MARKSMAN'S MUSINGS

or the first time in centuries, the world was quiet. Farms lay barren, towns decrepit, and the once-great cities of man were hollowed out. Their remnants buried the streets. Buildings twisted and tore upon themselves under their ancient weight as nature began reclaiming ownership, or were flung out on the countryside. Nations had long been abandoned, since the last great war. The ‘war to end all wars’ it was meant to be, a phrase used so lightly throughout history, but a testament to man’s resolve to rise above his worst instincts. Man’s reach for transcendence, however, couldn’t defeat his instincts. War had driven him to create mutated beings, weapons to fight his enemies— forced evolutions of man himself, created from hatred and instinct alone. Man sought to control, but the nations soon fell in on themselves. Humanity’s survivors hid in bunkers and underground caves to avoid the wrath of the lingering past. Wars that man so readily fought left the natural world poisoned and dying. But nature grew colorful again with life. No nations at war, no dividing lines on which battle was waged, no fuel for the all-consuming fire of darker patriotisms. For the first time in centuries the world was green— cities of concrete gray overcome with beautiful forests growing among steel monoliths. 

And the world was quiet.

A shot was heard throughout the green valley. Its piercing burst echoed in a disjointed chorus. A human form lay motionless among the ferns, blood seeping out into the brush. High up sat a rifleman, a soldier, tasked with ridding the area of its mutated biological monstrosities. To keep his own people safe.

Smoke billowed out from the barrel of the rifle, leaving little twisting apparitions dancing in front of the marksman’s eyes. The apparitions briefly distorted his vision, maybe for the better. Through them the world was freer of the mutants, man’s folly. The mutants were supposed to be something better, they’d said, a step forward into the future. The irony was always at hand— man's ambition, corrupted, had become his greatest foe.

A murmur of birds set off in the distance in response to a second thunderous shot, a response from reality, a conclusion to another damned soul. It seemed there was no shortage of birds. Despite gunshots and rambling monsters, the birds were always there. No animals left for that matter— deer, wolves, bears— all still lingered in their habitats. They lived with little threat from mutants. There was an instinct, or disconnection, with animals that helped them stay away from mutants. It was rare to see a mutant harm an animal, anything other than themselves, or the lookalikes they hunted.

The marksman remained deeply camouflaged in his position. The scent-masking was so effective that animals would pass him by up close, unaware of the threat he might pose. This sensation of wildlife seen up close was relaxing to the silent warrior on the hill, an assurance that the world remained whole, that he need not worry about life itself, only about himself and his, trusting the planet to keep turning.

Nature was kind, patient. A beautiful world remained even if humanity was on its last legs. Nature had removed itself from the conflict entirely. The beautiful world and all within it was distant. It seemed strange how uninvolved nature was in this fight for survival. Collectively nature had turned away from the problems of man, or perhaps was privy to something more sinister.

A wandering mutant came into the view of the rifle’s sights. It jittered and screeched, loud enough for the whole valley to hear. The rifleman squeezed on the trigger ever so slowly, lining up the shot to perfection. Before pulling he heard heavy footfalls approaching behind him. Glancing to his side he saw another mutant wandering out through the ferns. It had not spotted him yet, and likely wouldn’t smell him either. He redirected the rifle slowly for a new shot, but there was no way to line the aim without giving up his cover. For the moment it was a stalemate, and a safe bullet would not secure victory for a man for whom it always had.

These mutants were fast, thought the marksman. 

And they were tough, designed to be hyper-aggressive towards humans. The mutant would rip up any human it caught up with, the marksman knew, so all he could do was wait and hope the camouflage would do its job.

Breathing with heavy exertion the mutant lurched forward, screeching and searching for a quarry. It had heard the gunshot. Had it occurred that someone was pulling the trigger? Or worse, did it remember from before?

The mutant was closer. There wasn't much distance now before it would stumble onto the Marksman. With his offhand the marksman began to draw his service-issue knife slowly. He had one shot at this— under its chin, up through the skull, in one movement.

The mutant began poking at the leaves around the marksman and became distracted with a passing moth. In a flash the soldier leapt from his hiding place and lunged at the mutant— it was too fast, however, and swatted the knife from its attacker’s hand. It let out a bone-chilling screech and started clawing rapidly at its target. The marksman backed away, narrowly avoiding its razor-sharp nails. 

He needed an opening, just a chance. 

The mutant stumbled forward, tripping over undergrowth as it went. The marksman didn’t hesitate. Jumping forward, he drove his knee into the mutant’s chin, forcing it onto its back. He didn’t have time for options. Seeing a rock he quickly grabbed it from the ground and began smashing the creature’s skull until its head was broken and disfigured. 

The marksman looked at the bloodied rock in his hands, astonished by the primal violence he was capable of. Normally, mutants were so far away that you couldn't even see their features while lying among the brush until they came closer. It was clean, even humane, to shoot them.

Carefully the marksman went back into camouflage, back to his duty.

It was at these times that his thoughts began to wander long. Mankind's hands were bloodied with its own blood, so why were they worth saving?

Hell, he thought, nature was probably on the side of the mutants.

Nature had taken advantage of these grim events. The monsters were the work of man, of course, but could there have been some greater expectation, even intention? Hadn’t nature adopted the mutants as a solution, allowing them to continue as a means to end humanity?

Maybe survival was not worthwhile and the end should be accepted gracefully instead of with struggle and suffering. Could life continue if humanity won? The mutants were but one simple problem with a clear enough remedy. Rebuilding society would surely divide humanity in new ways. Life as it was lived in better times was long gone, and future generations would be born into struggle and suffering wrongfully inherited from sins committed long before them. Penance would be forced upon the innocent, the fires of perdition for unborn saints.

The adrenaline was passing now from the lonely rifleman’s thoughts, anger and despair mixing in his head.

Amid these thoughts the marksman found again the jittering form of a mutant through his scope. This one tried desperately to break off the branch of a tree.

Had this being come across the idea the branch might be useful as a weapon? Were they smart enough for that? Perhaps it was the final vestige of its programming.

Perhaps it was even more intelligent, and the branch wasn’t the need of a weapon but an inborn desire to create, a trait inherited from the man it once was.

Was this one defective?

The mutant tumbled over itself as the branch came loose, and now standing again it began searching the ground as if looking for an ideal spot to place its new trophy.

Was there a man still in there? Past all the rage and violence, was humanity still within that decrepit vessel of war? Then again, the marksman wondered, was his own humanity apparent or hidden behind false pretenses and despair?

The mutant had found an ideal spot for its branch and was now working on prying another one from the same tree. 

nother screech tore through the valley. A second mutant wandered out into the clearing. The invader began stomping the ground and screeching at the branch-wielding mutant. Oddly enough, the first mutant put itself between the invader and its little branch pile. Was it defending its home? The invader charged forward, swiping left and right at the defender, who lacked the agility to get out of the way. The defender ran head first into his opponent, wrapping its arms around the invader and biting at its neck. The invader screamed in pain, loud enough that other mutants might show up. 

The invading mutant raised its arms and pushed the defender, knocking it off balance. The invader rebounded, running into the defender who was knocked off its feet and fell, crashing into the pile of sticks. The defender screeched in anger at the destruction of its work, a sign of pride in what it had made. The defender picked up a heavy branch and swung crudely at the invader.

The invader couldn’t find its footing again. The branch was swung with a brutish intensity, splattering blood in every direction. The grass and moss turned deep crimson beneath them. In agony, the invader screeched as if for help but the marksman, looking on, knew none would come. The defender swung its weapon up overhead, and down, smashing the invader’s head. Eventually, the screeching stopped and the defender dropped the broken branch. For a moment it was silent, but then the creature gave a victory shriek and began to feast on the fresh kill. Whatever it was it had started with the branches was completely forgotten.

To struggle up from this, the marksman thought, surely was not worthwhile. All for a second chance they didn’t deserve.

But he couldn’t let despair overtake him now.

This one’s too dangerous to get away. 

He lined up the shot on the remaining mutant. The shot echoed through the valley, putting an end to the career of a short-lived artist.

The marksman closed his eyes, trying to remember his own reasons, any of them, for continuing to fight.

Opening them again he stared at a small bird that had settled atop his rifle's barrel, twittering ever so lightly. Its beautiful feathers were a vibrant yellow and orange that exuded warmth.

Fear and tension withered away. The air felt refreshing and his surroundings calmer. His thoughts lightened, leaving behind the negativity that had corrupted them. 

Perhaps, he wondered, this might not be the end.

Perhaps nature was done staying out of the matters of humans and was offering one last chance, a chance to prove humanity could still do good in a world so wronged. If mankind could overcome its basest instincts, nature might give back their freedom. With those freedoms would come the knowledge that they lacked the first time. New generations might learn so they’d never make the same mistakes. A fresh start at the end of the great trial of resolve in the struggle to survive.

A fresh start had already been granted— the siege weapons of man’s wars had eroded into the past, the grievous wounds suffered by nature were healing, and the world continued to bloom. Even the animals had become plentiful following man's downfall. The world was freer, and fresh just as he had been in the beginning. Man could go out into the world and make a life for himself and for those after. All that stood in the way were the sins of the father, seeking to damn those that remained.

Birds chirped in the treetops filling the valley with the sounds of life.