Inch to the left

It began with a breath. The world around mimicked his absence of motion. As if he, by holding perfectly still, would hold back the passage of time. The shell casing leapt through the dancing smoke of his M17, so slow, so delayed. But not frozen, time never froze. Not entirely. Not even here, not even for this. Sarge wasn't on the ground yet, only two yards ahead he fell, blood arcing ever the slower through the gap between them. But the gap filled like his lungs, what moments prior had been the empty space between the Sarge and his pall now filled with not only blood, but guilt, and hope and the damnation that the gunshot preluded. Ahead of Sarge the insurgents rifle was fixed, but yet unspoken for. He had but a moment to fire again, but how could he? Sarge wasn't even down, insurgent hadn't even fired. It was all his fault. Heart spooked, fingers squeezed. And in a boom and a bang a friend fell down at the insurgents feet. But the masked man with the AK was not responsible. This blood was not on his hands. It was not yet on anyones hands. It was still in the gap, still between the falling sarge and the man he'd trusted with his life. Hadn't they always joked that putting his life in the hands of a man with butterfingers would get him killed? Oh they had laughed. Only some louder than others. They wouldn't now, not after this. Not after the breath he held escaped his lips and time sprung back to its regularly scheduled carnage.
It was not a frozen moment that held the three men in a narrow hallway, it never froze. But the flashes of light, and shots from outside were all so muddled. So stretched. The world moved slow, this moment was but one link on a chain of events. So insignificant yet so monumental. In less than the second it took to realize a second passed, the world cracked and shifted and deformed into a hideous beast of guilt and punishment and atonement. Sarges blood snailed its way through the gap between them, mixing with the guilt and the fear and the shattered remains of a broken bond. The world flashed before his eyes, did it for Sarge too he wondered? He knew, as one always does when staring down an insurgents rifle, that the moment he took to realize he only had that moment was a moment he didn't have. But he knew, knew, that he could do it. Inch the M17 just a bit to the left, and the bullet would soar clear of the falling Sarge, so unlike its kindred that in the moments prior had broken the bond of fellowship and struck into a back meant only for eyes and not bullets. But not again, with the slight motion of the inch the bullets would fly unhindered. With a bang and boom and a leaping shell case through dancing smoke the insurgent would fall, blood on the wall as his guts exploded with warm metal. Same as Sarge. Explode like the guilt and fear that flew on strains of adrenaline up his spine. Oh yes, he knew beyond doubt that he could live. That the insurgents rifle would not harm him, would not claim his life and body in this forsaken hallway. He knew beyond faith and reason that he could live, that in this hallway that Sarge would never leave, he could stand as the sole survivor of this lone encounter, this one moment of moments. He could live, walk away. Live to find whatever awaited around the corner where the Insurgent came from. This moment, this link of links on the chain that bound a flag to a young mans fate, could be just another link. Or it could be the last. In the rapid flash of an AK47 he could end. And then he'd die with Sarge. Wasn't that justice? Would that absolve him? And what of the rest of the team? Could they handle it without them? Sarge was down, he was one man. But another too? Was that price to steep? Would the justice of his death as an echo to the death of Sarge kill others? He couldn't let that happen. Couldn't be responsible for more deaths. Yet he wondered, was this justification? His innate will to live regardless of what had to be done could spin wild tales if need be, that was only too human. He'd seen that before. It was all about doing what it took to survive, even if what you did was something you couldn't live with. The irony of carnage.
He couldn't risk it. And so, as the moment came to a close, as the blood and guilt and hope of absolution filled the gap between a man and his sarge, the M17 moved just an inch to the left, and a flower of fire muzzled into the dark. The moment let go, time resumed its motion as the insurgents eyes opened wide as his chest exploded in a cloud of blood. Two men fell, the Sarge and the Insurgent. And the moment between their falling, the moment he had taken to hold back time was as nothing. The two bodies hit the ground with a single thud. Two men dead, moment gone. Time resolved its normal passing as he released the breath he'd held. On the ground, Sarge would do the same. One last time.
Then everything happened fast, more insurgents around the bend. Gunfire just outside. Flashes in the dark. War never stops. War and time never end, never need permission. They never speak, yet ask of you everything. He took a step forth as the blow hit him in the back, something exploded inside as he fell forwards. So this was the moment that followed his moment of moments. As he fell in slow motion he took a moment to take a moment. And then there were no more moments.
Only dying guilt and the birth of a semblance of peace.


Word Count: 1018.
Link to contest:
http://www.writing.com/main/forums/item_id/1618627-A-Moment-in-Time/sort_by/f.me...