Chelsea sat at her post, watching the snow fall out on the abandoned freeway. The SUV packed to the brim with trained rescue guys just flew out of the gates that were promptly shut, entrapping her in her peaceful little world. Atop a twenty foot concrete wall Chelsea sat in her make shift crow's nest, watching the world below her, beyond her. Skills were bestowed upon her by her father, the last good hunter in the community meant she got duty of long-gun. Nobody took her seriously because of her age, but her targets and their constant holes where the bulls-eye should be, would command respect and often silence.
Winter had come in heavy this year, and she knew that she should be out hunting, trying to gather enough food to keep the ever-shrinking community fed, but after the helicopter went down a few hours ago, she got put on snipe duty. Her commands were easy: if it isn't alive shoot it. If they aren't from this community shoot them. No exceptions. At only 19 years of age the weight of having to take another human life was now a reality and she didn't like having to contemplate putting a living, breathing, person in her crosshairs.
Her eyes spanned the dead landscape, lingering for a moment on the black barked, leafless trees that surrounded their encampment. With not much imagination at all they looked like skeletal hands reaching up from the blanketed ground, stretching towards heaven to infect the good souls, that had left this wretched earth, with their disease and filth. Her thoughts went to her father, the summer, and having to run away while those things dragged him down and....She couldn't finish the thought. Suddenly the world around her looked like a painting that had been left out in the rain, swirls and waves distorted everything, until she closed her eyes, forcing the tears to run hot trails down her frozen cheeks.
With a gloved hand she wiped away the tingle on the tip of her nose, then checked to see if anyone saw. No one did. With her vision cleared she swept back over the desolate world outside, looking for a target. She found one. She found a few, no doubt rustled up by the opening and closing of the gate and the car that had left. The scope on top of her Remington 30-06 went to her eye, the red cross, vivid against the snow and the things, themselves, found the first head. The homemade silencer made a whisper of the shot and the slug made a mess of the zombie's head. Quickly and silently she caught the shell as it crept out of the chamber while she slid the bolt back with patience and precision. She found out the hard way they could hear a shell drop, even from twenty meters away. In a few minutes the eight dead things that had shambled out of the woods were nothing more than red smears on the porcelain white.
A row of clips sat upon the window ledge she looked out of. She didn't have any kind of disorder that made her put them in such a perfect row, but it did help to pass the time. She sipped at her barely warm cocoa and reloaded the freshly spent clip, placing it at the end and moving up the others, all filling in small indents in the snow. Boredom was nothing new. Boredom in this world, though, could get you killed. So she fought it with menial tasks, cleaning her 9 millimeter pistol and making sure the magazine ejected smoothly. She sniffed again, wiping away more tingles at the tip of her nose. She had to stay up there until the rescue team came back. It could take days.
She didn't have much room to wiggle about, but she made the effort. With a big sigh of relief as her stiff muscles had gotten just a taste of movement she settled back down in her tiny hammock type chair. She glanced at the community to her back, and all was well, it was when she looked back out to the road that surprise threatened to make her choke on her cold cocoa. There was a V formation of zombies heading towards them. At least thirty or forty of them. They didn't seem to changing course, they were coming for this community, like they probably had many others before. She slammed on the button that was rigged to an alarm system some computer guy built for them. Red lights lit the compound and hushed orders were passed along, the still community was now silently bustling for the impending attack.
The horde was a ways out, a good hundred and fifty to two hundred yards, enough to tell the numbers, but not close enough for detail. Chelsea brought her rifle up, took a deep breath and let it out slow as her finger squeezed. There was no need for stealth, now, her bolt flew open and closed like a veteran shooter. Each time her weapon jumped a head exploded into gore and red mist. A thought nagged her as she dropped her first clip and slammed in the next: 'Why are they in a V formation? They've never done that before.' Without thinking she aimed at the point at the front of the heard and what she saw jolted her: a young man was jogging ahead of the hoard, swaying left and right from exhaustion. His head was down, but there was no doubt he was alive.
Suddenly she realized this man's life was in her hands, he needed her, and if she didn't help him he'd end up just like her father. She had to do, now, what she couldn't do months ago. She had to save him. Through the glass and inch from her face she saw a rotted hand reach for his shoulder. She turned it's head into mush. She gritted her teeth and swore to herself that he would make it to these gates. Even if she had to go outside the wall and carry him. Soon other silenced rifles began to thin out the herd, dropping ghoul after ghoul, but no bullet coming near the young man. Less than 10 zombies and the young man made it to the red zone, fifty feet from the front door, and Chelsea had just spent her last bullet. She dropped her rifle against the edge of the window and ran down her tiny set of stairs.
Her snow pants and jacket made it hard to be as quick as she wanted to be, but she tried, anyways. She found herself yelling at the top of her lungs to open the door at the guard, Gary, but he wouldn't budge. She brought her pistol up and aimed it at his head, ordering him to back up. She hefted the steel bar herself and pulled it open. The last of the ghouls was down and the young man with long hair, covered in blood, his jacket torn like his pants, stood with his arms up, clouds of breath huffing out. He was trying to catch his breath, but managed, "I'm....I'm not bit! My name is M!" Chelsea didn't realize she was running towards him, towards the idea that other people were alive out there.
He dropped his pack and his pistol, which was empty, anyway and stared at her. She suddenly got very self conscious and stopped running as she holstered her own pistol, just in time to stop before him. She was a bit winded herself, but she tried her best to smile, "Hi. My name is Chelsea. You said your name is M, right?" He nodded, but his eyes kept darting over her shoulder to the other snipers that had the same orders as her, but she kept herself between them and him as she took his hand and started walking him into the encampment, his bag dragged with her other hand. "Welcome." It was the only thing she could think to say as they crossed the threshold. They were greeted with protests to another being brought in.
Chelsea could only level her blue eyes as best she could at her co-inhabitants as she spoke, "We're not animals. And we're alive. So is he. If we don't take him in then our name for this place is a lie." One by one people backed off and finally M asked her before they went on, "What's the name for this place?" Chelsea turned and could only smile as she looked up into his exhausted and stained face, "We call this place Hadley's Hope." She was confused as he started chuckling, and figured that exhaustion had caught up to him as he fell to his knees and then sat on the floor, laughing the whole time. She had to ask, "What's so funny?" He looked up at her, his eyes brimming with tears, "I found hope. In a dead world. I found hope." His smile looked so out of place, but she could only return it, in kind.
Showing posts with label boy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boy. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
An Immortal's Tale
An Immortal's Tale
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 11
"Cry Hallelujah"
The rain was heavy and cold, sticking Jon's shirt to his skin, slathering his hair to his scalp, and washing off the blood that was trying to dry on his face. The end of days. The Cult of Altur'rang was finally going after that which they'd always wanted to accomplish. The immortal's head swam with all the things that could go wrong, all the prophecies that had plagued him for eons, and all the time he'd thought he'd be prepared. He wasn't. That much was clear now. His feet lead him nowhere, night heavy over the city he loved. Lights painted the city in a cascading scene of never ending movement, hiding the still city through a falling curtain of thick drops of water.
This was too big for him, he thought, as he crossed another street. He caught his own reflection in a shop window and he stopped mid stride. He faced the man he'd become, the Paladin, the warrior, the wielder of powers that he was barely coming to understand. His skin was pale in comparison to the dark splotches and dots of blood on his face. Old words of even older priests played like staticy records in his mind and he tried his best to pick out the words he needed, but those were centuries ago. He needed help. Jon wiped the remaining blood from his face with help from the weather and adjusted his coat, turning to a direction, finally.
The Paladin didn't like taking cabs this late, drivers liked to ask questions and he wasn't in the mood to talk. He was to be the one asking questions and he'd get answers. If it killed him. Or if he had to kill. Two hours later he approached the thick mahogany door of the main church of Seattle, knowing documents would be able to spell things out, and knowing the ones guarding them wouldn't be so willing to give them up. It was late, but they'd be up. Jon's eyes focused on the doors before him, reaching out to knock when he saw the sliver of light seeping through the ajar door. Before his hand touched the shattered metal and wood that used to make up a handle he knew what had happened.
The scent of burning paper, cloth, and blood began to tease at the Paladin's nose as he entered the room. Sorrow began to wash through him as he took in the carnage. Gore and pieces of the men that guarded the sacred notes were spread everywhere, over every wall, and dripped from the ceiling. Still smoldering remains of the texts were scattered over the dark floor, not a word left to read. The two tables that were in the room were all but splinters, now, the pillars of stone had deep gouges and burns in them, the walls were missing pieces, too, heavy stones that had been in place for over a hundred years torn out and thrown around like they weighed less than nothing.
As Jon walked amongst the chaos, saying silent prayers for the men that had guarded this sacred tomb to find their way to heaven he came across something he didn't expect: a survivor. The boy couldn't have been older than fourteen years old, one arm ripped off completely, one leg cut off at mid-thigh, and the other at the knee, his middle torn open so badly his bottom ribs shown through like white fluorescent lights coated in red. The boy's face was lily white, decorated with his own viscera, eyes wide and pleading with Jon as he reached up with his only intact appendage. The immortal knelt down beside him, holding the clammy, cold, hand of the young man. "What's your name?" The boy's breathing was slow and ragged, like his speech, "My...name....is......Augustus..." Jon kept his face black and stern as he spoke, "Can you tell me, in a few words what happened?" Augustus nodded, his breath quickening, "The cult...destroyed.....all.....said...Paladin...must go....to.....to.......Bethlehem...if....to stop.....end..." Jon nodded his understanding, comforting the boy and giving him his final rights. "Please....stay...with....me?" Again Jon could only nod.
Jon walked away from the massacre that had been left for him, a message, and a demand. Augustus had only lasted another minute or so after he asked the immortal to stay with him until he went to heaven. Rage burned hot and hard, making his very skin feel like a pan left upon a stove for too long. He could only see red, but his reflexes were on high alert. He felt the pack of demons in front of him before he saw them. Six of them, all large, dangerous, armed and muscular, and all aiming to do him harm. The first one spoke, "We know of the Cult's plan. And we know how you plan to end it. We're here-" Jon's temper flared and he could hold his tongue no more, "And you're all here to throw yourself upon the mantle of sacrifice through a bloody and brilliant death..." The red, glowing eyes of all six demons narrowed at the man standing in the rain and threatening them, they must have thought him mad. The half dozen of them stood, full fledged demons, each near seven feet tall, each with arms thicker than the man's waist and accentuated with horns running the length of them, all in a state of amused shock.
Despite their muscular body their face was skeletal, skin from a conquered and eaten human stretched across it, held in place by several smaller horns all over their heads. The leader of the creatures spoke again. "You'll be the one to die, Paladin. We're full demons. Not petty little things that you've dealt with before." Jon's eyes finally found them, unblinking in the rain, and his voice lowered to a near growl, "And just the same I pronounce you guilty for betrayal of the truce. I sentence you to death. Now. DIE!" Muscles fueled with emotion launched the man forward, towards the new threat. Axes and swords, along with daggers, guns, and glowing orange power were unleashed and put to work. At the end of it all the immortal stood above a demon crawling away, all but one of it's limbs either ripped or shot off.
With each grunt of effort the thing pulled itself away from it's would-be murderer. Jon's heavy breathing was illustrated with each huff into the cold air, turning each one into a cloud of white. The victorious Paladin walked to the shoulder of the thing and with his foot turned it over onto it's back. "Finish me!" It growled at him. "I have something much more creative in store for you. What's your name, demon?" The thing answered with a growl. Jon's foot smashed down upon one of it's severed limbs. "What's your name?" He asked again as the thing screamed into the rain and the night, both which had seemed to have to turned their backs upon the seem, falling and existing in silence to the horror happening. The foot twisted, eliciting more of the creature's yellow blood to pour forth, making the point that he would not ask again. "JASSIOUS!!!"
With his answer the Paladin straddled the creature's shoulders and took it's head in his hands, staring deep into it's red eyes with his gold-rimmed grey ones. "And the fallen of Mark, Emmanuel, and Bauptiste, shall find their place in heaven. Jassious, I, Paladin Jonathan Ross, forgive your soul it's sins..." The demon began pleading, screaming and struggling, but to no avail. "And with that forgiveness give you permission to enter the gates of heaven. Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved, Jassious." "Never!" Jon's thumbs slid up and began to press into the demon's eyes, "Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved!" Another denial came as the eyes began to give way under the pressure. "SAY IT! CRY HALLELUJAH!" At last the beast did, over and over again. White light banished the night for a moment, blinding any who bore witness and the demon Jassious was gone.
The Paladin knelt in the mud, letting this new rage he'd found settle into him, become a part of him. He burned the five other bodies and went on his way, after a while. It was clear and obvious what he had to do. With a heavy sigh he found his feet and began walking again, rage giving way to sadness and solemnity. Morning broke in the Seattle International Airport and a young, blonde woman greeted Jon, "How can I help you?" He wanted to smile, to return her beaming look, but he couldn't. "One ticket to Bethlehem, please." As she nodded he turned to the TV playing the news nearby, reporting that a part of the world was burning, the sky was red as blood. The last image that flashed across the screen before Jon turned away was a man, bleeding from his head, holding a sign that said 'The End Is Nigh'.
The Man In The Black Suit
Part 11
"Cry Hallelujah"
The rain was heavy and cold, sticking Jon's shirt to his skin, slathering his hair to his scalp, and washing off the blood that was trying to dry on his face. The end of days. The Cult of Altur'rang was finally going after that which they'd always wanted to accomplish. The immortal's head swam with all the things that could go wrong, all the prophecies that had plagued him for eons, and all the time he'd thought he'd be prepared. He wasn't. That much was clear now. His feet lead him nowhere, night heavy over the city he loved. Lights painted the city in a cascading scene of never ending movement, hiding the still city through a falling curtain of thick drops of water.
This was too big for him, he thought, as he crossed another street. He caught his own reflection in a shop window and he stopped mid stride. He faced the man he'd become, the Paladin, the warrior, the wielder of powers that he was barely coming to understand. His skin was pale in comparison to the dark splotches and dots of blood on his face. Old words of even older priests played like staticy records in his mind and he tried his best to pick out the words he needed, but those were centuries ago. He needed help. Jon wiped the remaining blood from his face with help from the weather and adjusted his coat, turning to a direction, finally.
The Paladin didn't like taking cabs this late, drivers liked to ask questions and he wasn't in the mood to talk. He was to be the one asking questions and he'd get answers. If it killed him. Or if he had to kill. Two hours later he approached the thick mahogany door of the main church of Seattle, knowing documents would be able to spell things out, and knowing the ones guarding them wouldn't be so willing to give them up. It was late, but they'd be up. Jon's eyes focused on the doors before him, reaching out to knock when he saw the sliver of light seeping through the ajar door. Before his hand touched the shattered metal and wood that used to make up a handle he knew what had happened.
The scent of burning paper, cloth, and blood began to tease at the Paladin's nose as he entered the room. Sorrow began to wash through him as he took in the carnage. Gore and pieces of the men that guarded the sacred notes were spread everywhere, over every wall, and dripped from the ceiling. Still smoldering remains of the texts were scattered over the dark floor, not a word left to read. The two tables that were in the room were all but splinters, now, the pillars of stone had deep gouges and burns in them, the walls were missing pieces, too, heavy stones that had been in place for over a hundred years torn out and thrown around like they weighed less than nothing.
As Jon walked amongst the chaos, saying silent prayers for the men that had guarded this sacred tomb to find their way to heaven he came across something he didn't expect: a survivor. The boy couldn't have been older than fourteen years old, one arm ripped off completely, one leg cut off at mid-thigh, and the other at the knee, his middle torn open so badly his bottom ribs shown through like white fluorescent lights coated in red. The boy's face was lily white, decorated with his own viscera, eyes wide and pleading with Jon as he reached up with his only intact appendage. The immortal knelt down beside him, holding the clammy, cold, hand of the young man. "What's your name?" The boy's breathing was slow and ragged, like his speech, "My...name....is......Augustus..." Jon kept his face black and stern as he spoke, "Can you tell me, in a few words what happened?" Augustus nodded, his breath quickening, "The cult...destroyed.....all.....said...Paladin...must go....to.....to.......Bethlehem...if....to stop.....end..." Jon nodded his understanding, comforting the boy and giving him his final rights. "Please....stay...with....me?" Again Jon could only nod.
Jon walked away from the massacre that had been left for him, a message, and a demand. Augustus had only lasted another minute or so after he asked the immortal to stay with him until he went to heaven. Rage burned hot and hard, making his very skin feel like a pan left upon a stove for too long. He could only see red, but his reflexes were on high alert. He felt the pack of demons in front of him before he saw them. Six of them, all large, dangerous, armed and muscular, and all aiming to do him harm. The first one spoke, "We know of the Cult's plan. And we know how you plan to end it. We're here-" Jon's temper flared and he could hold his tongue no more, "And you're all here to throw yourself upon the mantle of sacrifice through a bloody and brilliant death..." The red, glowing eyes of all six demons narrowed at the man standing in the rain and threatening them, they must have thought him mad. The half dozen of them stood, full fledged demons, each near seven feet tall, each with arms thicker than the man's waist and accentuated with horns running the length of them, all in a state of amused shock.
Despite their muscular body their face was skeletal, skin from a conquered and eaten human stretched across it, held in place by several smaller horns all over their heads. The leader of the creatures spoke again. "You'll be the one to die, Paladin. We're full demons. Not petty little things that you've dealt with before." Jon's eyes finally found them, unblinking in the rain, and his voice lowered to a near growl, "And just the same I pronounce you guilty for betrayal of the truce. I sentence you to death. Now. DIE!" Muscles fueled with emotion launched the man forward, towards the new threat. Axes and swords, along with daggers, guns, and glowing orange power were unleashed and put to work. At the end of it all the immortal stood above a demon crawling away, all but one of it's limbs either ripped or shot off.
With each grunt of effort the thing pulled itself away from it's would-be murderer. Jon's heavy breathing was illustrated with each huff into the cold air, turning each one into a cloud of white. The victorious Paladin walked to the shoulder of the thing and with his foot turned it over onto it's back. "Finish me!" It growled at him. "I have something much more creative in store for you. What's your name, demon?" The thing answered with a growl. Jon's foot smashed down upon one of it's severed limbs. "What's your name?" He asked again as the thing screamed into the rain and the night, both which had seemed to have to turned their backs upon the seem, falling and existing in silence to the horror happening. The foot twisted, eliciting more of the creature's yellow blood to pour forth, making the point that he would not ask again. "JASSIOUS!!!"
With his answer the Paladin straddled the creature's shoulders and took it's head in his hands, staring deep into it's red eyes with his gold-rimmed grey ones. "And the fallen of Mark, Emmanuel, and Bauptiste, shall find their place in heaven. Jassious, I, Paladin Jonathan Ross, forgive your soul it's sins..." The demon began pleading, screaming and struggling, but to no avail. "And with that forgiveness give you permission to enter the gates of heaven. Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved, Jassious." "Never!" Jon's thumbs slid up and began to press into the demon's eyes, "Cry hallelujah unto me and be saved!" Another denial came as the eyes began to give way under the pressure. "SAY IT! CRY HALLELUJAH!" At last the beast did, over and over again. White light banished the night for a moment, blinding any who bore witness and the demon Jassious was gone.
The Paladin knelt in the mud, letting this new rage he'd found settle into him, become a part of him. He burned the five other bodies and went on his way, after a while. It was clear and obvious what he had to do. With a heavy sigh he found his feet and began walking again, rage giving way to sadness and solemnity. Morning broke in the Seattle International Airport and a young, blonde woman greeted Jon, "How can I help you?" He wanted to smile, to return her beaming look, but he couldn't. "One ticket to Bethlehem, please." As she nodded he turned to the TV playing the news nearby, reporting that a part of the world was burning, the sky was red as blood. The last image that flashed across the screen before Jon turned away was a man, bleeding from his head, holding a sign that said 'The End Is Nigh'.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Made It Home (Original Short)
I'm exhausted. My arms are dead weight, lead bars dangling from my shoulder sockets. The fire axe at the end of them is quickly losing it's edge, but it still makes a head a canoe in one swing. Even if I could form a real sentence my throat feels like I drank battery acid from all the screaming, but I can't stop. Because they won't stop.
We got trapped in this warehouse and they found us with ease, I want to lie down, let the dark come and take me, but I keep pushing. Even with the bullet wound that Tommy's dumb ass gave me in the side. I hope he didn't hit anything vital. My legs can barely move, but I keep walking, backwards, towards what we hope is an exit. Something soft beneath my feet threatens to make me slip, but I catch myself and swing again, painting whatever is near it with brains and blood. What an idiot I am. I can't help myself and I look down. Geoff was barely seventeen, already under mountains of stress after watching his kid sister and parents go the way they did, but he decided to check himself out of all of this. His baby blue eyes were still open and staring at nothing despite the top of his skull being thoroughly turned into mush by the last shell in his shotgun.
I had to remind myself to move. Another hard and ragged scrape down my forearm was a nice attention grabber. I swung again, knocking the one with the wandering hand into several others behind him. I should be dead. I should just let go. But I can't. Every time I see one of them a rage that I ain't never felt before bursts out of me like a bomb of energy, pushing me to the depths I didn't think I could reach. I hear chain-link fence behind me, a lock and such rattle. They'd found the exit. Then I heard curse words, arguing. The exit was locked. I had the heaviest tool out of all of us so I gave up my little stand off and turned and ran to the others. I ain't never ran from a fight in my life, but I ain't never had to fight like this, neither. I screamed for them to move out the way as I swung, broke the lock and the damn security chain in one swing.
Only had enough time to push open the two bars to let one of us squeeze through at a time. First Denna, then Mickey, I followed, and Suzanne brought up the rear. Chaffed me up good through the shirt I had on, but I made it. I turned back to pull Suzanne through and she screamed. Dozens of rotten hands had her, already ripping into her pretty face, tearing at her thin body, pulling out chunks of her blonde hair. She was gone. I tried not to think as I looked away and ran, even with as many of those things as there were, she screamed for quite a while. Wish I could've helped her. I joined the other two left, those things, the walking dead, hot on our trail. I said a small prayer for the couple we lost, but we had to keep moving.
It's a strange sensation feeling your own blood run out of you like the way it's running out of me. You get cold, like the kind of cold that they ain't invented a jacket for, yet. Then you get tired. Like I am now. My eyes are barely staying open, but they're open. Then your breathing gets hard. Like you've been running all day. But to be fair to the lost blood: I HAVE been running all day. But we were close to our little place and I'd be able to rest. Doc Sully'd be able to fix me up. He calls me "Jersey Shore Boy" cause of where I'm from, but I ain't no model. And I ain't no TV star. Thinking helps keep the tired away, for now, but the thing that's keeping up is anger. We'd failed to get the supplies we'd needed.
Our door swings open and we make it in. I hit the ground, trying to catch my breath, trying to make the world stop spinning, then I hear all the questions. I don't care right now. I just want Doc to tell me it's okay to sleep for a week. I hope the guy and the gal we'd sent to the other hospital made it okay.
We got trapped in this warehouse and they found us with ease, I want to lie down, let the dark come and take me, but I keep pushing. Even with the bullet wound that Tommy's dumb ass gave me in the side. I hope he didn't hit anything vital. My legs can barely move, but I keep walking, backwards, towards what we hope is an exit. Something soft beneath my feet threatens to make me slip, but I catch myself and swing again, painting whatever is near it with brains and blood. What an idiot I am. I can't help myself and I look down. Geoff was barely seventeen, already under mountains of stress after watching his kid sister and parents go the way they did, but he decided to check himself out of all of this. His baby blue eyes were still open and staring at nothing despite the top of his skull being thoroughly turned into mush by the last shell in his shotgun.
I had to remind myself to move. Another hard and ragged scrape down my forearm was a nice attention grabber. I swung again, knocking the one with the wandering hand into several others behind him. I should be dead. I should just let go. But I can't. Every time I see one of them a rage that I ain't never felt before bursts out of me like a bomb of energy, pushing me to the depths I didn't think I could reach. I hear chain-link fence behind me, a lock and such rattle. They'd found the exit. Then I heard curse words, arguing. The exit was locked. I had the heaviest tool out of all of us so I gave up my little stand off and turned and ran to the others. I ain't never ran from a fight in my life, but I ain't never had to fight like this, neither. I screamed for them to move out the way as I swung, broke the lock and the damn security chain in one swing.
Only had enough time to push open the two bars to let one of us squeeze through at a time. First Denna, then Mickey, I followed, and Suzanne brought up the rear. Chaffed me up good through the shirt I had on, but I made it. I turned back to pull Suzanne through and she screamed. Dozens of rotten hands had her, already ripping into her pretty face, tearing at her thin body, pulling out chunks of her blonde hair. She was gone. I tried not to think as I looked away and ran, even with as many of those things as there were, she screamed for quite a while. Wish I could've helped her. I joined the other two left, those things, the walking dead, hot on our trail. I said a small prayer for the couple we lost, but we had to keep moving.
It's a strange sensation feeling your own blood run out of you like the way it's running out of me. You get cold, like the kind of cold that they ain't invented a jacket for, yet. Then you get tired. Like I am now. My eyes are barely staying open, but they're open. Then your breathing gets hard. Like you've been running all day. But to be fair to the lost blood: I HAVE been running all day. But we were close to our little place and I'd be able to rest. Doc Sully'd be able to fix me up. He calls me "Jersey Shore Boy" cause of where I'm from, but I ain't no model. And I ain't no TV star. Thinking helps keep the tired away, for now, but the thing that's keeping up is anger. We'd failed to get the supplies we'd needed.
Our door swings open and we make it in. I hit the ground, trying to catch my breath, trying to make the world stop spinning, then I hear all the questions. I don't care right now. I just want Doc to tell me it's okay to sleep for a week. I hope the guy and the gal we'd sent to the other hospital made it okay.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
This Isn't The End (Original Short)
He didn't remember the shell exploding. Didn't feel the explosion take his arm and legs below the knee. He didn't remember the trip to the hospital. He did remember the ride, the cold beach, the sounds of the machine guns like drums in the air.
He remembered his rifle kicking in his hands, the clip's 'Ping' as it flew out before his eyes, telling him he'd spent that one dry. He didn't know if he'd hit anything or anyone, but he was trying. The training they gave him only took him so far and the fear was heavy in his veins, fueling him to run through the foamy surf turning more and more red with each passing moment. The giant steel crosses on the beach meant to overturn tanks provided him with minimal cover from the enemies heavy fire blanketing the beach. He adjusted his helmet to take a look at how far he was from the bunkers that had been created from the shells falling periodically on the black sand. He was far and his uniform was heavy from the water he had to wade through. Although he was grateful for the opportunity, most of his squad had been hit heavy and the back of the transport was red with their remains.
With the decision fresh and pulsing in his mind he ignored the steel behind him's constant ringing from rounds and ran, towards his captain and the remainder of his squad. The leather strap under his chin bit and chaffed his skin, but he ignored it. Bullets flew through the air and at him, some bright orange, like lethal fireflies screaming at speeds too fast for him to comprehend. His boot caught something and he fell face first, tasting the black sand mixed with blood and salt water. He looked down at what could've tripped him up. What he saw would forever change him: Another soldier, ripped open, his entrails spilled. Thick, red blood ran down the beach towards the ocean. The man was no older than 18, the age of his brother, but where life should have been in those baby blue was nothing but pale death. The boy's skin was now pale and lacked pigment, his eyes were sunken and mouth hung open. Eyes stared at nothing, through the man that had tripped on his body, and into the sky and beyond.
Still shaking from the shock he stood up and ran again, trying to make it to the rest of his squad. That's when the shell hit. Percussive and heavy, right next to him. There was a moment of silence and clarity as he waited for what he knew was the next thing to come. Then it did. He was blinded and deafened. He knew pain should have ran through his body and driven insane by the intensity of it. But it never came. Nothing came. Nothing at all. Blackness and silence. Then his eyes opened. And hovering before his face was a blonde beauty with a big smile and gorgeous blue eyes. He could barely feel the gauze that was keeping him together. Then she noticed his eyes had opened and gave him a beaming smile, "Hi, there, my name is Nurse Nightingale. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you."
He remembered his rifle kicking in his hands, the clip's 'Ping' as it flew out before his eyes, telling him he'd spent that one dry. He didn't know if he'd hit anything or anyone, but he was trying. The training they gave him only took him so far and the fear was heavy in his veins, fueling him to run through the foamy surf turning more and more red with each passing moment. The giant steel crosses on the beach meant to overturn tanks provided him with minimal cover from the enemies heavy fire blanketing the beach. He adjusted his helmet to take a look at how far he was from the bunkers that had been created from the shells falling periodically on the black sand. He was far and his uniform was heavy from the water he had to wade through. Although he was grateful for the opportunity, most of his squad had been hit heavy and the back of the transport was red with their remains.
With the decision fresh and pulsing in his mind he ignored the steel behind him's constant ringing from rounds and ran, towards his captain and the remainder of his squad. The leather strap under his chin bit and chaffed his skin, but he ignored it. Bullets flew through the air and at him, some bright orange, like lethal fireflies screaming at speeds too fast for him to comprehend. His boot caught something and he fell face first, tasting the black sand mixed with blood and salt water. He looked down at what could've tripped him up. What he saw would forever change him: Another soldier, ripped open, his entrails spilled. Thick, red blood ran down the beach towards the ocean. The man was no older than 18, the age of his brother, but where life should have been in those baby blue was nothing but pale death. The boy's skin was now pale and lacked pigment, his eyes were sunken and mouth hung open. Eyes stared at nothing, through the man that had tripped on his body, and into the sky and beyond.
Still shaking from the shock he stood up and ran again, trying to make it to the rest of his squad. That's when the shell hit. Percussive and heavy, right next to him. There was a moment of silence and clarity as he waited for what he knew was the next thing to come. Then it did. He was blinded and deafened. He knew pain should have ran through his body and driven insane by the intensity of it. But it never came. Nothing came. Nothing at all. Blackness and silence. Then his eyes opened. And hovering before his face was a blonde beauty with a big smile and gorgeous blue eyes. He could barely feel the gauze that was keeping him together. Then she noticed his eyes had opened and gave him a beaming smile, "Hi, there, my name is Nurse Nightingale. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you."
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
The Boy, The Girl, and The Wall (Short Original)
Once there were a boy and a girl. They never knew of each other because they lived on opposite sides of a giant wall. Both of them were lonely and hurt, seeking comfort. And each night they would both walk along this great wall looking for something, anything that would take their minds off the pain of being at home and dealing with the tragedies they lived through daily. It was a while, many, many months that they would walk the wall and listen for something.
One night in the middle of the endless and infinite wall the boy found a hole in the giant and so did the girl. The same hole. They could look across and see the other. Each stared wide eyed and smiling at the other, not believing that they'd found each other. They said their names and talked for hours and hours, the sun setting and rising with them still smiling at each other. With a sad smile they said goodbye for the day and went back to their lives, but promising to come back to the hole in the wall to talk to each other.
Suddenly the days didn't feel so long, their problems not so huge, their lives not so empty. And so it went. Each night the boy and the girl would meet at their hole and discus everything they could until as late as they could stand. And every time they said goodbye they would promise to see the other the next day. So bewildered they were by each other they would share all they were, all their secrets, their fears. She would write pretty poems for him and he'd sing to her, their relationship growing by the day.
Then one day, while not saying a thing and simply enjoying the company they gave each other the boy confessed he loved her. The girl cried tears of joy and said she loved him, too. And for a time they lived as much as they could at that little hole in that incredible wall as high as the sky and as long as the horizon, telling each other how much they loved the other.
Then the girl had to stop coming to their hole everyday. Although the boy would wait as long as he physically could sometimes she wouldn't come for days, her life had changed, her time was needed elsewhere. He vowed to never let her forget that he loved her. He wrote love notes and left them for her, every day as they had before. Sometimes the notes would pile up to a few at a time, other times they were gone. Once or so a week they'd be able to see each other, tell each other their lives and discuss the future and the past. But more often than not the boy would leave a note, making her feel beautiful with his words.
Then one day the notes stopped disappearing. She hadn't come for them in days. Slowly days turned to weeks and weeks to months. Then one day the boy was sitting by the hole when he heard two voices on the other side talking about the girl that was just married by the same name as the one he had loved. The boy stood silently and wiped his eyes of the tears and walked away from the wall, from his notes, and from the girl. He was alone once more.
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