A young man was limping along a dirt road, his silhouette plastered across the sunset.
He limped, half sobbing, along the road, unsure of his destination. He was in an army garb, with the right pant torn. He had taken of his helmet, which was lying on the road behind him. He looked no older than eighteen, his pale blond hair matted with dirt and his lean figure trembling.
He sank to his knees, crying out when his leg bended. He sat there for a while. He didn't know how long. He just cried until he couldn't cry anymore. Then he shakily rose, and began walking again.
He stopped. Another silhouette could be seen on the horizon.
The young man hadn't seen anyone in weeks. The last bit of his platoon died before his eyes, just before he deserted them. Headquarters went quiet a long time ago. All of the villages were abandoned, filled with dead bodies, or blasted out of existence. Not even the enemy could be seen, even in their own territory.
"HEY!" his voice cracked, "OVER HERE! PLEASE, COME HERE!" He waved his arms, ignoring the pain in his leg.
The figure on the horizon froze, as if in the same shock the young man felt. The figure began running, dragging its left foot.
"Aquí!" the other figure yelled. "Aquí!"
The two young men fell into each others' grasps, making sure that they were both real, that it wasn't a dream.
The tanned one gasped in pain when the blond haired boy grabbed his forearm. It was green, rotting from the inside.
"No! Suéltame!" he pleaded.
The blond boy dropped his arm quickly. "Oh my god, I'm sorry!"
They stood facing each other, each holding their wounds.
"M - Me llamo Esteban. Quién eres tú?" the tanned one asked.
"Your name is Esteban?" the blond boy asked shakily. "Mine's Steven."
Esteban pointed at him. "You are Steven?"
Steven couldn't return the answer in proper Spanish, so he tried his best. "Er... sí."
"Que gracioso." Esteban reached out a hand. They shook awkwardly.
Steven held no hostility to what used to be his enemy. The world had been at war for more than one hundred years now, all countries picking one of three sides. Steven had seen the lack of people, and the destruction of the atomic bombs. He didn't care if he was a Brit and Esteban was a Spaniard. He didn't know if he would see anyone else again before he... He wouldn't finish the thought. He couldn't.
Esteban pointed at Steven's leg, which had gone past the green stage of gangrene and was now a brownish black. He couldn't find the will to dig out the bullet or amputate. "Tu pierna está mal."
"Er, yeah," muttered Steven. He could only assume what his new comrade said. "I'm not gonna walk again." It was an understatement.
Steven shrugged off his backpack and pulled out his last two biscuits. "Do you want some?"
Esteban nodded eagerly, his eyes sunken. They sat down against a nearby bunker, their backs to the cold stone. Steven handed him the biscuit, which Esteban devoured in seconds. Steven ate his faster. Esteban offered his canteen, and poured half of the water into Steven's. Steven raised his to his lips.
"Nuh uh uh," Esteban interrupted, stopping Steven. He raised his bottle.
Steven took the olive branch gratefully.
"Para nosotros," toasted Esteban.
"Para nosotros," echoed Steven, without understanding.
They downed the small amount of water immediately. It wasn't nearly enough, but Steven appreciated it.
They sat in silence.
"Lo siento," Esteban murmured, gazing into the dead woods ahead of them. "Por matar a tus amigos."
Steven stared. He was apologizing, he was sure, but he couldn't understand what for. "It's okay," he said.
Esteban wailed in sorrow, burying his face in his hands. The sorrow spread to Steven, which made him think of the horrible things he's done and seen, of the unknown fate of his family, and of the known fate of his last friends.
But those were not his last friends.
Esteban and Steven sat against the bunker for what seemed an eternity. They attempted to talk, to reminisce of times before the world went to the hounds of nations. They enjoyed each other's company, because they knew the end of it all was coming.
Suddenly, Steven felt tired. He felt so, so tired. He heard his mothers calling to him, calling him back to his house, calling...
"Ma," he called.
Esteban froze, hearing and understanding his friend's plea. He put his arm around his last amigo.
"Ir," he told him.
Steven felt his weight leave him, felt his body soar into the sky, past the clouds, past space and life and all the things that didn't matter.
"I'm coming home, ma."