The Gears of War

A wounded soldier encounters something he did not expect on battlefield.

The Gears of War


I discerned the approach of evening through the rising smoke, hints of amber streaking the fading, smoldering landscape. At least the guns had stopped, leaving only the distant tortuous gears of war.

Blood seeped from a deep leg wound, though my tourniquet was tight. Alone and unable to walk, I was assuredly a dead man, one of thousands strewn upon this hopeless battlefield. Still, I yearned to be found, even by the face of death, before the Wild Men discovered and consumed me. It was said they only emerged at night, cannibals scavenging the bodies of the fallen. Perhaps I’d been afflicted by the delusions of war, but I’m sure I’d observed one from my foxhole, a menacing silhouette lurching through the distant haze. God, my leg throbbed.

The sinister intermission between barrages revealed the horror of combat. Neither faction dared leave their trenches at night, yet the dying moans of our devastated lot exposed the heartbreaking truth – shed of our humanity, there were no winners, even in victory.

Churning gears crept closer when I perceived a shuffling groan from a nearby crater, so I readied my rifle and dragged myself to the edge, hoping for another Brit with which to die. Instead, exhausted German eyes upon a gaunt face stared back at me. His legs were missing, yet he grinned, barely conscious and coughing blood before tossing his own weapon away. “Hier, bitte,” he motioned weakly. “Bitte, bitte.”

My own legs were equally useless, and I reckoned the pointlessness of it all, so I pulled myself down next to him. Hands shaking, he fingered a cigarette, unable to light it, so I took over, taking a long drag then placing it in his mouth. “Danke,” he coughed again, pulling a silver flask from his pocket. “Mochten Sie einen trinken?”

My canteen exhausted, I eagerly snatched it up, nearly gagging. “Tastes like piss,” I winced, but Fritz had passed, eyes glazed over, the cigarette still pinched in his mouth.

The agonizing gears grew closer now, and I spied a specter in the smoke, much like a man, but for glowing blue orbs where its eyes should be. Was this one of the Wild Men desperate for trophies amongst the dead? It unnaturally searched the corpses, looking for I know not what, closing in on me. I picked the German’s cigarette from his lips and locked a round with trembling fingers.

The air became electrified before I could react, and a mechanical arm swatted my rifle away. Terrified, I couldn’t believe my own eyes. A slender tinman with gear-driven joints evaluated my every inch, gangly rubber fingertips palpating for confirmation. “Is this your only wound?” the thing questioned, referring to my leg.

Astonished, I couldn’t respond.

“You’ll do,” it remarked, then dragged me back to a heap of other wounded men, British and German alike, though all of us alive. “BRU-25, reporting. Quota satisfied. Open the gate.”

Instantly, the battlefield became a spotless white room. “Transport complete,” I heard.

I was surely the least wounded of us, for I had the temerity to ask, “Are we dead?”

“Dead?” The thing chuckled mechanically. “You wouldn’t be here if you were. I recall a human expression – Everyone dies, yet not everyone truly lives. A curious sentiment, wouldn’t you say?”

A man in a white lab coat strolled cooly over with a device in hand garnering his full attention. “Nice work BRU-25. The scans show they all meet the minimum requirements.”

“Hello?” I queried, and the man turned to me. “Where are we?”

“Just a relay point,” he answered. “About…let’s see…four hundred fifty years into your future.”

“You saved us?”

“Well, you’d all certainly be dead. World War I was particularly brutal.”

“You mean, there were more?”
Before he could answer, BRU-25 said, “Sir, I have doubts.”

“25, we’ve had this conversation before,” the man rebuked.

“Our technology could save them. We could be repopulating,” it lamented. “Instead…”

He sighed. “The Allorians were clear when they harvested Earth. Some of us could live, as long as we kept them supplied. These men were dead anyways. No mustard gas exposure?”

“Negative.”

“Excellent. Wouldn’t want this batch spoiled. Take them to processing.”

“But,” the machine objected again.

“Very well,” the man conceded. “I’ll let you keep one and amend your report to say you were light on your quota.” He shook his head. “Not much of a life in the mines, but take your pick, then get to reprogramming.”

The machine pointed at me.