Wes could feel his heartbeat in his gums pushing his teeth around.
The others stood watching the sky. The sound of the jet engines distorted by distance and Doppler consumed every ear and the heads tilted, faces grimaced, eyes squinted. One of the captains came sidestepping from his tent with his face instantly arrayed in the same upward manner. Wes imagined them all a strange grove of trees searching the haze for direct light. The wind shifted and pushed the smell of the fires in the barracks over him. The captain had made his way to Wes’ side and gave him a concerned glance. Not ours is it? the captain said in his crooked accent, moving his flattened hand to his brow in a vain attempt to defeat the light shattered by the low clouds and smoke. That’s a bomber, captain, definitely not ours. Should we be concerned? If we were the target, we wouldn’t have time to be concerned. The capital? Probly. The captain yelled out for his assistant to radio the remnants of command still bunkered in the city. Captain, Wes pushed himself to his feet, revealing the crusty body of black blood in which he’d been sitting for almost an hour, we should get these men into the forest. I have orders to hold the camp, Barton, we have to stay. With what, captain? And they both scanned the grove of standing bodies, the dust and smoke lifting around them in dramatic swirls and ribbons. I have orders, Barton. The same dolts who gave you the order to move on the village? Wes reached for his pack and rifle then handed the weapon to the captain. Here, Cestmir, you’ll need this... unfortunately, you’ll also need ammo, can’t help you there. Barton? Then Wes dragged his dead foot through the wreckage of the trucks and disappeared into the trees.
River of Blood, a novel about anarchism, atheism, racism, violence, family, and corruption.
Chrysalis, a growing collection of very short fiction.
Unless noted, all pics credited to Skitz O'Fuel.