All For You

Eight

Isla

When the gunshots lessen, and the floor seems to be covered in blood, guts and dead bodies, I peek out from behind the couch I'm hiding behind, one of my pistols peeking with me.

I take my time aiming at the head of an enemy, one eye shut closed, my other zoned in on his temple.

Then, in the next second, he falls to the ground, limp, a bullet sinking it's way into his brain. Another guy follows him down. Then another, another and another.

I duck down again when the enemy finally realises where I'm shooting from, but they're not given enough time to react before an ally starts shooting with me, hiding behind a knocked over desk. And as soon as she goes back down, two others are taking her place.

The men's bodies drop like flies until they finally get their heads in gear and take cover themselves, most running back outside because there's nothing to hide behind.

They didn't get far enough inside to use any furniture as shields, so their best bet is retreating for now.

But they'll be back soon enough.

Should we follow them out? We'd be idiots, but we're sitting ducks in here. I don't exactly want to wait until they've gathered enough bombs to cook us alive from the outside.

"Any plans?" I yell out, standing up when everythings clear.

"We have to go outside, half our teammates are already out there fighting," a boy says, standing up with me. I look at the door, sighing.

He's right. We'd be no better than the higher ups if we abandoned the kids outside. Plus, we won't win this war split up. Not like this.

If they kill half of us while the other half is waiting inside for their turn, we'll never get out of this alive.

"Okay. But we can't go out through there. They'll be waiting for us on the other side," I agree, looking around. "We'll have to go through the back exit. Hopefully they haven't found it just yet. Snipers, grab your guns and go to the roof. We'll need your help from above. And be careful."

Everyone nods, going their respective ways. I follow the hoard of us through the halls and to the back doors. When the doors push open, we're lucky enough to be alone.

But not for long. As soon as we get to the battlefield, we're fighting. Bullets fly our way, and the people around me turn into bodies on the ground.

Limp and lifeless. So quickly, so easily. Like they weren't even alive in the first place.

Like they weren't a whole person with a whole life and whole thoughts and feelings.

But I can't talk about things like that. Not when I've used my own two hands to take the lives of people who were just trying to survive, too.

We're all just surviving. And the only way we know how to do that is by killing each other. Endlessly. Ruthlessly.

It's all we know.

The nameless fight back, pushing our way forward until we're face to face with enemy guns.

I have to grab an enemy and use him as a body shield to avoid stray bullets, ignoring the gurgling coming from his throat when he gets shot in the neck. I drop him amongst the rest of the dead, pushing further.

Going deeper. Helping the pile of dead bodies grow. Using them as shields to stay alive.

When I get deep enough, and guns don't even matter anymore—unless you're fine with shooting your own—I rip my knife from its spot on my waist and slit the closest throats to me. Dropping some more men.