The commander, a stout man, was the largest of the bunch. He had a thick beard, which he loved to stroke when deep in thought. He had been shipped over to fight in the war, leaving his two sons behind to be cared for by his wife. As soon as the boat had left the dock, he already missed them. Darko Kraljević was his name. He was responsible for commanding his platoon and making sure they killed their targets. It was him now who cursed, and threw his radio, lobbing it like an artillery shell.

“Curse this tunnel, and curse this war!” he spat. He knew that it was primarily his fault that his men were cornered in this god forsaken tunnel. The tunnel they were inside of was a large semicircle tube, large enough for a tank to drive through without brushing the sides. The inside was littered with rubbish and crates, long abandoned from past wars in this region of country. The air smelled of iron, and pain.

Pain that one of his men was feeling a lot of. He writhed in his makeshift bed, still bleeding after being bandaged hours ago. The best medic had had his legs blown off by a stray grenade, and he had died before he even hit the ground. None of the other men were very good medics. Most of them had been recruited from the local militia, and the surrounding villages. This man, a young farmhand, had been recruited along with the rest of the able bodied men in his village. He had joined this war for an opportunity to make enough money for his old mother, who was sick with dysentery. This is now where he sat, bleeding and sobbing into his hands, faced with the possibility of never seeing his mother again.

The sudden volley of gunfire from outside quickly reminded the men that they had no room to relax. They had been pinned here for 5 days, and had quickly run out of food. They had to resort to eating the rats that scuttled in the cracks of the tunnel. Soon they would run out of water, and they did not want to think about what would happen next. In retaliation, one of the men lobbed a primed grenade over the boxes they had piled into a makeshift shelter. It was heard shattering a distance away, and shrapnel was heard whizzing along the curved sides of the tunnel.

“Well, that was my last grenade.” sighed the man, his greasy face downtrodden in the dim lamplight. He scratched at his stubble,”How much longer do you think they will wait?”

Piromir Krazovic, a normally jolly soul, had been reduced down to almost an animalistic state due to the sheer amount of stress he had gone through. His once clean shaven face was now speckled with hairs, which poked out like shrapnel splinters. His face, once flawlessly clean, was now coated in a thick layer of grime and sweat. He was the village butcher. He had been recruited from a family of eight. His wife and six children had all been reluctant to let him go and fight. “For my family and country.” He had said to the recruiters, before leaving his family for the last time.

the recruiters, before leaving his family for the last time.

    “So far, they have shown no sign of walking away.” This came from the grim faced commander, who attempted to reassure the wounded farmhand. It was clear that reassurance was not a strong suit, for this sentence only made the lad squirm harder.

Another afternoon passed before a new sound was heard from the entrance of the tunnel. After cautiously peering out, the two men sighted upon an unexpected sight. A cow, a plump, healthy creature, had wandered to the entrance of their tunnel. The starved men started to drool. Anything was welcome after days of eating rats. The men started to make attempts to coax the cow in their direction. They made shushing noises, motioned their hands towards them, and tried everything they could to bring the cow closer.

    The cow had wandered halfway down the tunnel, when a cackling was heard from outside. Almost immediately, the poor cow was blasted into fragments of bone and innards from a remote explosive attached to its rear. It had been a ploy! The disheartened men looked on, shocked that the enemy would resort to such devious measures as this. The men realized just what kind of enemies were holding them captive.

“This place will be our tomb!” cursed Darko. He shot back with his rifle in a fit of pure rage, saliva flying from his mouth. His gun clicked, and he realized too late that he had run out of ammo. He screamed and threw his depleted gun out at the charred corpse of the mutilated animal that had reassured the trapped soldiers. They only had a day of water left. After that, they would have to resort to urinating in bottles, and then eating the poor farmhand.

“You are monsters! All of you! Damn you all to hell!” the commander ranted. He had had enough. “I will not sit here and rot any longer! I would rather die than sit here like a coward! All of you are cowards!” He slumped down and put his head in his hands. Piromir tapped his shoulder.

“What shall we do? I Don’t think this poor lad can bear any more pain. I am tired of eating rats all day. And besides, we would have one less mouth to feed.”

Darko looked at Piromir, horrified. “What on earth would prompt you to ever consider that?”

“Sir, do you realize how urgent our-”

“I am well aware on how urgent our situation is, I am asking you why you would consider killing one of our own! Am I clear? Do you understand?”

He spat, and pulled out a small flask from his jacket. He took a swig, and rolled his eyes back in his head.

“Only the finest of apple juice.”

Piromir was aghast. “You have juice? Since when?”

Darko shook his head. “This is my emergency stash, reserved for only the most urgent situations. It clears my head and helps me think.” He passed the juice to Piromir, who took a large swig.

“I can’t take this any longer! I have to die!”

Darko leapt up, disturbing the farmhand’s light slumber. He stumbled to the broken down truck in the back of the tunnel, hidden by old tapestries and fabric.

“Why didn’t you tell me about that?” whined Piromir. “We could have been out of here ages ago!”

Darko did not hear him. He clawed his way into the driver's seat and started the engine. His head was filled with nothing but years worth of propaganda. He jerked his head back at Piromir, his eyes glinting with madness, his teeth flashing with the wicked grin of a madman.

“So long, brother.”

The truck charged forward, but for all the world it might as well had been a tank with how Darko drove it. He drove with the precision that accompanies madness. A torrential rain of gunfire hailed down on the walls of the truck, but the long broken man did not heed these warnings. He drove to the entrance of the tunnel. Outside, cold, lifeless jeeps were parked haphazardly around the entrance. He bore  down on these jeeps like a corrupt soldier in a civilian village. The truck nearly rattled to pieces as he rammed into the first jeep, sending it flying into two enemy soldiers, who were playing cards. He reversed as more bullets rattled the sides of the truck. He rammed into a man stumbling away, his leg torn off from the previous impact. Darko laughed like a maniac. He was having so much fun, and he knew he would die. He would bring as many down to hell with him as possible, and he would enjoy it! He had been cooped up for so long, he felt like he would go crazy. He was secretly glad that he had not gone crazy, who knows what would have happened.

He wheezed with pure ecstasy as he laughed, inhaling the gaseous fumes. The fuel was leaking, and he knew what he would do next. He reached for an item, anything he could find. He was then surprised to find nothing to grab onto. He was so sure his plan would work! Desperate, he frantically searched in every glovebox, every compartment, to find something, anything. He finally happened upon an old, rusty lighter. Now excited, he backed the truck back up one more time. The startled enemies were going to mobilize any second now. He knew that his time was limited. He tried to spark a light, trying to ignite the heavy air. He stepped on the gas pedal, sending the truck veering forward. He would blow up as many vehicles as possible. Again, he desperately tried to produce a spark in the air. But the lighter refused to give even a bit of heat. Time and time again he tried, but his time was running out. Gas was leaking out on the ground below, and soon it would be soaked too far into the earth to ignite anything. Closing his eyes, his insanity momentarily faded, and he whispered a prayer, a prayer for vengeance. He whispered, mostly reassuring himself, knowing that bringing these devils down to hell would be the best thing he could do. He opened his eyes, and flicked the lighter again. It sparked. Time seemed to slow down. He saw the thick fumes in the air quiver, and ignite. Furiously smiling, he laughed as his skin burned off, and the truck collided with a group of parked jeeps. The jeeps ignited, Causing a chain reaction in the majority of the jeeps. Shrapnel and searing hot shards of metal was sent everywhere, impaling the scattered enemy soldiers as they dived for cover. His last thoughts were of pure unabated happiness, and the madness that rotted his brain, and strengthened his heart.

Piromir witnessed all of this with shock. He had just watched his commander go mad with fear and explode a truck and a few jeeps. He didn’t even know  there was a jeep nearby. He chided himself. If he had known there was a jeep nearby, he could have driven it far away a long time ago. It had been a shame that his commander was the only person who knew this information, and was too mad to say it. After the death of his commander, Piromir lost all faith in himself, and his country. He looked back at the farmhand.

“I can’t go on like this, not anymore. We can’t do it.”

The farmhand groaned, almost knowing what would come next. He looked at Piromir with pleading lambs eyes, begging him not to do it. He tried to stand, but couldn’t.

“We are out of water. I am so sorry.”

He pulled out a bottle behind him. It was full of liquid. The farmhands eyes lit up with relief, but was soon replaced with disgust as he realized what was in the bottle.

“I had to go, I’m sorry. There are no bathrooms in here, and it's better than no water.”

Piromir held the lip of the bottle to the poor farm hands mouth, and forced him to drink the fluid.

“Drink!” shouted Piromir. “This stuff will save your life!”

“N-o..” coughed the boy. He had gone through unimaginable agony already.

“What am I even doing?” shouted Piromir. “What are we doing?” He took out his pocket knife.

“Beg for mercy, kid! Beg for me to not end you! Beg for me to not cut you up into little pieces! Beg you dumb lamb! Cry for me! Show me how much you are suffering, and I’ll make it quick! Cry for me!”

The boy sobbed, tears streaking down his face. He didn’t even feel the pain from his wound anymore.

“I’ll stick you, pig!” screamed Piromir. He sent the knife into the boy’s right eye. The knife punctured the membrane, entering the center of the eye and popping it, releasing the fluids stored within. The boy screeched with agony, his cries animalistic.

“I’ll put you down, you!” wailed the now crazed man. He sent the knife through the ribs of the farmhand, puncturing his stomach. He kept the knife there, grinding the edge of the blade against the sides of his ribs. The boy throbbed with pain. He felt his stomach acids leaking from the hole in his stomach. Piromir left him there, being eaten alive by his own stomach acids.

The rabid man sprinted to the entrance of the tunnel.
“Yeah! Shoot me now you dirty scums! Frog eaters! You are all useless! Shoot me dead with your bony hands, Make your old hag mothers proud!”

On this statement, Piromir felt his body fill with bullets from all directions, puncturing his organs and shattering his bones.

“Is that all you have? Cowards, all of you! Fill me with your worst, you cowards! Can’t even shoot right! Hahahahaha!”

Again, another volley of bullets flew at him, cutting through him. He collapsed to the ground, a pool of blood forming at his feet. He chuckled, blood pooling in his eyes. He bled out and died like a rabid dog, finally put down out of his misery.

After a few days, the enemy soldiers, hearing no other movement from the tunnel, cautiously stepped inside, scanning every wall, every crack for movement. They did not find any, every rat had been eaten by the desperate soldiers within. The only signs of life was a burned out lamp, and the mutilated corpse of a boy, flies now swarming his soggy corpse. The commander was right, the tunnel ended up being their tomb.