Visiting Memories

Visiting Memories: A Short Story

        Explosions sent thunderous shockwaves through the night sky. Infrequent intervals of deadly shrapnel fell from somewhere above. Just off the ground, a sulfuric haze lingered playfully.

        A young man, not old enough to buy alcohol and barely old enough to shave, crouched in a damp, musty trench. A mixture of rifle oil, gunpowder, and fresh-strewn dirt filled his nostrils. In the distance, a dull 'boom' sounded, marking the beginning of the next wave of artillery fire. Instinctively, the now shivering man crouched lower and pulled his limbs in tight. Though clutching a rifle in his hands, he managed to cover his ears with his shoulders.

        The concussive pressure from the explosion made his teeth chatter, and his eyes blur. During the commotion, light from the artillery illuminated a tattered name tag for a split second: "Davis."

        Another mind-jarring eruption shook his train of thought. His temporary hearing loss rang out in a high-pitched decrescendo. Davis opened his mouth and rotated his jaw; he gently shook his head back and forth so as not to increase his already throbbing cranium.

        As the dust settled from the last bombardment, the night sky grew dark, once again.

        Where is everyone? Am I the last one alive?

        Confusion littered the young soldier's thoughts as he slowly walked through the trench. Davis saw nothing else: no bodies, no other weapons, and no sign of any other living being. Now that the ringing in his ears was gone, Davis found the silence unsettling.

        Then, from somewhere behind him, a hushed whisper demanded an audience, "Davy! This way," it was another soldier. He crouched down and waved him over.

        "Who are you?"

        "Wh-who am I? Sheesh, Davy. It's getting to you, isn't it? It's me you clodpate. Harris. Now, keep your head down and stop being such a loony."

        Davis heard a slight Brooklyn accent, but something about him made him feel safe. They slowly crept through the trench toward a destination unknown to them both, it seemed. Then, without notice or warning, a large man wielding a rifle with a long bayonet at the end fell into their path. He looked just as surprised as they were.

        A split second later he jumped to his feet, screamed something in a language they didn't understand, and charged with an outstretched rifle and bayonet. As if time had slowed, Harris pulled Davis back, jumped in between him and their foe, and fired his rifle. Before the adrenaline had worn off, Davis realized Harris was accurate, but so was their enemy.

        Slumping to the ground, he held his friend who was gurgling in agony with a large puncture wound through his chest. "I always knew it was going to be this way, Davey. I always--" he coughed and tried to suck in air. His chest was bouncing unevenly, "I always knew you'd need me. Don't forget Davey. Don't for--" then, with a few more sharp jerks, his friend was dead.

        He stood and felt utterly alone. Silence, once again, met him on the battlefield.

        Then a voice broke the quietude, "Mr. Davis? Mr. Davis?"

        He turned and raised his rifle to his cheek. Peering down the sights, he saw something that was most indeed out of place: a young woman in perfect white scrubs. She smiled and held out her hand, "Mr. Davis. How are you feeling today?" Her voice echoed awkwardly.

        Slowly and hesitantly, Davis lowered his rifle, "H-how am I doing?"

        The nurse walked forward and placed her hand on his shoulder. "Here," she said warmly while holding out a small plastic cup, "take these. They will help you feel better."