Working Up A Grunty Thirst

Banab raised his free arm and wiped the tears from his eyes. He quickly came to regret it, jealousy washing over him as soon as he saw the Elites and Jackals on their Spectres and Umbras.
"Why do they get to ride in the transports when we's the ones doing all the heavy liftings?", he thought to himself. Banab tried to focus on the bright side of things. He looked ahead to the sea of unggoy all running between twin columns of sleek transport craft. "At least me not like Doog with sprained knee." 
All on their way to be cannon fodder in the next battle against some inconsequential rebellion. If Banab was lucky, he might live to die tomorrow. Banab just kept running. In his mind, the faster and harder he ran the number his legs and the weaker the pain would be. He focused on going forward, the breathing into his methane-pumping respirator growing more labored and the feel of the stones beneath his feet fading into the thump of footsteps he felt only in his upper legs. At the front of the horde of Unggoy, it must be worse. There would be no army to shade and cool the ground from the hot sun and every step would be more painful than the next. 
His eyes started to tear up again. It might be the pain, the blazing sun or the clouds of dust kicked up by vehicles and marching unggoy. Few thoughts filled Banab's mind. Of those few, even fewer were positive. He thought of home, of the family he'd barely known and the nipple-supplied rations he'd scarf down at their next stop. His daydreaming was cut short by an overwhelming thirst that swelled in his mouth. He would kill for a drink right now. There'd be plenty to drink when they stopped. He did not have the slightest idea when that would be, but the bosses can't possibly make them wait too much longer for a break, could they? 
A terrible whine pierced the monotonous soundscape of marching and a pink crystal planted itself firmly through the skull of a jackal manning the turret on an adjacent transport. Other gunners ducked down or brought their guns to bear on the source of this sniper-shot. More crystals flew and so too did bolts of white-hot plasma. An exchange of fire that he could only see the scraps of when occasional missed shots hit the rock face they hugged and knocked a stone down on an unsuspecting Unggoy. Few of Banab's brethren noticed, and those that did were quickly told off with a "Keep moving, scum!" or a kick from an elite hanging from the side of a transport. So Banab did just that. He kept moving. It's not as if he had a choice, since stopping would spell certain death by trampling. One stray plasma shot sent down a flurry of large stones, knocking down a handful of less-than-lucky Unggoy. Banab, helpless to do anything, joined the others in walking past- or over them, doing his best to ignore the groans and yells of the fallen. 
As they continued the march, the plasma fire came to a stop. Cresting a hill, Banab looked out over the sea of grunts illuminated by the setting sun and the distant tide of chaos that resulted from one of them falling over and being trampled, sending a wave that waned almost as quickly as it began. Banab once again wiped the tears from his eyes and kept marching into the sunset, certain of only one thing: there'd be more walking up ahead.
Category:The Weekly
Category:Short stories