All You Need Is Kill

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When the bullets start flying, it's only a matter of time before fear catches up with a soldier.

There you are, steel death whizzing past in the air.

Distant shells thunder low and muddy, a hollow sound you feel more than hear. The close ones ring high and clear. They scream with a voice that rattles your teeth, and you know they're the ones headed for you. They cut deep into the ground, throwing up a veil of dust that hangs there, waiting for the next round to come ripping through.

Thousands of shells, burning through the sky—slices of metal no bigger than your finger—and it only takes one to kill you. Only takes one to turn your best buddy into a steaming side of meat.

Death comes quick, in the beat of a heart, and he ain't picky about who he takes.

The soldiers he takes quick—before they know what hit 'em—they're the lucky ones. Most die in agony, their bones shattered, their organs shredded, leaking a sea of blood onto the ground. They wait alone in the mud for Death to steal up behind them and wring out the last drops of life with his icy hands.

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