Willow's Story - Eve of Destruction

youtu.be/_38SWIIKITE - (Barry McGuire - Eve of Destruction)

	The night was achingly loud, like always. The selvan roar of birds, insects and more from the surrounding jungle deafened the little robot, shook awake by the mechanical alarm to recharge. Hobbling out of her home of three weeks, taking care not to rouse her snoring comrades, she made way for the humble maintenance tent, intent on snatching up another battery. That nagging chime in her head told her she had an hour or so, still hopping into her boots before finally sliding up to the still flaps at the tent’s entrance. Poking her head in she saw the tired maintenance officer idly chipping at some anomalous piece of equipment, a kerosene lantern flickering besides him.
	“Ah, hey,” he yawned. “C’mon over.” Shuffling in Whitney sat opposite the man, peeping as he popped her backplate off, head slipping ahead briefly as he popped out the sapped radio battery from her back. She was on the scraps of internal power she had left for a moment, sleepily holding her head up in the dim light, shivering reflexively at her exposed machinery. A lance of energy ran up her spine, shooting her head back up. Plating clipped back into place the cold subsided, damp, dismal, tropical heat swaddling her again.
	“Good to go?”
	“Yep,” he nodded, mouth open again. “I’m goin’ ta schleep…”
	“Sweet dreams,” she grinned, wishing him the same rest she did all the soldiers. In the anxious lull they spoke of she’d taken up much of the tidying and cleaning she was used to, doing it better and faster than the men. The camp commander was less than amused, the robot an excuse to be lazy because “Willow’ll handle it.” She didn’t mind the negative attention any, and it was comforting to be picking up after the boys, not a far cry from home save for the roasting heat and humidity. Stepping back into that same dank air, sniffing at the moist, mucky night, she resolved to go get some proper rest, not wanting to wear her battery down any faster than she should. Fussing with her bun she made way for the hunched dugout of home, pausing to listen to the suffocating silence around her. The jungle was rarely quiet, even less often silent. Replacing the cacophony of wildlife was a tinny whistling, a buzzing brushing by her ears. Like a mosquito buzzing past her head it grew louder.
	In an instant a thick pressure wave threw her backwards, the poor robot tumbling and rolling through the dirt. A succession of other blasts shook the ground, Whitney staggering to her feet. Hand to her forehead a grim tear had traced across beneath her hairline, her meager scrunchie blown off as strands of blonde sank down to her eyes. Shouts sounded around her as the snoozing troops on post jolted awake and to action, the handful of men manning the sleepy perimeter already returning fire. Chattering cascades of rifle and automatic fire filled the air, the odd tracer round streaming up and down the valley as people shimmied over the open ground. Men barked orders, Whitney frozen in place in the hellish eruption of noises unfamiliar, eyes locked on the sky in panic. A blinding flare shut her eyes, a scream calling for her.
	“Willow, c’mon,” the voice drawled. “F*ckin’ move dammit!” Snapping to attention she raced towards the Captain, ducking back into the hooch with the others. Sharp rays of light flooded in after her, the huddled trio sweating beneath their tank tops, the thickening fire around them drumming their hearts higher, tenser, tighter.
	“Any orders, sir,” she chirped, more concerned with her dangling hair.
	“We do what we’re here to do,” Dawes spat. “Vasquez you’re with me on the perimeter and then dustoff, you two go watch for wounded. Get a litter from the chopper and help out. Good?”
“Good,” Meyers nodded. Throwing on his own flak vest he pulled the robot after him, out from the shaded roof overhead and back to the illumined dirt square around them. A column of smoke burnt grey down the field, the copilot cursing under his breath. Jogging forward, head low, he made for the shadowy shape of their own helicopter. Down the field was the blazing hulk of its sister ship, a pair of men frantically trying to extinguish the dancing flames.
	“Sir?”
	“Keep low,” he muttered, yanking her inside their own ship. Fumbling in the half-darkness he took a stretcher in hand, Whitney’s eyes flickering on to yank away the bulky first aid case hanging above him. “F*ck.”
	“Sir,” she peeped, shaking off the curse. “Everything alright?”
	“No Willow, not really,” he sniffed, scanning the ship for damage. Tiny fragments of steel had rapped its side, windows cracked and spiderwebbed by shrapnel. He sighed. “Though it could be worse.” Waving her back out the two ran for the perimeter, the ebb and flow of gunfire pulsing around them. The broad trench running around the rim of the complex invited them in, the man diving legs first and pulling the sheepish robot after him. Stooping low and pressing her down they stalked along its length, popping into the intermittent bunkers and dugouts along its course. Deafening exchanges of fire rocketed outward into the jungle, Whitney following after the panting man. The beleaguered defenders, chests thumping and eyes narrowed in the blinding magnesium light, panted for rest. Intruders charged from the jungle, tumbling forward where they were gunned down outside of Whitney’s sight. Calls to the treeline and beyond directed the increasingly sporadic fire, the hours dragging on as the firefight turned to an intimate slugfest of raking gunfire, the surrounding assailants evidently deprived of any heavier ordinance. A thump in the dirt ahead of them sent the man prone, yanking the robot down behind him, a shuddering explosion rocking the ground ahead of them.
	“F*ck me,” he shouted, head popping up again. “C’mon!”
	“Sir!” Shaking the dirt from her hair Whitney jumped after the man, running ahead again. A voice cried for aid meters ahead, Meyers turning into one of the pitiful shelters. Ducking inside the sweltering pit was a trio of men, one still pouring fire as the other knelt over the third, frantically pressing gauze to a weeping hole in his shoulder, blood sweating from his own ravaged face downwards. The man at the parapet threw more heaving fire into the dense woodland, the sandy paff of rounds impacting around him forcing his head down before another cursing volley.
	“Get to work, Willow!” The robot was frozen upright staring at the scene, the prone man groaning rhythmically, robotically, Meyers scooping up a discarded rifle to relieve the desperate pressure. “F*cking move!”
	“R-Right!” Snapping to attention she dove for the kneeling man, ready to tie a roundel of gauze to his oozing forehead. “It’s going to be okay,” she parroted, smiling.
	“Not me, f*ck,” the grunt, shrieked. His eyes coursed red and doggedly tired, burnt open by adrenalin. Slapping her across the face he forced her attention to the weakening soldier beneath her, the man scooching aside. Head shaking she threw the metal case down, plying it open as a shivering instinct took over, unsure hands pressing hard into his gaping shoulder.
	“Remember to stop the bleeding,” Meyers screamed back.
	“Right! Right,” she fumbled, hands dropping the roll of gauze into the dirt. Peeling it apart she pressed hard into the wound, the stench of sulfur overpowered by the sticky iron worming between her narrow fingers. She went for a pair of clippers to shear his shirt away, the other soldier slapping her hand now.
	“No, stop! He needs to f*cking go,” he shrieked. “F*ck!”
	“Willow, come on,” Meyers screamed again, dropping himself to her side. He chewed anxiously, spitting a wad of gum across the dirt floor. “Here.” Pulling a bandage apart he wrapped the soldier’s arm together, ruffling the man’s hair gently. Pushing hard into the cavity to pull it tight, the man moaning louder, he grabbed the soldier’s abandoned helmet.
	“Now what, sir,” Whitney mumbled. A distant mortar shot rumbled the ground beneath them.
	“Christ! We move him,” he snapped. “Get his legs.” Reaching over he yanked the litter across the ground, another puff of dirt sending them down. Plopping the helmet on one end he gently held the soldier’s shoulders, Whitney hopping to his ankles. In a smooth, practiced motion they moved him to the litter, lifting him up and speeding away.
	“You need to come with us, sir!”
	“Like shit I am,” he panted, muddy, coagulating blood drifting to his eyebrows.
	“Willow, f*ck! Move!”
	“O-Okay!” Hopping after Meyers the duo raced for open ground, the hours spent crawling the perimeter ripping them past the smouldering hulk of the one helicopter and the vacant pad beyond it.
	“Sh*t, sh*t sh*t sh*t,” Meyers cried, “No!” Twisting his head around there was a small handful of other wounded, sitting or laid carefully on the bloodying soil beneath them, waiting for their lift out.
	“Sir? Meyers, sir?” The man shivered, watching the barely-blue skyline as a touch of sunlight crept up. He shuddered, sniffling, an arresting cough stopping him.
	“Keep an eye on him, and round up the others here.” His blue eyes bored into hers, bleary and desperate. “I’ll be right back.” Whitney nodded repeatedly, tottering to the others and trying to address their wounds better than already. Minutes passed, Meyers racing back from one of the torn tents. Helmet cluttering his head he flashed her a broad wave, followed in a moment by the hectic drumbeat of helicopter blades running up and over the canopy. Blasted by the spew of sand Whitney shielded her eyes, the shaded figure of Vasquez jumping out and to her.
	“Let’s move!” Sprinting past her he took up the nearest litter, Meyers taking up the other end of the still-groaning man. “Willow, pick it up!” Panting furiously she set to action, the drive of mechanical instinct and precision drumming her forward, pulling men up and sequestering the mildly injured to carry litters with her. In a fluid motion the next load was embarked, drifting up and over. Setting to work again, metal case clattered back into place she drilled for bottles of plasma, Vasquez steadying the lucid men as she plunged the grim needles into their arms, clear bottles sloshing in his rough hands.
	Hunched over her myriad wards she hobbled about the cramped hold, kneeling over to check the men, Vasquez sidling past her to the sitting men to double up on bandages where needed. Finding her legs she slipped into the removed, stone-faced rhythm of her profession, cradling limbs and heads and hauling the forlorn back from the brink. Mercifully, Sun cresting through the upland valleys and hills, they teetered to the ground. A shuffle of ambulance men jogged over, Whitney jogging with them and ferrying the others into the ambulance holds, hauling herself back to the waiting helicopter. Dusting off, the mute chatter of the two pilots mumbling back to the hold, she watched the evacuation hospital shrink beneath them once again. The wind whipped at her loose hair, helmet abandoned in the hooch as they drifted over the bristling treetops. Pulling her legs up she scooched back inside and rested her head on her knees, eyes low.
	“Ey,” Vasquez shot, patting her back. “Good work.” Stepping back to his post at the door, legs dangling in the slipstream, he watched out over the canopy. Sniffling Whitney pulled deeper into her legs, nestling tighter against the metal bench digging into her back, canvas flapping loudly behind her. Hands running over her head and the tear in her face she dug her fingers into her hair, flecks of dirt and debris tumbling down, before running her fingers backwards to her neck. She’d never done anything like this, the grisly creep up her spine of guilt, incompetent anxiety over a job done wrong, too slowly or not at all consuming her. The hesitation in her actions, fractions of a second to anyone else but eternal to her, only pulled her further back. Feet pulled tighter her knees rose above her drooping head, hair fluttering in the roaring wind.
	Shutting her eyes she returned herself to the sunny alleys and hills of San Francisco, the equally warm faces of the Willows beaming back at her, portraited on the tiny lawn with herself taking their photo like always. Sprinklers shimmied in the neighbors’ lawns, dogs barked in distant alleys and streets, white pickets shone and burnt in the sunlight. It was comforting, a warm, nostalgic bath swallowing and coating her limbs and core in something other than the muddy grit in her mouth or the rust-flaking, ferrous mess on her fingers. Opening her eyes she half expected to awake in that small city, back at home having dozed off irresponsibly. But, picking her head up, she was still there, the lingering stench of battle clinging to her hands and fatigues. Shaking her head she prayed for relief, shoving the sights away into a corner for bad days at work, thinking of her good days as the helicopter clipped over the teeming jungle.