Screw stared up into the overcast expanse, seeking any variation in the flat, dull grey of the sky. Far away, the cracks and thumps of explosions played out a rhythmless beat, occasionally harmonising with the groans of his empty stomach. He raised his arm, just barely, and rotated his wrist to look at his watch.

10:14 AM.

He idly wondered how long he had left. If he wasn't shot or shelled, then he supposed dehydration or hypothermia would get him first. It didn't feel hopeless, just… inevitable. Peaceful, even. He had long ceased being frustrated about the situation, and now merely wished for it to be over.

Rattling in a dry breath through gritted teeth, he let his left hand drop to the hard dirt of the three-meter-wide crater he had called home for the last two days. Time passed slower here, peppered with the constant interruptions of dust blown into eyes and the creeping tightness of worsening dehydration. Thinking was altogether too much work.

Screw looked over to Simmons, who lay slumped over the edge of the crater.

“How's it looking out there today?” Screw croaked.

Simmons didn't respond. This was overall a good thing, or at least neutral. He'd taken a round to the head shortly after they’d become trapped in this makeshift foxhole, so any sudden bouts of speech now would be somewhat unsettling. As it was, Simmons just looked out at the ruined park and tattered remains of the small town with silvered eyes. He was lucky. He'd had a quick death. Better than a boring one, Screw thought.

The only ready antidotes to the extreme lack of stimulation were the few possessions Screw had managed not to lose yet: his standard issue radio, a helmet that was a bit too big, his plate carrier (complete with a cheap pen, a nice patch displaying his blood type, and two magazines for the service rifle that lay somewhere in the no-man’s-land above), an empty flask, and the discarded wrappers of the scant amount of food he’d had on his person when he became trapped.

Screw decided it was too early to start popping and unpopping buttons and zipping zippers, so turned his attention to the most luxurious of his few toys: his radio. It still had plenty of battery left, but nobody on the other end to talk to.

Turning the volume knob to a sharp click, the radio buzzed to life with the warm static of background radiation.

CLICK. “Hello?”

Nothing. Next channel.

CLICK. “Anyone there?”

CLICK. “Say nothing if you're busy.”

CLICK. “Someone awake? I need to talk about my feelings.”

CLICK. “Anyone?”

Thirtyish clicks later, Screw let his head drop back. The crispy white noise of a silent channel sang its soft, wandering rasp, occasionally punctuated thrumming interference.

“Radio check”

Blinking, Screw lifted his head a little and frowned at the radio. He squeezed the talk button with a dirty thumb.

“Uh… loud and clear?”

“You sure about that?” replied a gruff woman's voice.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Your audio is good.”

“Gotcha. Yours is a bit scratchy, but the signal seems okay.”

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Screw paused to question if this was some sort of hallucination. Lying in the cold with no water for a couple days was probably a recipe for some instability.

“You still there?”

Screw sat up with a start. “Ye-”

A sharp snap struck the top of his helmet, followed immediately by a thud near his feet and a small shower of dirt on his calves. A second later there was the sound of a distant shot.

Slamming straight down onto his back, Screw blinked and let out a breath.

“Fucking IDIOT!” he berated himself.

“That's not very nice” chirped the woman on the radio.

“Not you, me. I'm, uh, pinned down by a VERY persistent sniper.”

“Wait, you're not signals?”

“What? No, infantry.”

“Huh, uhm- well, sorry, have a nice day.”

“Wait wait wait, no, please-”

“Woah woah woah, okay, hey. I'm not going anywhere.”

Screw felt his shoulders tighten as he cringed at his own plea.

“Hey, sorry. It's been a long couple days. I ould really use someone to talk to.”

“I get you. I've been on nights for the last week, and now I'm on a double today. The net is all screwed up. Radio is about the only thing that works, but we're on equipment that even my grandmother would think obsolete.”

“At least you've got coffee, thought.”

“Yeah, but it tastes like burned dirt.”

He croaked out a dusty laugh.

“I would kill for some coffee right now.”

“No baristas out there in the field?”

“Not even drip.”

“Wow, you're really slumming it.”

“You have no idea.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Are you alone?” the faceless voice asked, with some hint of concern.

“Yeah. It's been a couple days. No food or water left, no weapon. I'm probably gonna die.”

“And you said you were pinned down?”

“Yeah. Sniper. Killed my buddy, nearly got me too.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride. And everything, but I have been laying on hard ground this entire time.”

“Where are you?”

“Uh, Suwalki. Not completely sure where. In some kind of park. There's some kind of town hall or church or something at the other end, I think that's where I'm being shot at from.”

“And you've been pinned for two days? Whoever's after you sure is persistent.”

“You're telling me.”

“Hmm. Is there any other cover near you?”

“Just dead trees, the occasional shell crater. There are some buildings either side of the park.”

For about 10 seconds there was dead air, until she answered back.

“I think I know whereabouts you are.”

“Yeah?”

“And I think I can get you out.”

“I'm just gonna get shot the second I poke my head up.”

“Do it for a coffee? And I mean a good one. I'll buy.”

Screw couldn't help but chuckle.

“You know, it would beat starving for sure. I'm pretty sure nobody is coming for me.”

“Can you run?”

“I think so. But as I said, the second I get up I'm gonna get shot.”

“Do you have anything to distract them with?”

“Nope. All my smokes are used, my rifle is lost, and my dance routine is nothing to write home about.”

The operator cackled. “Well now that coffee is going to cost you a dance.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Your loss, I assure you.”

“I'll be the judge of that.”

After a brief pause, she offered “do you have a hat or something.”

“Uhh, yeah. I have a helmet that's just got a nice new hole in it.”

“Listen. You should throw it one way and run the other. It's hard to hit a moving target.”

He briefly entertained the idea.

“That sounds like a bad idea.”

“Got anything better?”

“I was gonna just lay here.”

“Come on. Coffee is on the line here.”

Fuck, Screw thought. He could really use one right now.

“Okay, fine.”

“Great!”

“It better be a really good coffee.”

Groaning, Screw flipped himself over onto his belly and unclipped his helmet. He wiggled a finger through the gouge the bullet had torn through the top.

Take stock, Screw thought. His muscles screamed from the sudden shock of use. Breathe slow, he reminded himself. After a few deep breaths, the pain waned to a dull ache, and Screw set about pulling off his plate carrier. He clipped his flask to his belt and pocketed the pen.

“Okay, think I'm as ready as I'm going to be.” Screw sighed.

“Are you ready?”

“Just need one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“What's your name?”

The line fizzed like aggressively overgassed lager.

“It's Grace” she finally answered.

“Well Grace,” Screw grunted, “Here goes. Thanks for talking to me.”