Colors of Sanity

Chapter 1

The extremely nauseating, rolling motion in his stomach was the least of his worries. Right now, his loose  turnequitte was his main priority. The half-clotted blood was running slowly, but being out of antibiotic made this an extreme situation. His linen mess was probably not helping right now, digging into the deep slash wound when it got caught in the door handle. He had no need to scream, because pain was something regular now and did not have much effect in this particular area on his abdomen. The heavy, polluted rain poured down onto the large, silvery tent. Extra noise was quite the issue, because silence was necessary if you wanted to shoot the other one first. Or the crazy tribal, for that matter. Looking out one of the small plastic windows, he saw nothing but the fog blanket that coated the lightly forested plateau. Ripping open the door in the first aid box, he yanked out the roll of gauze and begun wrapping it around the area beneath his for-the-most-part shattered ribcage. Safety-pinning it tight, he decided it was good enough and decided it was his shift to scout the perimeter. With a hardy "Hey Muhammad!" in his heavy African accent, he replaced the heavy set man, one of the still-sane few left. Wiping dirt, sweat, blood, and whatever other grime was coating his body, off of his face with a hand that was just as dirty, he hiked out of the area of the tent. His current clothing consisted of an almost demolished, used-to-be bulletproof vest, complete with shrapnel, blood stains, and a large rip across the lower right-half, some equally-demolished black pants, pockets filled with dog tags of fallen allies, and a standard military helmet, just a dark grey, heavy, waste of metal. His shirt that used to exist under his vest was discarded the week before, when he had received the kind gift of a bayonet slash to the stomach and a stomp on the chest from the enemies heavily weighted boot. Their boots also release a small amount of burning phosphorus upon a command from a button upon the wrist. It was a brilliant tactic, lighting whatever they desired on fire with a brilliant green blaze, a tactic designed to intimidate the Congo's natives. It also burned like boiling wax upon a large gash. Only one-thousand fold. The mark it left was of a charcoal skinned torso, and the bleeding imprint of a boot upon his shattered ribs. And he was one of the lucky soldiers. He went unconscious. Many of his comrades weren't so lucky, screaming in agony as their body boiled or falling towards the relieving bottom of a cliff. He was snapped out of his flashback by the side of a dead tree colliding with his skull. He didn't care what everyone told him. He didn't care what mental issues they claimed he had developed. He didn't care about any damage he took. This tree needed to be sent to Hell, now. Screaming like something out of a nightmare, he assaulted the tree like he did his enemies. Fists pummeling dents and cracks into the tree, screaming an insane "WAAAAAHHHHH!" he sent splinters and whole pieces of the innocent tree flying through the foggy, polluted morning air. The tree was non-existent anymore, but he needed to hurt something. Badly. He ripped the knife from his belt and tore through his forearm, laughing as the blood spurted to the ground. Stab and tear out, stab and tear out. It hit his mind like a brick: WHAT the HELL am I DOING? He yelled and whipped the knife off the sloped cliffside and ran back to the tent. The affected forearm was not in much pain, being dulled to pain as it had been experienced so much lately, but with the remembering that he had killed about 30 different things yesterday, gangrene was sure to occur. With this in mind he sprinted faster than he had when his wife was being slaughtered. Oh well, he had thought afterward. Death was a normal thing now, with half the Earth under control of that horrid country, America. The blood was now pretty-much clotted, with the half-hour sprint back to the tent. Dashing inside, he screamed

     "Doctor! My arm!" but soon realized that there was nought but bodies in his tent. Again. He instantly, on instinct, slid underneath the table and grabbed the rifle he  had duct-taped to the bottom of it. Always a useful tactic. He stopped his breathing, and listened to the voices outside. Idiots, he thought. They hadn't even noticed his yelling. They must be preoccupied.

     "Yes, sir. Area's been cleared, and's bein' double-checked by uh small group uh soldiers."

     "Quite impressive, sergeant, this was their largest regiment, far as the intel covers." He heard the official-sounding footsteps of what he assumed was the last one talking, and saw a pair of legs enter the tent. Opening the   miscellaneous rations locker, he pulled out a cigar and heard a lighter click. "Southern bastard. Lost 3 men killing 20. Ungrateful prick." He heard the man say, and watched him exit the tent. He gripped his dog tags, as a reminder of who he used to be. He already knew what they said, "Adofo ----------," his last name was scratched out, as a reminder that nothing matters of his Egyptian heritage anymore, as Egypt was no more. It had other information, but that was gone as well. Adofo gripped his rifle tight, and snuck over to the section of the tent where countless emergency packs were piled. He quickly grabbed an ammunition satchel, clipped it to his destroyed belt, not caring what kind of bullets it contained, grabbed a ration pack, thrust it onto his back, and bolted out the doorway, heading straight to the small forest that was just a cliffside away.