First of all, this isn't the story I thought I was going to write. I'm too much of a perfectionist to start that story, so instead I wrote this (much shorter) story, which popped into my head today. It's a first draft, I already see a few problems with it, the guy only talks in the beginning and then shuts up, which is inconsistent, and just some pacing stuff, and maybe I'll work on it some more soon, but anyway tell me what you think.
Chris and the Jammer
"Y'know what he was like," said Chris. "He thought... he thought that the more you get shit on, the better you end up. That's what he thought." He kicked a rock, to emphasize his point.
"Like, I wasn't abused. My dad didn't beat me up. I never had fuckin' cancer. Does that make me weak? Does that make me worthless? You're not a better person just cause your childhood sucked," explained Chris. The Jammer nodded in assent.
"I was just as good as anybody else. But he fucking hated my guts, cause I was younger than him, and I was fucking smarter, and he was just a bitter old fuck. That's all it was," said Chris.
He looked at the pack, sitting patiently outside of the bubble. They couldn't smell him, so they weren't aggressive, but they knew that he was there. They had probably been drawn by the gunshots, though those had gone off days ago. There were at least a thousand of them now, scattered throughout the blood-red hills.
When Chris had rummaged through the various sacks, belts, and duffel bags left behind by the regiment, he had found hundreds of rounds of ammunition. Chris fired every last one into the horde, although now he wasn't sure why he'd bothered. The corpses of the skinless dogs were now lying among their former packmates, rotting beneath the scorching purple sun.
"Fucking asshole," he said, referring once again to the Colonel. The last of Chris's sustenance was a quarter-full flask of bourbon, the scent of which had caused him to vomit. He'd found it in the Colonel's jacket, which amused him to no end. If the same flask had been discovered in Chris's possession, he would have been court-martialed.
One of the dogs was irritatingly close to the bubble, staring rather intently in Chris's direction. Chris wound up slowly, then pitched the flask at the canine's face. The dog's brittle skull shattered like an eggshell, and it let out a piercing shriek as a ghastly white steam escaped from the crack in his scalp. Nearby dogs barked, sharp and hollow, then slowly fell silent. "Hmm," said the Jammer, amused.
Chris dropped down next to the Jammer. In his head, the last words the Colonel had said to him repeated for the millionth time. It was a week ago, the night they watched the rift close above them, the night they knew the shuttles wouldn't return.
As the bubble slowly contracted, men were physically forced outside toward the slavering mass. The remainder, a dozen or so men, crowded around the Jammer and starved.
The Colonel had proposed something, then. The men agreed, with one exception. When Chris said he didn't want to do it, the Colonel replied: "Suit yourself."
Within minutes, Chris was alone.
He hugged the Jammer, staring out into the sea of demons, far too tired to cry. It wasn't long before the dogs could get close enough to sniff his foot.