Short Story: War Babies

War Babies.

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They had left you for dead.

And with the way your entire body spoke fire with each breath you took, it was difficult to be optimistic but the adrenaline started coursing through you as sounds filtered into your only undamaged ear.

The pain told you you were alive, the adrenaline warned you of danger.

You kept still. Dead still. Ready to wait out even the devil if necessary.

The driver’s door was forced open and his corpse that was half burnt with a face that had collapsed into itself was dragged out and they started clubbing him into paste, in sickening rhythm to the meaty beats they hummed a foreign song.

When they were done with him, an awful sight of blood and guts was left behind as they came for the passenger’s door. Your door.

You held your breath when they pulled you out…

…and took them by surprise, all eleven of them when you snatched the club from the one closest to you, a boy who could not have been older than seven, and cracked his skull open with one swing.

You screamed at the others trying to scare them away but they didn’t flinch, they saw your injuries and like a pack of wolves they perceived your weakness.

Ten of them closed in as you zeroed in on the oldest, a scrawny hungry looking girl that looked twelve but could have been an underfed adult as well …

You took her out next, breaking her neck with blunt accuracy…

…and didn’t stop.

Until nine dead babies later and a dead soul, you stood.

The desert before you was nothing for miles upon miles, just sand and dryness and hope.

The radio you managed to salvage from the wreckage left by the ambush you had run into while returning from a lookout duty with Max had pointed you in a direction, given you a purpose and you soldier on.

A poem by Kipling came to mind as you trudged on:

“When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains

And the women come out to cut up what remains

Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains

An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier”.

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By Onwuasoanya Obinna.