[ WP ] An echo of war .

The air is thick, thick with smoke and ashes, turning the air in the camp an ugly shade of grey. The debris that the air carries sticks, uninvited, to the thin fabric of the tents, turning the tents an uneven brown. The flag of the camp, once white with a red plus sign, is now tattered, and the red cross that was proudly displayed in the centre of the flag is now barely recognisable, a shadow of its former self. 
 
 There is a silence that falls upon the camp. It's not because the camp is empty; the camp is actually over capacity already. No one talks, because no one sees the point, or they're too tired. Perhaps both. But the silence from no one talking is n't calming, even for someone in my line of work. It's the silence of a foreboding feeling: where you just ca n't help but think that something is going to happen... 
 
 I work at the medical tent, which happens to be the largest tent. The great folds of the tent part as I walk through. Looking around, there are dirty stretchers laid side by side across both sides of the tent, the patients inside groaning, or sleeping. The patients that are slightly better off sit around playing cards, passing the time amongst themselves. The worse off patients are unconscious, or taped up to IV metres. 
 
 The call of the assistant's voice breaks through the silence that had dominated most of the day. She's saying something about a patient. Apparently he's gone crazy and is screaming about explosives, bullets, and artwork. 
 
 I look at the assistant slowly, then turn my attention to the screaming man. I look back to the young assistant again and give a slow nod. She gives a nod back. No words are exchanged between us. They are n't required. 
 
 We take the stretcher of the man and wheel it outside, back into the smoke and ashes of the outside air. The man gives a cough as he makes contact with the foul stuff. It takes a while to get used to it, I know. Unfortunately the crazy man probably wo n't get that time. Not with where he's going, anyway. 
 
 We make our way to the outside of the camp, and through a twisted thicket of a few dead bushes. There, a good hundred meters from the main camp, is another small tent, isolated, and definitely the most worse for wear out of every tent. The fabric is so thin it looks like it could break to a single glance from a strong willed person, and the cold winds blow through gaps in the fabric. 
 
 The stretcher of the crazed man moves into the broken tent, and I leave the stretcher there and walk away. I dislike leaving people in the cold tent. Most of the time they never come back. But the war had ravaged our country so much, that we have to conserve every resource. 
 
 Everything has a price. Something that we obviously learnt the hard way. 
 
 Moving back to the medical tent, I notice that the sun had risen halfway across the sky. I get some of the premade meals, stored in a warehouse tent, and made more for convenience - and very long lasting - rather than actual taste. Opening the can, the smell of salted beef, stored for years, assaults my nose. It's not much, but it'll do, I guess. 
 
 Biting into the meat, I realise that the meat had tasted funny. But I had already swallowed the vile substance, and my vision was already going fuzzy. I guess our enemies had n't actually given up at all. And they had struck at our sick by poisoning the food supplies. 
 
 My vision get's more fuzzy. Without any proper medical supplies I do n't have much time. With my hand I manage to take a stick that was lying on the ground, and I scratch out a message. Maybe I can at least warn the rest of them... 
 
 I finish the last stroke of my message, and all goes black. 

