All You Need Is Kill

When I was a kid, the war against the Mimics had already started. Instead of cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers, we fought aliens using toy guns that fired spring-loaded plastic bullets. They stung a little when they hit, but that was all. Even up close they barely hurt. I always played the hero, taking the hit for the team. I’d spring out courageously into the line of fire, absorbing one bullet after another. I did a little jump with each successive hit, performing an impromptu interpretive dance. I was really good at it. Inspired by the hero’s death, his comrades would launch a bold counterattack. With his noble sacrifice, he’d ensured humanity’s salvation. Victory would be declared, and the kids who’d been the bad guys would come back to the human side and everyone would celebrate. There was no game like it.

Pretending to be a hero slain in battle was one thing. Dying a hero in a real war was another. As I got older, I understood the difference, and I knew I didn’t wanna die. Not even in a dream.

Some nightmares you can’t wake up from, no matter how many times you try. Me, I was trapped in a nightmare, and no matter how many times I woke up, I was still trapped. That I knew I was caught in a loop I couldn’t break out of was the worst part of all. I fought back panic.

But was it really happening to me again?

The same day I’d already lived through twice was unfolding again around me. Or maybe it was all a nightmare, after all. Of course things would be happening the way I remembered them. It was all in my head, so why not?

This was ridiculous. I punched the mattress.

Had I dreamed that black point flying at me? Was the javelin that shattered my breastplate and pierced my chest all in my head? Had I imagined the blood, the coughing up bits of lung?

Let me tell you what happens when your lungs are crushed. You drown, not in water, but in air. Gasp as hard as you like, crushed lungs can’t pass the oxygen your body needs to your bloodstream. All around you, your friends are breathing in and out without a second thought while you drown alone in a sea of air. I never knew this until it happened to me. I’d never even heard about it. I definitely hadn’t made that up. It really happened.

It didn’t matter if I never told anyone, if no one ever believed me. It would still be true. The sensation it had imprinted on my mind was proof enough of that. Pain that shoots through your body like a bolt of lightning, legs so damn heavy it feels like they’ve been stuffed with sandbags, terror so strong it crushes your heart-that’s not the stuff of imagination and dreams. I wasn’t sure how, but I’d been killed. Twice. No doubt about it.

I didn’t mind listening to Yonabaru tell some story I’d already heard before. Hell, I’d do that ten times, a hundred, the more the better. Our daily routines were all filled with that same repetitive shit. But going back into battle? No thanks.

If I stayed here, I’d be killed. Whether I died before or after Yonabaru didn’t really matter. There was no way I could survive the firefight. I had to get away. I had to be anywhere but here.

Even saints have limits to their patience, and I was no saint. I’d never been one to blindly believe in God, Buddha, any of that shit, but if somebody up there was going to give me a third chance, I wasn’t about to let it go to waste. If I sat here staring up at the top bunk, the only future I had ended in a body bag. If I didn’t want to die, I had to move. Move first, think later. Just like they taught us in training.

If today was a repetition of yesterday, Ferrell would be around any minute. The first time he showed up I’d been taking a dump, the second I’d been chatting it up with Yonabaru. After that we’d be off to a ridiculous session of PT, and we’d come back exhausted. That got me thinking. Everyone in the 17th Armored would be in that PT. Not only that, everyone else on the base with time on their hands would be gathered around the field to watch. I couldn’t have asked for a better chance to sneak out of the base. Considering how tired I’d be after training, it was the only chance I was likely to get.

If I hurt myself, that would probably do it. They wouldn’t send a wounded soldier to PT. I needed an injury that looked bad enough to get me out of PT, but nothing so bad it would lay me up. A man with even a shallow scalp wound would gush blood like a stuck pig. It was one of the first things they taught us in First Aid. At the time, I wondered what good first aid or anything else would do after a Mimic javelin had sliced off your head and sent it flying through the air, but I guess you never know when a little piece of knowledge will come in handy. I had to get started quick.

Fuck! I had a whole day to repeat, but I didn’t have enough time when I needed it. That blockheaded sergeant was on his way. Move! Move!

“What’s all that noise down there?” Yonabaru asked casually.

“I gotta head out for a minute.”

“Head out? Hey! I need your signature!”