Author: Flamingo Trigger PM
The second piece to describe the world after World War Three, and the operation to clean up their mess.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror/Suspense - Words: 942 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 09-03-07 - Status: Complete - id: 2410971
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
He always found that since the bombs the clouds and sky had taken on a sickly colour; one that you could only grew used to if you hadn't seen how it looked before. It wasn't gray, but… faded. It was now more in hues of beige, like the cracked wastelands. The reflect of rolling clouds reflected in the glass of his goggles, drifting by like strange wads of cotton. He took a deep breath in from his gas mask, his body willing itself to move down the ravine slowly; the rest of his team staying up top. This was his job, not theirs. His black boots kicked up rust coloured rock as he slipped down the side, inch at a time. When he finally hit the bottom he could feel the wind ripping at his jumpsuit, chilling air cutting deep into his skin, body running all over with goose flesh.
They shouted from behind him; but it fell upon deaf ears. It came to him as muffled noise, masked by a layer of black that was his skull cap; deep ebony strands of hair poking pout from underneath. His body shook from fright, and his hands tightened their grip on the shotgun he had brought with him. What was left of a stream trickled through the middle of the ravine, something that used to be massive and beautiful, full to the brim with life. It was now no more than a foot wide, the water a sickly green colour. He shuddered, pulling the sleak weapon closer to his chest, the padding of a deep gray vest conforming to it's shape as he pulled it against him.
Rocks crumbled behind him, rolling down the steep decline of the walls; clattering as it collided with jagged ground that jutted out. He spun around; pointing the barrel in the general direction of the noise, pulling back on the pump as he hoisted it up to his shoulder, staring down the barrel..
"Ey, ello? Anyone out there?" His voice was pleasant, deep but comforting with the flair of a British accent, the way a young man's voice could somehow be enticing enough to keep a girl interested; just by how he spoke. "Did ya here me?" He called once more, eyes scanning the rocks for anything, a person, one of those zombies. It was funny though, that they called them zombies. It was essentially what they were, but… they weren't the same as those who got the name in movies. They were a disease that ate at your nervous tissue and then brought it back. It was like going into a coma and then being woken up with a hunger you couldn't seem to fill.
"I guess ah'm just hearin' things…"
He made a motion to turn when he felt the sharp pain in his side like fire; not just there, but spreading in three lines upward. Across his ribs, across his shoulder blade. He could feel blood splurt from the wound, warm liquid sopping up into his clothing as he stood in shock from pain; feeling the cold wind touch against his muscular tissue, against the flapping tears of flesh. "Gack…" He let out a small noise as he pulled away, feeling something slip out of still untorn skin, collapsing on the ground, his gun dropping from his hand to clatter upon the hard river-bed, a thunderous blast allowing itself to escape through it's muzzle.
He fell, fell down, down, down, down. It felt like forever, yet it seemed like a matter of seconds. His body thumped hard against the ground, his head striking it and then bouncing back up only to fall once more. His ears still rung from the terrible echo of a gunshot, hearing something behind him, the terrible beast that had blindsided him. Yet he couldn't bring himself to move, not with the flaring pain that rose up his back and through his body. Yet a hand grabbed the shotgun and yanked it to him as he forced himself to roll onto his back; dust and rock irritating the wound, brushing against areas that weren't supposed to be touched. His mind was filled with a scream, one of pain, before he realized it was his own. His own voice. His own affliction.
He was in another world now, one that only focused on him and the thing that was approaching. He pulled the pump. It roared, coming down on him like a rabid animal. But he had pulled the trigger, and the roar of his shotgun deafened the roar of the beast. The pellets ripped through its abdomen, tearing it in half as it fell into pieces on the floor, coagulated blood splattering onto the ground, into the stream. With a sickening smile he sat up, his nerves numb from anguish and blood loss.
He looked to his right to find that one of the other men who had come to this place with him was approaching him, hand-gun drawn.
"Don't worry, captain. I've got it."
The Captain smiled from behind his own gas-mask and nodded.
"Yeah, kid. You did good. You did good."
The hand-gun switched focus, aiming at the Kid's skull. The Captain's eyes were filled with a cold-hearted gaze as he pulled the trigger once, twice, thrice upon the Kid. Three times bullets pierced his skull. And his fleeting thought was, maybe he hadn't done good after all.
As he walked away, the Captain felt the sting of regret.
It faded. Just like everything else on this world.