, but left me open and my allies undefended.

At the least, I could get the enemy sniper after they took another shot, maybe another casualty. I cherished my record, my dedication, but risks weren't to be taken. They trusted me, their guardian angel, and bad timing would have me in the same position minus another or more.

It tore at me, knowing that I would probably look at another body and feel like I had pulled the trigger myself, but rather that than look at two or more bodies.

Again, the distant butterfly dropped into my sights, tittering around. I couldn't be distracted, but at the same time I couldn't do anything more. If the radios weren't shoddy and a liability, I could have directed them to a position where I could force my opponent into a visible position, but coulds and woulds were worthless.

I followed its path, barely shifting the rifle to keep up. There was some kind of unknown grace in its movements, as though it were constantly falling exactly where it wanted to be, like a drunken brawler. Every beat of its wings pushed it just right for the wind to blow it smoothly, each breath of air pushing it into the right position for another beat of its wings.

It was mesmerising, my consciousness admiring while my subconscious took in whatever it could, keenly searching for the typical dull metal or humanoid impression.

Further the butterfly went, its pale wings making it seem like a snowflake caught in the wind.

Further and further, getting closer and closer to the ground before finally settling on a piece of slime that coated a rock. Only, after a second, its wings bristled, as though the wind had changed direction, yet nothing else suggested it had.

My eyes widened and I swivelled right a touch, really looking.

The rock was long, protruding off the remains of a brick wall, pointed roughly towards where my team-mates were at one end. At the other, more remains blocked it out, but I was confident.

My heart sped up and adrenaline spiked, time seemingly slowing down while I watched. Every instinct told me to shoot, but I hadn't made it this far by acting blindly.

I watched and waited and waited and watched until, finally, the rock moved a fraction of a fraction of an inch.

My breath held, I lined up and fired.

The first shattered a weather-worn brick and a moment later another cut through the debris, followed by a third and then a fourth, all closely grouped, before I moved.

There wasn't time to do anything fancy, not after all those shots. So, I got on my knees, getting my gun loose from the ground and rolled back into what once was a river. The metal smacked hard against my shin and knee, back sore from the undignified landing, not that I noticed while the adrenaline still pumped.

Moving to a crouch, I journeyed West. I moved as fast as I could without raising my head near to the brim of the makeshift-trench, but it still took a few minutes to get to the position I wanted.

What once must have been a watermill protected me from where the sniper – if I hadn't gotten them – would be. I climbed up and walked along, breathing lightly. There hadn't been any more shots, but that just meant I hadn't gotten my team killed.

Carefully, I propped the rifle back down, digging the supports into the earth with a few pushes. I still had my hands, so there was some comfort from that as I dropped back down, my right knee complaining. Slowly as I dared, I got back behind my gun, my method of making a difference in this world.

I quickly reorientated myself, following consciously tagged monuments to work my way back to where I had shot. My breathing stilled as I got close, inspecting the rubble. I finally picked out the gun, jutting out oddly and revealing a metallic underside. Still on the trigger was a dirtied finger, attached to a dirtied hand.

Along the bottom of the back wall, a very narrow angle from my new position, and on the ground, was blood. I couldn't see any more of the body, his choice good for keeping me at bay, but the lack of a trail leading away along with the gun and hand was enough for me.

The drumming of my heart wound down as the easy bit began. Casually, I altered my scope to a little building the enemies had been holed up in before. I deeply breathed in and out before taking in a comfortable amount of air.

A flash of light and a clap of sound echoed through the valley.

One down, two down, three down, four down. Head, stomach, chest, chest,

Again, I was moving, whispering a prayer for them. Another five lives I had taken, in the belief that what I was fighting for was right just as they believed that what they were fighting for was right. It wasn't fair, wasn't just, wasn't right, but it was what I could, all I could hope to do.

Hope, hope for a future where I could have a sense of purpose that didn't involve taking the most precious gift.

My expression stern, I pretended I didn't feel the tear rolling down my cheek.

My expression stern, I kept moving.

At the end of the day, that's all I could do. One more “perfect” mission, a net gain, a profit in human life. The little things that kept me moving, because, if I stopped, I didn't think I could get going again.