Ishmael Groaned, his head was spinning as if he spent the night inside a cement mixer. The pleasant warmth of sunlight bathed his body, was it finally morning? Tenderly he opened his eyes, he didn't want to exacerbate his migraine any further. Everything was blurry and doubled up, was this what a hangover felt like? Ishmael wasn't sure, he never drank alcohol before and if this truly was how a hangover felt like, he most likely never will.

Slowly but surely his migraine subsided, one by one his senses started coming back to him, like a computer being rebooted after a year of disuse. His sense of taste being the first to kick back on, a strong metallic flavor permeated his mouth, blood.

The taste of blood caused a rush of repressed memories crashing into his brain like a tsunami. Nasir, his friends, the ambush. The ambush! Ishmael grabbed his rifle that was laying on his lap as he remembered the predicament he was in before he was knocked out. He was still in a battlefield; the enemy might have reinforcements coming soon. Adrenaline once again rushing through his veins, ready to provide his body with another boost of strength if needed.

Ishmael surveyed the area around him. He frowned, he did not see the battered mountainside that he expected to see, instead he was met with a lush Forest. Ishmael couldn't help but blink and blink and blink again. No matter how many times he blinked, the scenery didn't change. Did he smoke Opium again? He ruffled through the pockets of his rig and took out a wooden box from one of his magazine pouches, inside the box was a fancy wood and bronze opium pipe and a container of opium paste. Ishmael was not an opium smoker; he looted the box from a high-ranking Insurgent he killed on an ambush a few weeks prior. The one time he did try it he also ended up waking up in the middle of nowhere, so perhaps he did do it again and the ambush was a hallucination? The theory was shot down immediately when Ishmael noticed the paste was still untouched.

Sighing, Ishmael put the box back into the pouch it came from. It was then when he noticed that his chest rig was damp and ridden with holes. He rubbed his index finger on the fabric and sure enough some red colored liquid stained the tip of his finger. Even without smelling it he knew it was blood.

A mild panic ensued as Ishmael tried to take of his chest rig but was unable to do so. Something was preventing it to come off, it was his backpack. His backpack? Ishmael suppressed the urge to facepalm. Did he run up the mountain and engaged the enemies in combat with his fucking backpack on? No wonder he was so exhausted. Nasir always told him to take off his backpack before engaging in combat. Though to be fair, it was the first time he was on the receiving end of an ambush, usually he was the one ambushing.

With a little difficulty Ishmael took off his backpack and placed it on the ground next to him followed by his chest rig. Gingerly he lifted up his damp and hole ridden jacket expecting his chest to be a mess of wounds and blood. There was some blood staining his chest, but there were no wounds whatsoever. The blood that stained his chest probably came from it being pressed against the bloody jacket. Ishmael switched his attention from his chest to his left leg, a large tear was present but there was no bone jutting out of his lower foot.

Ishmael closed his eyes, trying to figure out what the hell is going on. The holes on his jacket and rig clearly told him that he received a mortal wound, yet none of the wounds were present. He pulled out an empty weathered orange Bakelite magazine from one of his chests rigs many pockets. The fact that it was empty meant that Ishmael did get involved in a gunfight.

A tired sigh escaped from his mouth; he gave up on trying to make sense of the situation. He had more important things to do, like finding out where the hell he was. Before deciding to explore the forest more, he took a mental note of what equipment he had left.

Ishmael's inventory:

On hand:

1 x Ak-74N with a GP-25 grenade launcher attached.

1 x Casio G-shock

On torso:

A beige waterproof (not very waterproof now) jacket.

A white (now red) T-shirt.

A sand colored Poyas-A soviet era chest rig.

in Poyas-A chest rig.

5 x full assorted AK-74 30 rounder magazines.

1 x empty AK-74 30 rounder magazines.

3 x RGD-5 Grenades

1 x VOG-25 40mm grenade.

1 x flashlight

1 x Opium smoking kit.

1 x foldable shovel

1 x PSO-1 detachable sniper sight

In Backpack.

2 days' worth of food and water.

A spare shirt and a pair of spare socks.

5 x paper wrapped bundles of 5.45 soviet surplus ammo (30 rounds/ bundle)

100 x 7.62x51r in a disintegrating link.

1 x OZM-72 bounding mine

1 x 5 Kg IED (Improvised Explosive Device)

Ishmael felt a pang of guilt when his fingers brushed the chain of one hundred 7.62x54r rounds. He was carrying it for Haidar, the squads machine gunner. It was his covering fire that saved his and his assault teams lives countless of times during their ascent to the enemy's position. It was common for soldiers of a squad to carry extra ammo for their machine gunner and anti-tank man. After all suppression is one of the most powerful tools in the battlefield. But it is useless now, Haidar is dead. Ishmael had considered leaving the machinegun ammo behind to save weight but he decided against it.

five minutes after gaining consciousness, Ishmael was on his feat again. before leaving he dug a small hole with his shovel and buried his blood-soaked T-shirt and paper from one of the bundles of surplus ammunition that he had used to refill his empty magazine. Nasir once taught him that a guerrilla fighter must always be weary of leaving a trail. He took a handful of old leaves from a nearby tree and sprinkled it over the disturbed soil, hiding any evidence of anything being dug.

With an approving nod, Ishmael turned away and began his exploration. He noticed that it was quite cold despite being midday, this further strengthens his theory of him being somewhere far away from the mountain he fought in. Not wanting to get another headache, he decided not to think about it any further.

The next three hours of walking went by without any incident. Ishmael's mood improved significantly, he was no longer depressed and now he was just sad. Throughout the walk, he simulated the ambush over and over again in his mind. Picking apart every little detail trying to figure what could he have done differently. How could he have saved his friends? He managed to find a few mistakes that he had made such as not taking off his backpack, spending to much time thinking and doing nothing during the first minute of the ambush. But those mistakes were minor, he came to the conclusion that there was nothing that he could have done, no strategy he could have made would have saved his men. They were destined to die; it was a miracle they managed to win against the enemies ground element. But the helicopter would ensure that they would die in any scenario. But why did he still feel guilty even when it was not his fault? Perhaps tim-

BANG!

Ishmaels inner monologue was rudely interrupted by the sound of what seemed to be a gunshot. Without hesitation he ran and dived into a nearby bush, his body reacted automatically as soon as it heard the shot. Ishmael cursed under his breath; he is starting to develop a sense of sympathy for all those people whom he had ambushed before.

BANG!

Another shot, this time Ishmael noticed that the shot was not aimed at him since he could not hear the crack of a bullet flying near him.

"Get away from my wares you oversized chickens!"

Ishmael could hear someone shouting nearby followed by a few more gunshots. Cautiously Ishmael stood up from the bush and looked around, judging that the coast is clear he started to carefully sneak towards the source of the fight.

With each step he took, the more and more sounds he could hear. It was definitely a battle, he could hear shouts, gunshots and what could be best described as a chicken's cluck.

Gingerly he parted the last bit of shrubbery separating him and the action and took a good look at what was going on.

What he saw made him want to recheck his opium box just to make sure if he really didn't smoke it, because surely, he was hallucinating. How could not he not be? What laid in front of him was a dirt road occupied by two horse drawn carriages. Each carriage had two figures standing on the roof. Judging by their size, they were either children or midgets wearing a red and white fur coat and another layer of clothes over it. Each of them was holding some kind of weapon, one was dual wielding a pair pistols, another had a spear. While the two other figures standing on the adjacent carriage were armed with a bow and a sword. But what really made Ishmael question his sanity was what the four people were fighting against. They were fighting against chickens. Except the chickens were the size of Horses.