Clapping, smiling, singing songs—the soldiers on the bus were having the best time while traveling. They were finally going home after ten months of grueling duty at the borders. Proud soldiers who had served their time, it was their moment to relax, to no longer sleep with one eye open. Their families were eagerly waiting, calling to ask where they had reached, and every soldier’s phone rang with the same answer: “I am on the road; I’ll let you know when I’m not far.”
The mountain air was chill, but they kept the windows open to feel the freshness and, more than that, to sense that home was near. They sang their favorite songs; some stood and danced in their khaki uniforms. The happiness of going home radiated throughout the bus, and their merriment could be heard by those who passed by.
High on joy, one soldier, while dancing, slipped and fell. The other soldiers’ laughter grew louder, catching the attention of everyone, including the driver.
In that unfortunate moment, the driver took his eyes off the road. Another car was coming toward them, unseen until too late. In a desperate attempt to avoid a collision, he jerked the wheel sharply, unaware that they were heading off the road. Suddenly, they were falling down a steep mountain, the world spinning in chaos. The once-clear sky darkened ominously as the bus plummeted, soldiers colliding with each other and the bus’s interior. Finally, it landed with a bone-shattering crash.
The clapping, smiling, and singing were gone. Silence fell, thick and oppressive. No one was dancing, no one was on a call, no one was clapping with a big smile on their face. Only the sound of men bleeding, slipping in and out of consciousness amidst lush green trees, remained.
The crash echoed through the mountains, drawing villagers from nearby to investigate. They hurried to the scene, finding a tableau of destruction. Some soldiers were hurt but alive, while others hovered on the brink of death.
One soldier, Ram, who had been thrown from the bus, saw ghostly silhouettes approaching. Help, he thought. He hoped they would reach them quickly. He tried his best to keep his eyes open, wanting to thank them for saving their lives and to beg them to help his friends. But the pain in his body was so intense that he drifted away. He heard faint, eerie whispers carried by the wind. A weak smile appeared on his blood-soaked face as he thought he would wake up in a hospital, saved with most of his friends. He imagined telling his family and friends all about it. With that comforting thought, he slipped into unconsciousness.
Ram opened his eyes. This was not a hospital, and he felt no pain. He was not lying on his back. For a moment, he was sure it had all been a dream—the crash, the bus falling, the near-death experience. But he was still at the end of the mountain, surrounded by the wreckage and the bodies of his friends. The moonlight cast an ethereal glow on the scene, illuminating the faces of those with whom he had shared laughter just moments ago, now lifeless. Where is the help, he thought? Were the silhouettes his imagination? He was confused. It did not occur to him how he was standing and unhurt. He instantly dismissed his thoughts and tried to help his friends. He went to get his bag, where he had some first aid kits, but he couldn’t find it. He looked for the bags of his friends, but none had their bags. Everything was gone. He reached for his phone in his pocket, but it was gone as well. He checked his friends’ pockets—no phones there either. A chilling realization struck him: the silhouettes were real people, but they had not come to help; they had come with malign intentions. They had not left even a cloth if it were not soaked in blood. As soon as the realization of being betrayed settled, a wave of sadness and anger swept over him. He cried for hours among his friends’ lifeless bodies. Memories of moments earlier when they were all singing and clapping came to his mind. He wanted to find his best friend and hug him goodbye.
As he went to look for his friend, he stumbled upon another body of his friend. As he went crying toward it to hug, he found himself, dead. He had not survived. He was one of the bodies, one of them. A cold touch, like icy fingers, crept up his spine. Without thinking, he started running blindly, the bodies flashing before his eyes, the incident where he hurt his head glimpsed in front of him, the thought of opening his eyes in a hospital creeping in. He ran and ran through the dark, heavy mist that encircled him, which he had not noticed before. He ran to escape the smoke, and finally, he saw lights and started running, hoping to find some help. Shadows in the village seemed promising, like people who could help. He ran faster now, hoping to cross the forest and reach out for help. Finally, he crossed the surrounding trees, relieved but panting, and had to bend down to catch his breath. Once he steadied himself, a man’s voice whispered in his ear, “Are you okay?” Ram, standing up again, replied, “Yes, hel…” and was brought back to the place where he started—the wreckage near the bus. However, this time all his friends were there—like him, not hurt, not in pain, but not alive, standing next to their bodies. Some were crying, some were angry, but it was understood that they all realized they were left to die there, murdered by those around them.
The bus wreckage lay like a haunted relic, its broken windows resembling hollow, staring eyes. The dead soldiers were trapped in an eternal twilight. As they stood among their fallen bodies, the truth settled in—this village would forever be haunted by their restless spirits, bound by the betrayal and neglect that sealed their fate.
To be continued…
whisperink.blog 
Leave a comment