War Hero

Patient Name: John Doe

Physician: Dr. Charles Beaumont

Notes: The patient was in possession of a journal (attached) to be submitted for Dr. Beaumont in the hopes that it would assist in diagnosis of John Doe.

Journal Entry I:

Raindrops fell, screaming from the gray sky then collected into little cherry colored puddles as they streaked down the pavement. This was supposed to be the battle that ended the war that ended all wars, but banality was hardly a quality of any war. I didn’t know where the flash came from, just that it came and was followed by a searing heat that burned any skin that was exposed. I was blinded for an instant, but didn’t hear anything, not even an explosion. Several moments passed, my vision had not yet returned. The sparse screams for God came only as a muffled cacophony to my ears.

It would be days before my men (the ones that survived, anyway) and I figured out that the flash was a bomb that had detonated about 16 klicks from where we were. One moment we were on our feet on a simple reconnaissance mission, and on our faces in the dirt the next. All lines of communications were down, so we decided to venture out of enemy territory. There was a word that had lost its meaning. We had no idea who our “enemy” was anymore… not after that flash.

Journal Entry II:

We had set up camp far outside the reaches of civilization. The night air above us was freezing and pressing down upon our weary bodies. We huddled next to each other, clumped up together in a ball of broken soldiers to keep warm. As the fire died down, the embers grew dim under the charred bits of wood and leaves. The air was the color of pitch.

Amongst the silent chaos, the image of my wife flashed in the recesses of my mind. Her face was faded, hidden behind a veil that grew less transparent with time. But her eyes stayed with me. I could feel the warmth of her arms embracing me and the sweet smell of her hair lingered just beyond my nose. The moment was fleeting, but would be the last happy one that night. A single streak of fire darted past my ear. We were taking fire from an unseen enemy.

The shots seemed to be coming out of the east. I ordered my men to take cover and before I could think up a strategy to escape unscathed, we were taking fire from behind in the west. My voice went hoarse after giving the order to fire. There was a hailstorm of bullets coming from all directions. I could not imagine how we were surrounded. Nor could I fathom what would happen next.

Amidst the gunfire, there was a single explosion in a tree to the north of our position. The fire had consumed all the leaves with such ease, leaving behind a gigantic burned out matchstick in its wake. A metallic contraption had fallen to the ground. I approached it carefully, as it was not shaped like any weapon that I had ever seen. It was the skeleton of what seemed to be a mechanical spider. It had a single round eye, pulsing with a red light. The eight legs were stiff and crooked; its body riddled with burns and bullet holes. With each step towards it, my heart rate increased.

The red eye faded out with a buzz before flashing a bright red and turning towards me. It was almost as if it was looking at me. Of its eight mechanical legs, two were completely blown off by the explosion, four were irreparably broken, and the remaining two wiggled about before pointing towards me. I moved to one side and the other, and the two followed. I soon realized that the legs resembled the barrels of pistols, and they were pointed directly towards my head. The red eye of the robotic beast glowed like a hot coal and grew brighter with each passing second.

It let out a mechanical screech that shook me to my bones. I jumped for cover and as it unleashed a flurry of rounds its eye exploded with a small but violent burst. I could not get up, could not feel anything on my right leg below the knee. Fatigue had superseded any shred of will I had to get out of the area. I woke up in this hospital. The enemy now has a name. The robots are going to put up a hell of a fight.

Journal Entry III:

I woke up in a place where the walls were white and tall. The ceiling seemed too high up and the sterility in the air stung my nostrils. The floors were made of cold green linoleum, might as well have sculpted them out of ice. The windows were narrow and let in the sickly blue light of the moon through crooked gratings. The glass of the windows was frosted, so I could not see where I was. Grating on the window didn’t help my cause, but one could appreciate its necessity. The enemy would have a difficult time getting in here. I think I can finally rest for now.

From the Desk of Dr. Beaumont:

The patient seems to be aware that he is within the confines of a hospital, but has not come to terms with the fact that it is one for the mentally unstable. He suffers from paranoid delusions that manifest themselves as cybernetic beings attempting to destroy the planet. From what can be deduced from the journal entries, he may be suffering from post traumatic stress.

There is no way of knowing whether or not it stems from experiences on the battlefield, or if this was a condition he had lived with for years. I suggest that the patient be medicated regularly until further assessment can be made as he may still be a threat to others.