The Taste of Iron | BANDERA FELLA

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I don’t remember pulling the trigger. I just remember the rush, the heat, the weight of the rifle slamming back against my shoulder. The sound—it wasn’t like in the movies. It wasn’t clean. It was messy, guttural. A chunk of meat hitting the ground, the wet pop of flesh splitting open. That’s the sound a man makes when you cut him down.

I watched him fall—watched the life leave his body in real-time. One second, he was standing, eyes wide with fear, his mouth trying to form some last desperate plea. The next, he was crumpled on the ground, blood pouring from the hole in his throat. It spurted out in thick, heavy streams, painting the dirt red. His hands clawed at his neck, trying to hold it together, trying to keep the blood inside, but it was useless. The more he struggled, the more it flowed.

I stepped forward, rifle still raised, and looked down at him. His eyes were on me, wide, wild, like a cornered animal. I could see the terror. I could taste it, metallic and raw. There’s something primal about it, the way a man fights for his life when he knows it’s over. It’s not dignified. It’s not heroic. It’s pathetic. He was gasping now, choking on his own blood, his fingers slick with it, slipping off the ragged wound that had once been his throat. I crouched down, close enough to hear the wet gurgle as his lungs filled up with fluid. Close enough to smell the piss soaking his pants.

He tried to say something, his lips moving, but all that came out was a bloody whisper. A faint wheeze. He looked so confused, like he couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Like he was still trying to make sense of the fact that he was dying. I smiled. Not because I’m cruel, but because in that moment, I was alive. More alive than I’d ever felt before.

There’s a power in it—in watching someone fade right in front of you, knowing it was your hand that did it. It’s not about the hate, not about revenge. It’s about control. You control the line between life and death. You’re the one who decides whether they live another minute or bleed out in the dirt. And the truth is, that kind of power feels good. It feels right.

I didn’t finish him off. I didn’t need to. He was already on his way out, fading fast. I stood up, wiping the sweat from my brow, and moved on. There were more ahead—more who still needed to be dealt with.

As I crept through the wreckage, the smell hit me first. That thick, pungent mix of smoke, gunpowder, and burning flesh. It clings to everything, fills your lungs, coats your throat until all you can taste is death. The air was thick with it, and beneath that, the low hum of flies buzzing around the bodies. The battlefield was quiet now, save for the distant pops of gunfire, but the silence was heavy, suffocating.

I moved through the bodies without a second glance. Some were ours, most were theirs. Didn’t matter anymore. Dead is dead. The ground was slick with blood, pooling in the craters, soaking into the dirt. You learn to ignore the stench after a while, the way the blood seeps through your boots, mixing with the mud until you can’t tell the difference. It’s just part of the job.

Up ahead, I spotted movement. A figure, crawling through the debris, trying to drag himself to cover. He wasn’t moving fast, not with one leg twisted at that angle. I raised my rifle, taking aim, but something stopped me. I lowered it and walked closer instead. I wanted to see him up close. I wanted to watch.

He didn’t notice me until I was right next to him. He was too focused on trying to pull himself forward, every inch a battle, his fingers clawing at the ground. When he finally looked up, his face twisted in pain, his eyes locked onto mine. There was no fight left in him. Just the raw, desperate need to survive.

I kicked him onto his back, and he let out a scream—high, sharp, panicked. I could see the broken bone jutting through his skin, white against the red. He was trembling, shaking like a leaf, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He tried to say something, tried to beg, but the words didn’t come out. Just a whimper.

I knelt beside him, close enough to see the tears running down his face, close enough to hear the pathetic sobs that shook his chest. I watched him for a moment, taking it in. This was what war does to men. It breaks them. Turns them into sniveling wrecks, bleeding and crying in the dirt.

I grabbed him by the collar, pulling him up so his face was inches from mine. He flinched, his eyes wide with terror. And then, slowly, I pressed the barrel of my rifle to his forehead.

“Please…” he whispered, his voice barely audible, choking on his own fear.

I held him there, feeling the tremor in his body, the way his breath came in shallow, panicked bursts. He was waiting for the end, bracing for it. But I didn’t pull the trigger. I just watched him. Watched him squirm. Watched the terror consume him.

In that moment, I had all the power. I could end him with a twitch of my finger. But I didn’t. Not yet. I wanted him to feel it—to feel the weight of his own death hovering over him. To know that his life wasn’t his anymore. It was mine.

And then, just as the scream started to rise in his throat, I pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening, the spray of blood warm against my face. His body went limp in my hands, and I let him fall, crumpling into the dirt like a rag doll. The blood pooled around his head, thick and dark, seeping into the cracks in the ground.

I stood up, wiping my face, and moved on. There were more ahead. There were always more.

In war, mercy is a lie.