text: [Themes: horror, historical]
  
  You regroup your men as dusk comes upon you. Private Lering boasts about his marksmanship, while Doc Roe shakes his head in disgust. The other Marines are shaking from the adrenaline of the fire-fight, silent about the things they have done. Today, they have finally killed- a baptism of fire.
  
  You are concerned about the whereabouts of the rest of platoon, led by the Lieutenant. Confiding in Bronski, he assures you that they will found, eventually. As he says those words, a flare soars up the sky, basking the jungle with a blood-red light.
  
  Bronski snorts. "See, I told you."
  
  You fail to see the humor of the situation. "What is that kid doing! He's revealed his position to everyone in a ten-mile radius!"
  
  The squad marches over to a small clearing containing a single wizened tree, which is the center of a hastily built camp. Green tents flutter in the wind, barely held down by spokes, while the musty smell of gunpowder lingers in the air. By now, a thick fog has covered the jungle.They find their counterparts entrenched in the ground, along with a visibly shaken Lieutenant. They raise their rifles at the sight of you until you yell and reveal yourself. His eyes dart all over until he finds you, and he sighs with relief.
  
  "Sergeant, thank god you're here! When the mist came, we heard sounds from all around the jungle. My men fired at them, but we hit nothing. I have no idea what they are!" Well, at least he didn't friendly fire at you.
  
  He starts rambling, "We were supposed to attack a guerilla-controlled village, but I didn't find it. I checked my map, but I have no idea where we are! And my compass..."
  
  He takes it out. It's needle is erratically spinning, deciding on five different Norths in a few seconds.
  
  "Sir, you have to calm down," you say authoritatively. "These men's lives are in your hands. Once you panic, they will follow. We'll try the radio and contact friendly elements."
  
  You walk over to Private Lering, who's skinny frame strains under the weight of his heavy backpack radio. He's in the process of bartering his chewing tobacco to a larger Marine so that he wouldn't have to carry it, but he quickly snaps to attention at the sight of you. "You catch any signals on that radio?"
  
  "Sorry Sergeant. Nothing but static." You curse the obsolete radio your platoon has recieved. Reassuring the Lieutenant, you advise him to stay bunkered down here until dawn, which he agrees. You walk back to see your squad struggling to set up their own tents. Simmons smokes a cigarette, cradling his machine gun while laughing at the display.
  
  "Good shooting out there, Simmons. I'd say that you were single-handily responsible for wiping out half of the VC."
  
  Simmons' smile fades. "Well...thank you, Sergeant."
  
  "Simmons, your shooting made it so not a single one of our men was hurt. You should be proud."
  
  "I don't know, Sergeant. I keep thinking now, when this war is all done and over, how will I feel when I look back on what I've done? How am I going to tell my family what we did here?" You don't answer back, but give him a reassuring pat on the back. You've been having these thoughts with increasing frequency, but they haven't been as distracting to you, as you have no more family to justify yourself to.
  
  A piercing scream drives you awake. Rifle fire erupts soon after, but as you poke your head out, you fail to see what is being fired at. You rush out with your M-16 towards the screaming, barely keeping your footing under the dim moonlight.
  
  You arrive to find one of your Marines with a rusty metal object embed in his chest. His hands are wrapped tight around the wound, unable to stifle the blood, which flows in rivulets down his uniform. He looks at you with milky eyes, cloudy as the suffocating mist that surrounds you. He gasps for breath, pronouncing barely coherent words. You hesitate, not sure of the best course of action. You don't see the infiltrator who stabbed this man, but you know he must be close by. However, your fellow Marine is dying in front of your, and a medic may take too long to arrive.
  
  > try to Treat His Wound Yourself
  You may have no medical experience, but damn it! He's one of your men and it's your duty to protect his life. You call for a Private "Doc" Roe, but don't expect him to arrive, as rifle fire makes movement too dangerous.
  
  You come to the Marine's side, whispering words of reassurance as you dress his wound. He look up and your horrified to recognize him- he's young Marine who ridiculed you on the helicopter! In his gasping breath you can make out certain words, "The green beret... leeches with teeth... black blood..." He falls unconscious, forcing you to double your efforts save him. The wound gushes out blood, so much blood. It soaks through the bandages, covering your hands and uniform.
  
  "Don't you give up on me!" you yell, as you scrounge your pack for fresh bandages. You can't find any. You tear off a piece of your sleeping bag and rush back over again, but stop when you see it. A tall figure stands next to the fallen Marine, and bends down to close his eyelids. The figure's face turns towards you but his features are inscrutable, as if blotted with ink. All you see is two orange eyes.
  
  It wears a green beret, a hallmark of the United States Army Special Forces Division, but you realize that he must have been the one who stabbed your comerade. You raise your M-16 and spray at him, but the figure disappears among a wave of mist.
  
  A chill comes over your body despite the jungle heat. You run over to the wounded Marine and feel his pulse. Nothing. Your tears began to flow, though its not the first time you lost a man. You cover your face with your blood-covered hands and grieve. Around you the smothering mist dissipates, leaving you and the dead Marine alone.
  
  > Continue
  As the sun rises, the gunfire stops. Someone puts his hand on your shoulder.
  
  "Johnny, I know it's bad, but your men need you." You recognize Bronski's soft voice and dry your tears. You get up and wash your hands with your canteen, but suddenly you hear a cry of a pain from the camp. You jump in shock and reach for a rifle, only to see Bronski attempting to calm you down.
  
  "This is serious, then." You run back to camp, and see your men in a circle around the tree. Your eyes fall upon what they are looking at.
  
  Several of your men lie on the ground, twitching in pain. Their rolled-up sleeves reveal their veins, black as night, showing through their skin. Most are silent in their suffering, waving their heads and whispering words from feverish dreams. At the very least, they are stacked under the shade of the only tree in the clearing.
  
  Among them is your platoon medic, PFC "Doc" Roe. Private Lering is next to him, trying to comfort him but failing to hide his own distress at seeing his comrade wither away, even though they've never been on the best terms.
  
  Your mouth opening in shock, you yell "What the hell is going on here?"
  
  The Lieutenant walks up to you, a veneer of confidence on his pale face. "Sergeant, when the mist came, something attacked us from it. Some of our men report seeing bloody Viet Cong uniforms, even though you reported wiping them out yesterday. However, the worst happened after we drove them back, when the mist left."
  
  Bronski explains, "We all felt a chill after the mist left, and some even felt kind of sink. However, the men in front of you began showing symptoms. An unnatural darkening of the blood visible on the surface of the body. Their skin turning grey and peeling off. Pain and hallucinations. Medicine didn't work for them. Painkillers were ineffective and ran out fast." Bronski was studying nursing in college before enlisting in the Marines. What a waste, you think, but you're glad someone understand's what's going on.
  
  The Lieutenant says, "What's strange, though, is that only the men who you led in the ambush are sick."
  
  "They probably had been weakened by malaria and dysentry, though," replies Bronski.
  
  A decision needs to be made. Your platoon has several "wounded" and one dead. They need medevac, but you're lost and the radio isn't working. The diseased members of your platoons thrash and spasm in pain, making it impossible to transport them in stretchers. If you stay in this place, you are certain that everyone will die if the mist returns.
  
  Bronski argues, "We don't leave men behind! We stay here, and send a small party of men to search the surrounding area. If they can find help, or at least get our bearings, then we go."
  
  Shaking his head, the Lieutenant says, "I'm not sacrificing a whole platoon for a few men. We stay here, we will be butchered. We have to get moving, and unfortunately those wounded must stay here until we find help."
  
  After inconclusive arguing, they turn to you to break the deadlock. Staying would be a noble choice, part of the Marine code. Yet, you know more men will die if you do. You see Lance Corporal Simmons trying to comfort Private Lering, while a grave is dug for the Marine who died last night. You look at your men, at the fear in their eyes. You look at the newer Marines, their shaking hands as they try to muffle out the screams of their dying comrades. Their lives are in your hands. Shouldn't you try to save them?
  
  > stay with the Wounded
  "We're Marines! No man left behind. We can't leave our friends dying in this forsaken hellhole of a jungle!"
  
  The men of your platoon are gathered around you. Their sweaty faces brighten at the conviction in your voice, though you already doubt yourself. Do really believe that? You continue.
  
  "We stay here and send a team to find help. Meanwhile, let's get this position fortified."
  
  "Oo-rah!" your men call out, inspired by your show of leadership. Their mood brightens for a little as they begin to get to work. You notice, though, that some of them aren't so enthusiastic. Those are the draftees and the grizzled veterans.
  
  The Lieutenant glares at you. "You've just consigned us to death, Sergeant."
  
  "Die in honor than live in shame, eh?" You reply in a hollow voice. "I don't have the heart to leave these men behind. We have to stay in this clearing, where it's safe."
  
  "Sergeant, I ask you to think again, is this really the right choice? No matter. If the search party doesn't return in two days, I'll be leading the next one for sure." He walks away, leaving you and Bronski.
  
  "Johnny, don't let him bother you. We'll fortify, stay together, and survive this mess, you hear me?" You nod, but aren't totally convinced by your decision. You could never live with the shame of leaving men behind when you held a dying man in your arms. You get lost in your thoughts as you watch the erection of a hospital tent, where the diseased are put inside.
  
  Bronski leads the efforts to build up the defenses around the area, digging trenches and putting up sandbags and log walls. Your men aren't sappers, but they have a good showing and you are confident in the strength of your defences. However, you look at the ammunition boxes stacked near the walls. You realize that's not enough for a prolonged siege, and your hopes sink agan.
  
  Lots are drawn and a team of five men, led by the Lance Corporal Simmons, is sent out into the jungle. They are to locate the river you traveled across a few days ago. Then, they will walk along it until they find something or run out of provisions, whichever comes first. You desperately hope they will find help, but part of you doubts they will.
  
  > A few days pass...
  You glance over the wall, searching for any evidence of the returning search party. Nothing, except for the swaying trees of the thick jungle. You sigh, as this is the second search party you've sent that hasn't returned. The hospital tent has filling up with more and more diseased men, all from your ambush squad. The ones who die from the disease appear again as one of the creatures that attack you from the mist. You also feel some pain as well, veins blackening under your dirt-covered hands. You know you can't last much longer. You come back down to address your men, whose numbers have dwindled from the nightly attacks and the mist. They are grim and silent, waiting for you to confirm what they know.
  
  "Men, I'm sorry. The Lieutenant didn't come back." They stiffen at the news.
  
  "I can't tell you how proud I am of you. Only a week ago were you struggling to disassemble your weapons, but now, you fight with bayonets and machetes to save ammo. Your courage and bravery make one thing clear in this hellhole of a jungle- you are the finest Marines I've ever had the privilege to command. However, everyone has a limit. If anyone wants to leave right now, I will let you. Understand, this is the point of no return."
  
  A voice rings out from the crowd, and an injured Private Lering hobbles up to you.
  
  "Sergeant, to be honest, if you told me this four days ago, I wouldn't hesitate. However, now I could never leave this squad. This squad is all I have, and the men within it have saved my life countless times. I will fight and die together with my brothers in arms." The rest of your platoon mutter their agreements.
  
  "I see. Well, night falls in a couple of hours. Get the last of the ammunition ready, and sharpen your bayonets. We'll give the jungle one more good fight."
  
  "Oo-rah!" Your men get to work, repairing damaged fortifications and moving the wounded to strategic locations so that they continue fighting. You turn to Bronski, who's wiping away a tear as he watches the squad. He composes himself and straightens his uniform before talking.
  
  "How about one last cigarette?" he says, taking out a pack of Marlboros.
  
  "I thought those ran out days ago!" you laugh. You and Bronski smoke in peace, watching the sun slowly fall, painting hues of blue and red on the sky.
  
  "You know Bronski, I've never thought I'd die like this. To me, death was always going to be a mine or a sniper, always something that would come out of nowhere." Bronski nods, giving his cigarette a long drag before puffing out smoke from his nose.
  
  "Johnny, I feel the same. I've lived too long, and my time has come to join the ones who died long ago. I can only hope my family could make do without me." He says, trying to keep back the tears. You stamp your cigarette on the ground and pick up your rifle. The sun falls below the tree-line, once again revealing the sinister jungle.
  
  "It's time for us to join our friends who died before us." He looks you in the eye and gives you one final handshake before moving to his flank of the barricade. You join your men, weapons readied at the surrounding jungle. The birds and the insects stop their chirping as the mist returns.
  
  Dark shapes appear all around you, but you know better to shoot know, not wanting to waste ammunition. The first of the shadows appear, the mangled corpse of the Lieutenant. You put his hateful orange eyes in your sights and take him down with a single shot to the head. More figures emerge- the withered corpses of the dead members of the squad. They scream in familiar voices, but your men destroy them without hesitation. Then, mist thickens, and hundreds of shadows emerge. Some seem to be the dead bodies of Viet Cong, others wear what you guess to be French uniforms. In the middle of them, all stands the Green Beret, directing the corpses to attack.
  
  "Fire at will!" you yell, and your men put down a wave of bullets at the massive horde. Many of the figures are downed, but some jerk back when hit but keep moving forward. Your rifle runs out of ammo, so you pull your pistol and keep firing. The horde quickly closes in, as the gunfire falters. Ammo has run out. There's but yet one thing to do.
  
  "Affix bayonets." There's a widespread clicking sound as your men attach their bayonets to the tips of their rifles. Their solemn faces look to you, and a sense of pride emerges within you.
  
  "Charge!" you yell, your rifle extended towards the horde. Your men yell out war cries and rush towards the enemy, their bayonets gleaming in the pale moonlight. The squad impacts into the front of the horde with such force that many of the shadows are knocked over. However, more move in to replace them, and brutal combat erupts. You stab your rifle bayonet into a battered French shadow, only for it to get stuck. Cursing you draw your machete and finish it off. Suddenly, a whoosh of air comes from behind and you instinctively dodge. You are now facing to face with the Green Beret. He wields a rusty bayonet, drawing your anger as you remember the young Marine he killed before.
  
  "I won't let you go this time," you say. The Green Beret lunges towards you, but you dodge and trip him onto the ground. However, he grabs your ankle as well, making you plummet as his bayonet makes a gash in your leg. You ignore the pain and roll over, stabbing into the ground as he dodges. He tries to get back up, but you tackle him back down, slashing his throat with your machete. The Green Beret flails his arms, struggling to escape, but you won't let him. Finally, it's body disintegrates in the mist. You've done it.
  
  Several blades stab into your back, and you collapse. You watch your dwindling men fight against the overwhelming horde. Private Lering uses a wooden branch and clobbers several shadows before being cut down. Bronski has accumulated several slashes in his strategy to push down shadows and stomp them to dust. He too is stabbed in the back and falls. The sounds of fighting grow dim as darkness overtakes you. You smile at the thought of seeing your dead comrades once more. You'll have a lot of war stories to share.