The Final Glory

Possessing enough speed to win a race against infinity, a hard bullet hissed past John's head. Another then another, they came wicked and strong. He was consumed in the heart of an endless sphere of burning orange flames, auralized by the mighty thunder of cannons.
Distorted and delirious, his vision swayed to his step. He stumbled across the bitter earth, broke the edge of a hill into fire just in time to behold the falling of his best friend. So painfully in time to see a crimson blood spew from Eric's bust and wash the death toll with another number. Grief ripped through him, its hurt beyond that of a bullet.
John stared across the battle scene with new eyes. The reds were advancing and few in his coat still clung to their lives. It was a horror to which any decent would repulse at. The sight infested his will to live and he suddenly no longer cared. He had a desperate urge to befall the same fate as Eric, tis the only job that seemed to matter to him. After all, is that not truly the job of a solider, to kill then die in his colors?-or so his thoughts rested.
John stepped toward Eric's body and began to kneel. A red stood only feet away and with a crack of his gun emitted a bullet. It struck John's chest and blood trickled from it. He ignored it for a few moments, refusing to feel the pain. He continued to kneel and he touched Eric's blood with his shaking fingertips. Twas still warm.
John rest his head upon Eric's chest and almost expect it to be heaving with breath. Their bloods swam together and he felt a new sense of peace. Slowly the world evaporated before him and he was strangely happy to be nearly dead. Twas an inexplicable feeling, this idea of receiving joy from such a thing, but to loose all care, to see the gates of God flicker before him, it was all a magnificent thing.
John died with a smile etched into his face.