Wrath, I am become wrath!

Tonight's story came out considerably better than I expected it to, and I'm relatively proud of it. It's a war story, something that I've been wanting to write for a couple months now. On a side note, it's also probably the most gory story I've ever written, so be warned!


Wrath

“Big Jim’s down!” came the call, relayed along the line held by the second squadron of the US army’s Bravo Company.
Viktor did not hear the announcement at first, completely immersed in the view through the scope of his rifle. Then, as more and more soldiers took up the call, the terrible news finally met Viktor’s ears.
His best friend was dead. James Marshall, known to the second squadron of Bravo Company as Big Jim, had taken a bullet to the right eye. Already, Viktor could see a swarm of medical personnel clad in beige body armor, trying desperately to work a miracle. It was too late. Even as Viktor pushed his way past a half dozen soldiers too loyal to abandon their posts, he could see that Big Jim was dead.
Viktor’s friend lay in a pool of crimson blood, emanating from a deep wound directly above his right eye. One hardy medic was pressing a cloth against Big Jim’s face, trying and failing to stem the bleeding. Viktor thought to inform him that Big Jim was already dead, but he didn’t have the heart.
Instead, Viktor turned away, disgusted and depressed. Big Jim had been a good friend, and Viktor was having trouble believing he was gone.
As he turned his back on the grim scene that was quickly unfolding, Viktor’s depression morphed into a feeling much darker. That feeling was wrath.
How dare they kill him? How dare they take the life of the single worthy man on this side of the battlefield? When had it been decreed that the man who had to die was the most honorable soldier in Bravo Company?
Viktor stopped in mid-stride, clutching his rifle tightly. It was a good thing he’d thought to turn on the safety previously, because his index finger was now wrapped around the trigger and pulling hard.
Casting a furtive glance behind him, Viktor made his way back towards his abandoned post, ducking low behind the pile of sandbags acting as a bullet stop.
Slowly, an idea began to form in Viktor’s mind. It started as a vague thought, and then sharpened into a true possibility was the wrath sweeping through Viktor’s head took hold.
Viktor flipped off the safety of his rifle, his fingers shaking. The dark, treacly anger that had formed in the depths of his mind was now spreading through the rest of his body at an alarming rate. Soon, Viktor was completely at the mercy of his rage.
Viktor eyed a large boulder sitting deep in the sand dunes a hundred or so feet in front of him, off to his right. He knew that in order to enact his revenge he needed to get closer to the enemy, and that boulder provided excellent cover.
Not allowing time for any second thoughts, Viktor stood up from behind the sand bags and vaulted over them. He hid the ground running, knowing full well that he was an easy target for snipers.
“Vik, what the fuck are you doing?” one soldier yelled from behind the sand bag line. Viktor resisted the urge to turn around and fire a half-dozen rounds into the man’s skull, if only because the pause would surely get him killed.
Viktor reached the cover provided by the large boulder, ducking into the shadows. A bullet whizzed past his face, and Viktor recoiled; only now realizing how close he had come to death. Then, gazing back the way he had come, Viktor saw the soldier that had called to him. The man was half-crouched behind the sandbag pile, his entire upper torso exposed.
As Viktor watched, the soldier finally realized that he was no longer protected by the sandbag line, just in time for his head to be blown off by a sniper round.
“Jesus Christ!” Viktor exclaimed, watching as the fallen soldier was quickly swarmed by squad mates. Second thoughts began seeping into his mind, but he dismissed them, knowing that if he returned to the line now he would most likely be removed from the force and send back home for his stunt. And, Viktor thought, that young man’s life will have been lost for nothing.
Viktor turned around once again, fingering his rifle and wondering how to best approach the situation at hand. Viktor had intended to get close enough to toss a couple grenades into the enemy encampment, but in his wrath-induced frenzy he hadn’t realized just how wide the battlefield was. Even in his current position, Viktor was still hundreds of feet away from the enemy line.
This knowledge frustrated Viktor further, and he began to curse furiously under his breath. If Big Jim had been around to see the state his friend was in, he would have taken off running in the opposite direction with his tail tucked between his legs.
Then, a single bullet round embedded itself into the sand at Viktor’s feet, and all hope of recovering from this intense anger was lost. Viktor climbed to his feet, deadly calm, and checked the rounds of his rifle. It was fully loaded, and that knowledge made Viktor grin.
Viktor raised the rifle to hip level, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the line of fire. If he had been thinking straight at that moment, he would have realized that although he was closer to the enemy than his squad members, he did not have an advantage in the grand scheme of things. The closer he was to the enemy line, the easier he was to shoot.
This knowledge was quickly put into example as five bullets pierced Viktor’s stomach. Doubling over, Viktor fired off two rounds at random in the direction he hoped was the enemy encampment. The two bullets hit the sand over a hundred feet to the right of the enemy line.
Then, Viktor was down, bleeding heavily from his wounds, knowing that he would never walk again. In those last moments, Viktor’s mind cleared considerably, and he fell into a peaceful, trance-like state.
Wrath, he thought mildly, God damn wrath.