In my line of work, death was an old chum. Hell, half the job was figuring out which bloody birdwatcher had been blown, and the other half was figuring out how not to get caught during the middle of burning down half the Hun lines.

I looked at my watch again, and sighed. Ten minutes past the agreed time, and I still hadn't received a response on the wireless. I had 19 locations for 19 mines, vital information to send thousands of Huns to kingdom come, and if general Plumer didn't receive that information, it'd be our side who ended up in the soup.

I'd spent weeks in this rotted town, interviewing some locals, and getting a few peeks at the German trenches from a church tower. It wasn't very much information, but I had a knack for determining exactly what was what from the barest grain of intelligence. Some said I had a sixth sense, or that I was capable of seeing anything, but I was simply good at my job. And now it seems that it was all for naught, probably because some clot had nodded off when they shouldn't have.

I heard a door creak open downstairs, likely a stray mutt that had wandered in. Before I could think too much of what had entered the building, I finally received a response on the wireless. Honestly, the most rotten possible time. I heard a floorboard let out a groan as something heavy stepped on it, no dog then. Slow and soft steps padded slowly against the floor shortly there after. Based on the sound, maybe a foot apart, with a second in between them. That meant I had a minute tops, before the person would reach the second floor, and the room I was in.

I grabbed my Webley, cocked and ready to shoot at a moment's notice, before responding to the wireless as quietly as I could. I'd rattled off 18 spots for the mines by the time I heard footsteps at the top of the stairs. I quickly finished my message, before hiding behind the door to wait and greet my guest, knife in one hand and shooter in the other.

I waited for the intruder to cross the door, before shooting four rounds through the door, and booting the door open. Sure enough, there was a soldier on the other side, a rifle in his hands, and a helmet on his head, injured on the ground. Two rounds had hit him, one grazed the side of the hun's helmet, while the other punctured his abdomen. But the German wasn't done yet, which was painfully obvious when he slashed my gun hand with his bayonet tipped rifle, making me drop my revolver.

Still, I had a knife in my other hand, so nothing to sweat about. I kicked the rifle out of his hands, and grabbing my knife with both hands, fell on him, and with mild satisfaction, stabbed him right in the chest. I'd missed his ticker, but that didn't matter. The man would drown in his own blood before he could wriggle free of my grasp.

He squirmed beneath me, futilely attempting to get me off him by all means. But after a second, he stopped, seemingly accepting his fate. With eyes filled with pained sadness, he gave up, and I relaxed slightly. It was a mistake. The German turned his head to look at me, and spat blood in my eyes, and managed to free his left hand. The next thing I felt was the cold metal of my Webleys barrel against my temple, before my world erupted in pain with a bang.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

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Dying a gruesome death is not fun, no matter how quickly it's over. The moment I died, even though my brain had been destroyed in an instant, I still felt all the pain of having a hole drilled through my noggin. All the final sensations of life lingered in my mind, and yet memories of every event of my life, all my choices, thoughts, actions overwhelmed the pain. My entire life flashed through my very soul, and I knew I was left with a choice.

With all the will I could muster, I mentally grabbed hold of everything who I was, what I was. I was a journalist, the best damn spy, a person capable of seeing everything and then sharing all that I saw with the public, no matter the consequences. I was… myself. There was only one me, and I didn't want to let go. And then I saw myself falling towards the violet grass covered ground.

It was an odd sight to see the back of my head move further away from my sight, as my body fell. My eyes were still in my head, and I saw through them as clearly as I always had. But along with my eyes, I could see everything. A third perspective floating in the air where I'd been moments before, seeing in all directions with absolute detail. More than anything else, it felt… odd.

I turned over on the ground, surprised by the lack of pain in my head or from the crash to the ground, and stared where I knew my third perspective was. I saw nothing in the air above me, though I could see myself looking towards me, which felt wrong. I saw a dark hole in my forehead—which almost looked like a third eye—and I knew I was dead. I had been shot, killed, and now I was in the afterlife. It might explain why I hadn't been hurt by the fall.

Standing up, I looked in all directions, trying to see anywhere I could go towards. I didn't see anything that might hold any other people in them, so I picked a random direction and started walking, leaving my new floating third eye behind, as I didn't know how to move it.

A minute had gone by when I saw something. Not with my eyes, but with the new one, the third eye I'd left behind. It was the Hun who had killed me, only he looked as if he were made of dry paint, instead of flesh. He fell down the same way I had, only with my knife and revolver in his hands. He dropped them as he collided with the ground, and I decided now was the best time to confront him, when he was least expecting it. I wasn't sure if I could be killed a second time, or if the weapons could even hurt me, but it'd be best to make sure.

I reached my shooter before the Hun had even gotten up from the ground, grabbed it and pointed it at the German.

"I used ze last bullet on myself, no point in vaving zat thing around. Besides, we are already dead, yes?" the German said with a slight accent. "vere are we?"

"Pretty sure we ain't in heaven. Though I'm not in enough pain to imagine this is hell." I said, before I placed the revolver in its holster. I offered the German my hand, "As you said, we are dead, no more reason to fight. My name's Edward."

The German let out a bark of laughter, "Gott im Himmel. Killing each other a gut way to make friends, no?" He said, before grabbing my arm, and pulling himself up. "I'm Friedrich."

"I guess it is, by the same shooter too. We're like… gun chums"

"... You vere right, this definitely isn't heaven." Freideich said.

Maybe dying wasn't as bad as I'd feared. I just hoped there'd be something other to do than walking towards nowhere, and talking with one's own killer.