Failures!

A soldier at his wits end decides to silence his lessers.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DIE ALREADY!!!" A furious, howling screed roared above the scattered cries of agony, drowned out by relentless automatic gunfire. The furious soldier, rifle's grip smouldering with smoke and barrel glowing with melting-point heat, peaked from their broken rubble cover to unload one of his last magazines into a pile of agonizing wounded soldiers ahead of him. The spray of shots rips across the writhing pile of pain, popping and scattering anonymous chucks of muscle, fabric, and metal from its surface. Hand, nearly charred and deadened from the smouldering iron-grip he has had on his weapon for days on end, its charred wood grip now fused to his burnt palm. He keeps unloading his precious last few magazines of explosive bullets into this useless pile of pain screaming at him from a few yards ahead, even while the remaining enemy still had their machineguns trained on his position, ripping through broken rubble and glass he took cover behind.

The wailing. The moaning. The pointless, useless, worthless WAILING and MOANING! How fucking POINTLESS it was, how PATHETIC and DISGUSTING it was! As worthless as THEY ARE! The pathetic, wailing agony of these failures who tried to rush him! It was MADDENING! They are FAILURES to die as FAILURES, and YET THEY STILL SPEAK! THEY STILL SPEAK AND SCREAM AS IF THEY HAVE ANY RIGHT AT ALL TO MAKE ANY NOISE!

Painfully, agonizingly, he peels the charred blackened palm from his burning rifle's grip to reload, the nerves tangled around his bony fingers dangling loose like frayed wires. The baklite plastic magazine felt like he wrapped his hand around the deepest, coldest depths of hell to take firm grasp of the plastic bullet box and firmly rock it into the AEK-84's magazine well with practiced efficiency. The handle for the bolt was worn down to a smoothed, short dulled nub he could hardly wrap his charred fingers around, threatening to slip and tear the last remaining flesh from the digits.

"WORTHLESS, ALL OF YOU WORTHLESS!!!" Bloody mist and popping, cracking, burning, flung flesh ripples out from the pained mass as the shots cascade across its surface in jagged lines. Craters of wobbling, oozing loose flesh sag and droop over the indentations caused by the explosive 7.62 by 54 millimeter cartridges, each round measured precisely with 300 grains of high-yield smokeless powder propelling each of the bullet-bombs at super-sonic, armor-piercing speeds and velocity and energy and devastation.

"Joooohn..! John.... pleaseee!"

A voice he heard amongst the cacophony of woe and horror sounded familiar. It belonged to what was once a friend. Now amongst the pile of the unworthy, worthless failures. A piece of useless, screaming flesh resisting impotently and pathetically amongst the writhing still-living corpses of other failures. All the soldier could see were muddy viscera and uniforms. It didn't matter what the uniforms were. They were amongst the pile of failures, and so, are the uniforms of failures. It didn't matter who or where they belonged to, for it is only their fate that defines them.

"I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP, WORTHLESS SCUM!!!"

With not even a shred of preservation left inside him, the soldier barreled towards that worthless pile of failures. Machinegun fire ripping and cracking skull-shattering rounds inches from his face and feet. His eyes singularly focused on that damn pile.

He climbs onto it, stomping and hooking his boots into the mushy, bloody, pulsing exploded caverns of flesh to pull himself up. Sheer loathing, disdain, and hate for these failures were all that could be felt.

And beneath it, near the core of this pile of the dying, there was Alex, who once called John friend. Through the scattered and fragmented spots of sunlight that poked through the holes and caverns, he could see them. Hoping for any type of mercy, of rescue, of relief from this suffering. Instead, he saw John aim his rifle directly down at him.

Rapid popping, snapping, cracking, and reverberations horrify Alex as he could feel each bullet explode and reach deeper towards him. It was an escape, a relief from the pain, finally. And from his dear, good friend too. A faint relief, the first he had ever felt in years, finally washes over him at the realization that it was finally over.

John, however, only saw a pile of failures. Unloading the very last he had into that writhing pile of worthless, useless, idiot failure youth, he could only glance in the direction where his own end came from. A bullet finally found his skull, and he became a failure too.

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