Crossfire

There was a fun little game soldiers liked to play in Southeastern Europe during the 90's. On this night, the subjects would be five NATO captives and one from the KLA resistance. All six sat handcuffed across from each other in a circular dirt pit, perhaps about six feet deep, ten feet in diameter. Soon enough, one of the guards came down into the pit on a small step ladder. He began to draw a six-pointed star onto the ground with a can of spray paint, then he handed out six unloaded revolvers to each of the prisoners, then he climbed out of the pit and threw everyone a single bullet. As he did this, he explained the rules, "Gentlemen, the pit you are now sitting in is soon to become your grave." he opened with in the best amount of broken English he could muster, "Well, not for all you. If all goes to plan, there should be one of you left to deliver a message for us. The rules are very simple:

1. Each of you will take turns, two at a time, to shoot the man across from you before he can shoot you.
2. You will wait until the command to fire to begin.
3. The winners of each duel will go on to compete in a semi-final round, and then one more until there is only one of you left.
4. Do no chamber your bullet until it is your turn to play, or we shoot you.
5. If you survive the round, but are still mortally wounded by the other player, we shoot you.
6. If you point your gun anywhere outside of the pit, we shoot you.
7. If you fire before you're told to, we shoot you.
8. If neither of you choose to play, we shoot you both."

Everyone seemed to follow along with the instructions except the resistance fighter, but it was apparent he had already heard of this kind of thing before. The first pair assigned to go were the resistance fighter and a French soldier. They were instructed to now chamber their single bullet and point their pieces at each others' head. The guard, along with five more of his compatriots, circled around the pit with their guns drawn, as to not give anyone an immobile target in case they tried something. They intentionally took a long pause to allow the tension to build. Both men were trembling, trying their hardest to keep their sights on their targets, which only seemed to make them tremble worse. Finally, the guard shouted, "Fire!"

Click! Click! Bang!

The Frenchman was the unfortunate soul to lose this around. The bullet went into the bridge of his nose and then seemed to ricochet out through the top of his head. He slowly slumped backwards stiffly . His hands flailed upwards a few times, and his mouth began to gape open and shut, as if trying to say something, but was unable to find words. The guard began describing to his comrades what he think happened, pondering that the bullet only destroyed the frontal area of the brain, leaving the stem intact as it tried to maintain basic functions, such as breathing, but that he's going to drown from the blood pouring in from the nasal cavity anyway.

Hearing the grim details finally broke the resistance fighter into hysterics. He didn't look very old, eighteen or nineteen at best, and was probably recently drafted to fight alongside his friends. Chances were this was the first man he ever killed up close. Sure enough, fluids began to leak out of the Frenchman's lips and right ear as a blood bubble formed around one of his nostrils, eventually popping. The locomotion of his hands and jaw slowed to a halt and it appeared that he was finally dead. The resistance fighter continued to panic, cursing the guards with every insult his language knew, only to have his point negated once he began to vomit while his captors laughed. The main guard gave a moment for the laughter to stifle before shouting, "Now shut the fuck up! Next!"

Next up were two soldiers from the UK. One was an older man with brown hair and a beard, the other appeared slightly younger with blond hair and was clean-shaven apart from the grain that had grown since his capture. Despite the circumstances, both kept relatively calm. When instructed to chamber their bullets, they both spun their cylinders and stated that Russian Roulette was the only proper way to do this. The guard shrugged and said he would permit it. They allowed another long pause before issuing the command, but the tension didn't seem to phase either man. Apart from sweating profusely, neither of their hands began to tremble and they stared at one another cold faced through their sights. At last, "Fire!" All of the guards cheered while the game of Russian Roulette ensued.

Click! Click! Click! Click! Click! Bang!

Applause.

The blond soldier was the one to lose this time. The bullet was a clean shot between the eyes, exiting through the opposite side. The blond soldier simply slumped forward, killed instantly. His surviving brother in arms grimaced intensely, only a moment away from releasing immeasurable amounts of fury towards his tormentors. He looked up at one of the guards, not with a thousand yard stare, but more like one that could pierce the heavens themselves. He then glanced over at the young resistance fighter, who at this point was curled into a tight ball, sobbing only an inch away from his own pool of semi-digested gruel. He then somehow found it within himself to bottle most of his rage while he laid back down against the pit wall, white-knuckling the handle of his smoking revolver.

The last of the preliminary rounds would pit an American against a Czech. After being instructed to chamber their weapons, the American tried his best to plead reason into the guards. The Czech man merely aimed quiety with concentration comparable to the surviving UK soldier; he knew what had to be done whether he liked it or not, and maybe even took in a little bit of morbid comfort that his opponent was losing his focus. The American continued to beg for mercy as told the guards about the wife he had back at home, with a son and another baby on the way. The main guard looked back at him with a small smirk, only to reply with, "Fire!"

Click! Bang!

Surprisingly both men fell with the pistols smoking in their hands. The guards looked puzzled as they waited to see if someone was going to get back up. After a couple of minutes, the main guard told the two men in the pit to stay back while they inspected the bodies. After closer scrutiny of the corpses, the guard giddily responded, "Holy shit, they actually both killed each other! I've never seen that before!"

"Me neither," one of the others replied. The main guard continued examining the dead bodies and their weapons. When he picked up the Frenchman's gun, he let out a brief chuckle, afterwards theorizing that he must have not been very familiar with revolvers considering that he failed to chamber the round to fire properly. With there no longer a need for a semi-final round, the guard informed the two remaining players that, had there been three people left, the next stage would have involved forcing them to vote on one man to kill next, though there have been times in the past where two people challenged each other while the third watched. While he spoke, he gave off the impression that he was mildly disappointed that he didn't get to see that today. Alas, it was already time for the game to come to an end. 

The guard inside the pit placed the two remaining guns in the center of the crude arena and advised the two other men not to touch them until he was back out, and also that whoever takes the Frenchman's pistol should consider reloading it. The guard climbed back out of the pit, the two men drew their guns, making sure to correct the cylinders, then taking aim. The resistance fighter had somewhat managed to collect himself for the occasion, though his eyes now looked like piss holes in the snow. The Englishman, as bold as ever, spoke, "I'm sorry that this had to happen, lad, but if I had to kill one of my own boys, you'd best believe I'm going to be the one walking away."

Suddenly, the resistance fighter burst back into his previous tirade, pointing the barrel at his own chin. The erratic gesture jarred all of the guards, as they yelled and took aim just in case. The Englishman couldn't make out much of the specifics, but amongst a lot of swearing, he picked up that the resistance fighter no longer wanted to play their sick game, and that if he was going to die, he was at least going to do it by his own hands. The guard yelled, "Fire!" but the order was only met with more curses and insults. It was over, the Englishman could clearly see that the young rebel had been completely broken, much like he had seen happen to some of his own. Deflated by the gesture he lowered his gun, laid back, and watched. The young man, screaming, cocked back the hammer of his revolver and then fired, not at himself, but at his now-defenseless adversary. The Brit continued laying still, now with a look pure astonishment and horror in his eye, the other now nothing more than a shredded, smoldering maw.

The young man, no longer able to maintain a grip with his shaking hands, fumbled the gun from his palms. He wrapped his arms around his knees and fell completely silent. The guards gave him a moment before reaching down to pull him out of the hole. The crowd scattered as their leader unshackled the boy, still speechless, staring down towards Hell. There, he was handed a canteen full of water and a quick word of congratulations, "Welcome aboard."