From Hell

“Careful! Careful, now.”

Wind blew across the poisoned fields like some dead desert ripped from the chords of an epic. Trees shattered against thrown-up chalk scattered over melting green. No one but all bodies in the nowhere land. He peeked. Disemboweled horses with guts running over the tar pits of rainwater brewed in powder and flesh falling from the bone as they slow-cooked under the beating sun hung upon nails upon waters upon wires upon miles and miles and miles over yon that beyond over there.

Dave stepped in crap.

“God-damn you, piece of work and—!”

It’s a quiet day on the southern front. Forests charred and twisted like hundred-foot wicks in the distance. Silence disseminated like cancer.

“Shh!”

He fell to the ground.

Running. Skittering.

Get your gun, get your gun!

There he is: above the iron post and between the gates of your sights. Walking without a care in the world with his pistol beside.

Hammer; detonation.

He’s down.

Who’s next to him? But a nowhere voice.

“Quick. Jump in.”

Dave’s in the trench. It’s empty. The bayonet leads the way as he rounds corners, seeing the wooden decay and shelled dug-ins smelling something awful. But when he looks inside, no one home. Mud squelches and squeals under his boots.

Hears it.

Compressed cellos and strings in D major opus no. 1.

Nude Dances, no. 1. Slow and painful.

Something. The music is coming from the right.

Dave smoothly turns his rifle.

A gramophone.

It plays on repeat as the shellac disc rotates and the metal stylus digs into the endless grooves, bumping up and down. The record is shoddy. A typical budget pressing common for those in service. He takes some amusement from this, doesn’t he? Don’t you? Apologies, I wasn’t asking you. My mistake.

“Do you like it? You’ve heard it before.”

“Not really,” he responds. “I was always into theater.”

“Sorry. I’ll get a better one next time.”

“You did your best. Music is hardly offensive out here.”

Have you figured it out yet?

“No, I can’t say.”

Then, this conversation is over.

“I guess it is, then.”

Sorry, mister.

“Sorry, Io.”