text: [Themes: horror, war]
  
  The rising sun dispels the mist while bringing back the famous tenderizing heat of Vietnam. You and Bronski manage a few more miles through the jungle before succumbing to fatigue. Stopping for a drink, you guzzle down water until your canteen is bone dry. Shit, you're still thirsty though. You both sit under the shade of a tree, occupied by your thoughts. Eventually, you muster up the courage to ask, "What was that last night?"
  
  Bronski stares out into the distance. "Something...unnatural. It reminds me of an old bedtime story my grandma told me when I lived in the South - about Civil War soldiers."
  
  You perk up, curious. Bronski has never talked about his childhood.
  
  "What was the story about?"
  
  "Legend has it that there are patches of land in the South that saw vicious fighting- where men didn't shoot at each other in lines but fought and killed using hands, feet, and teeth. Sometimes, those places would be the graves of thousands of men. All that fighting and death would leave its mark, and the souls of the dead would stay there, fighting each other in an eternal battle. If you killed someone in a place like that, then the dead will rise and drag you into the ground with them, until you become one of them."
  
  You laugh, "That's a strange story to tell a child."
  
  Bronski nods his head and smirks. "I guess so. My grandma was a fine woman, but she was always a little off in the head."
  
  You hope the same for yourself, that you're just crazy or delirious and imagined what you saw in the mist yesterday. But the accusations from your dead comrades, damning you to hell, still ring in your ears. You can still see their mangled bodies, their crooked gait as they reach for you. And their faces, orange eyes of utter hate staring into your soul. No, what you saw was real. Regret rolls over you, that your faulty order caused the death of your entire squad. You then realize something that makes you get up in shock, though pain shoots through your leg.
  
  "Shit Bronski, what about the Lieutenant? Is his squad still alive? We have to find them!"
  
  Bronski calms you down and changes your bandages as your sudden movement caused your wound to bleed again. You need stitches, but Bronski's doesn't want your injury to be infected by shoddy needlework.
  
  "You're right, we should look for him, but where? Johnny, our canteens are dry, and I'd hate to be stuck out in the jungle without water."
  
  You'll return to the river you passed earlier, but that'll take time due to your bad leg. Should you risk searching for the Lieutenant's men, or play it safe and fill up on water?
  
  > search for the Lieutenant's squad
  Your duty as a sergeant weighs over you. You've failed miserably to protect the men under your command, but perhaps you could still save the rest of your platoon. Bronski is wary at your decision, given your current lack of water, but realizes that you truly feel responsible for the death of your men. He agrees to come with you, and fashions a makeshift pair of crutches to help you move better.
  
  The crutches make you feel loud and clumsy, as they often snag on the jungle undergrowth, but at least Bronski doesn't have to help you with every step. You backtrack through the jungle, in hopes of finding the trail that the Lieutenant and his men left behind. Returning to the site of your squad's slaughter, you find something quite unnerving.
  
  Though none of your men's bodies are left, you find several Viet Cong soldiers dying on the ground. Their veins are black as night, their skin gray and peeling away. Thrashing in pain, when you approach them, they cry out to you in their foreign language. Though you don't understand what they are saying, it's clear what they want: end their suffering.
  
  You raise your rifle, ready to oblige their final desire, but Bronski stops you. His face is pained, unlike his usually calm and optimistic demeanor. Your mouth gapes wide open as he pulls up his arm sleeve. His skin has turned gray as well, revealing black-blooded veins through his once dark skin.
  
  "H-h-how?" you stutter out. No, this can't be happening. You shut out a mental image of Bronski screaming in pain like the VC on the ground.
  
  "Johnny, I didn't want to show you this. You were hurt yourself, and I didn't want to burden you with my problems."
  
  "So why did you stop me from shoo-"
  
  "Because I didn't want this to happen to you too!" Bronski sighs. "As I said, when I was hiding after our squad broke, I shot a Viet Cong soldier who got too close. Suddenly, I felt a horrible pain through my body, but it faded immediately. Johnny, I've never killed before. Can you imagine that? After spending years in the bush, I've never shot a single Viet Cong. So at first, I just thought my mind was acting up. But the pain returned, and it got worse through the night..." Bronski trails off.
  
  You don't say it, but you are reminded of Bronski's story. He's killed someone, and now he will be dragged to the grave himself. It's strangely comical as if Bronski's just joking around with you like he always does. A hollow laugh comes out of you, followed by tears. You can't accept it- that your only friend will die a painful death, leaving you stranded in the jungle. No, you won't accept it. You quickly wipe away your tears and look up at Bronski.
  
  "Listen here," you say, "I'm not going to let you die. Forget about the mission, the objective we had to capture. We're going to get out of this damn jungle, and we're going to get you help. Bronski, I promise you, I will do anything to make sure you return home safe to see your wife and kids."
  
  "Johnny, you will do this... for me?"
  
  "Of course I will. If so, it would be the one good thing that has happened in this terrible goddamn war."
  
  No time to waste, you begin to make plans. The Lieutenant is still out there somewhere, but he would have something that could help Bronski? No, you have to find something else, a high vantage point or a strong radio, which you can use to call for an evacuation. With your radioman dead, the latter would be much more difficult. Perhaps the Viet Cong had something of use? Maybe you should search for their base camp instead.
  
  > find a high vantage point to signal for evacuation
  Tangling around with the Viet Cong is a bad idea, and you have no info on the Lieutenant to justify searching for him either. You saw a tall hill a few days ago, which you guess would be around 40 miles away to the northeast. You'll get to the top and use signal flares to call for evacuation if you manage to find friendly air forces in the area.
  
  Refilling your canteens from the fallen Viet Cong, you abstain from mercy killing them, as you don't want to risk Bronski's illness being worsened as a result. You begin marching through the treacherous jungle, pushing yourself to go fast despite your crutches.
  
  For the next few days, you travel. At night, the mist returns, but you only see the Green Beret this time, staring at you from a distance. Bronski gets worse and worse until you are faster than him with your crutches. You encourage him the best you can, telling stories from your war experiences and reminding him to keep pushing forward, so that he may eventually see his family again. Yet, the symptoms keep increasing in severity.
  
  During the fifth day of your march, Bronski's legs give way, and he collapses on the ground.
  
  "Shit Bronski, no!" You stumble over to him and try to lift him again, but he's too heavy. His condition is now similar to the Viet Cong soldiers you saw, spasming on the ground in pain.
  
  "Johnny, Johnny." He groans out.
  
  "Bronski, you have to keep going! The hill is only a few more hours away!"
  
  "Johnny, thank you for trying to help me. Can you do one last thing for me, please?"
  
  You stifle your tears. "Don't you be saying stuff like that, Bronski. It's just a few more hours away, we'll get you home."
  
  "Johnny, I don't want to be turned into one of those things in the mist. Can you do that for me?"
  
  "It won't come to that, but I will if it makes you feel better. Just, stay still, and I'll drag you to the hill."
  
  It's difficult, but you can't leave him there. You tie Bronski's ankles to your feet, allowing you to drag him forward while still using your crutches. He's a large man, and every step is difficult. Your back starts aching like it's on fire, but you ignore it and keep moving. You keep your sight on the large hill up ahead, only a few more miles further. Keep going, keep going. Your feel your Achilles tendon tear, but you ignore it. Keep going, keep going. Now you're at the edge of the large hill, the incline making it even more difficult to climb up. Keep going, keep going. One of your crutches snaps in the effort, almost causing you to slide off the hill, but you stabilize with your remaining crutch. Keep going, and keep going. The other crutch snaps as well, forcing you to crawl forward on your hands while pulling Bronski behind you. The sharp pebbles of the mountain tear into your palms, leaving a blood trail every few feet you go. Keep going. You arrive at the top as the sun begins to set.
  
  "Yes! Yes! We did it Bronski!" You've never seen a more beautiful sunset in your life. You start fumbling out some flares from your pack, lighting them on top of the hill. However, the red light allows you to notice something. Bronski is gone.
  
  No, no, no, that can't be. You close your eyes and open them again. You don't see him. You drag yourself all around the hilltop, calling his name. You don't see him. You look at the rope coil at your feet, which was once tied around his legs. Now, it's tied around a pistol. Bronski's pistol. A Colt Model 1911, powerful and reliable like it's owner.
  
  You scream your lungs out, releasing a war's worth of hidden pain, anger, and torment. Screaming until your voice gets hoarse, you collapse on the ground and gasp for breath. A great calm comes upon you, and the sounds of the jungle fade away. You untie Bronski's pistol, which is covered in blood. You fervently try to wipe it away, but its no use. Well, that doesn't matter. You check to see if the pistol is loaded and close your eyes, pointing its barrel at your temple.
  
  The mist gathers around you again, but you don't pay it any attention. Your fingers tighten around the trigger, slowly pulling it. Halfway through, you hear a soft voice...
  
  "When Johnny comes marching home again,
  
  Hurrah! Hurrah!
  
  We'll give him a hearty welcome then
  
  Hurrah! Hurrah!
  
  The men will cheer and the boys will shout
  
  The ladies they will all turn out
  
  And we'll all feel gay when Johnny comes marching home"
  
  It's a familiar voice- Bronski's voice. Your index finger loosens around the trigger before you remove it entirely. You've made a promise with Bronski, and now you must keep it. You slowly stumble down the hill, while he keeps singing.
  
  The old church bell will peal with joy
  
  Hurrah! Hurrah!
  
  To welcome home our darling boy,
  
  Hurrah! Hurrah!
  
  You are near the bottom, and you see a figure, with his back turned against you. Your hands shaking, you raise the pistol at it. It turns around, and despite it's blotted face and orange eyes, you can tell that it is him- Bronski. Your finger comes off the trigger, as you hesitate. It stares at you, its cold orange eyes showing no emotion, showing no humanity.
  
  We'll give the hero three times three,
  
  Hurrah! Hurrah!
  
  The laurel wreath is ready now
  
  To place upon his loyal brow
  
  And we'll all...
  
  No, it may look like him, but it's not him. You fire the pistol at its head two times. The figure that looks like Bronski collapses, but all it does is laugh, a deep belly laugh- which you would hear when Bronski would tell an especially funny joke and then laugh at himself. You walk up to the figure and empty your magazine into it. The body disintegrates, but the laughing continues inside your head. In an impulse, you turn the pistol on yourself, but there's no more ammo. You fall to the ground and throw the pistol far into the jungle.
  
  As you lie catatonic on the floor, the whirring rotors of a rescue helicopter sound above you, but you don't hear it.