Blood dripped down a tightly grasped hand as rain bombarded down on to it, mixing with the blood. The soldier was limp as he walked in the rain. The survivor dragged the soldier through the rain as thunder cried out. The soldier struggled to breathe as blood flowed out slowly.
The two moved recklessly, splashing puddles, and not watching for hostiles. Although the survivor held out his handgun as the soldier had his bloody arm around the survivor. The two stopped at a corner of the street with their backs against a building. The survivor looked around the corner and said, “Right down here.”
The two moved down the street and stopped in front of a gate. The survivor opened the gate and led the soldier in. The two stood in wet clothes in an apartment complex. “Up these stairs,” The survivor said walking the soldier up stairs. The two moved down a narrow hall-way. “My place is right here.” The survivor said as they passed an apartment door that had been kicked in. The survivor opened up his door as the soldier stood in other opened doorway.
“Hey,” The soldier said to the survivor. The doorway led into a dark apartment and in the doorway was a trail of blood. The blood had been dragged as if who ever was bleeding was resisting. The survivor stood behind the soldier, “Come on, you need to get patched up.” The solider began to walk down the hall and into the survivor’s home.
Inside, the apartment was dark with the only light from the window, although the gray sky did not do much for the light. The survivor stepped in and flipped the light switch. Nothing. The survivor repeatedly flipped the switch. “Forget it,” The soldier said out loud, “The electricity is dead.”
As the soldier stood in the dark apartment, he felt safe and was reminded of home. He was reminded of his wife and the home they shared. He saw her in his mind. She had ebony hair, light, luminescent skin tone, a beautiful smile, and she wore glasses that complimented her. The soldier always thought of her, in the good and the bad. The soldier was never aloud to see his wife, for she was in a different time zone. Being in service, the soldier was always fearful of his demise and the impact on his newly wed. With the new global crisis, the soldier was in pain at the possibility that his wife was dead or that he would never see her again.
The survivor dashed into his restroom and grabbed some pain killers and his first aid kit under the sink. He went out to the soldier, who was laid out on the couch. The survivor put the pills and the kit on the coffee table. The soldier opened the kit and withdrew his needed items. The soldier also took a pain killer, dry. He said to the survivor, “I need a kitchen knife.” The survivor came into the living room with a knife as the soldier took off his shirt. The survivor gave the soldier the knife, and took a few steps back. The soldier dug into his wound with the knife. He gave a few grunts as he removed the bullet. A thin river of blood ran down the soldier’s arm. The soldier pulled out a small bullet on the knife and dropped it on the coffee table. The soldier wiped his wound and wrapped it up.
“Hopefully, that doesn’t get infected.” The soldier said to the survivor. “Let me get you a different shirt.” The survivor said leaving the room. He came back with a towel and a two black t-shirt, one for the soldier and one for himself. The soldier had a pale toned body that was chiseled. The survivor was a little depressed compared to his mediocre status of his own body. He was almost nothing like the soldier’s strong brad body. The survivor gave the soldier the towel. The soldier dried off with the soft towel rubbing against his wounded arm. He could slowly feel the pain numbing. It almost stopped bleeding out. When, the soldier was dried, he put on a plain black t-shirt that wrapped tight around the soldier.
The survivor threw on a different shirt, but left on his moderately dry pants. It was a black t-shirt that had his favorite band logo on it. It seemed that it was the only shirt he had left that wasn’t button-up. He remembered receiving the shirt at a concert before all of his friends went their separate ways after high school. He seemed the only one of his friends to have had went off to an average life-style. The survivor had become a drone within a building full of cubicles. And each day he would wear another shirt that did not have something that made him smile; he had almost resented the blank white shirt with the seven, small, cheap white plastic buttons. His tie seemed to be the only means of letting out some sort of individuality, but even then he despised the tie he was obligated to wear. The survivor almost wanted to put the tie into a tool of suicide.
The soldier handed the survivor, the towel to let himself dry. The survivor took it and began to rub the towel on himself to slowly rid the drops of rain. The survivor walked into his kitchen to gather up some food for the soldier, who might have been hungry. The survivor grabbed a box of cereal that had a small cartoon character holding up a bowl of the cereal at a magnitude that was suppose to make the food more appealing to the consumer. The survivor put the cereal on the coffee table as an offering to the soldier. The soldier noticed the cereal box and the cartoon character on it. The soldier wasn’t hungry but did want to violently beat the cartoon character on it.
The soldier stood. He grabbed his assault rifle and lowered the gun down. He looked up to the survivor and said, “Get your gun.” The soldier then moved out of the survivor’s apartment. The survivor walked behind the soldier and made sure there was a round in the chamber. The soldier took a flashlight from his pocket and placed it at the edge of his rifle. He turned it on as he stood outside of the survivor’s next door neighbor’s doorway. The light from the flashlight bled through the dark apartment. It was like a staring into a deep, pitch black cave.
The soldier took a step into the dark, dark apartment and slowly waved his rifle around, scanning the apartment. It seemed the apartment was filled with green, military crates. The soldier slowly stepped closer to one of the crates as the survivor followed close behind. It remained quiet between the two. The soldier got close enough to a crate to where he could begin reading some writing on the crate. The crate was covered in a blanket. The soldier slowly grabbed the blanket and slowly withdrew the blanket. The soldier began to read the writing, it was in English. “Shipment 3527,” The soldier read out loud in a small whisper. Just then, in the other room, a small noise was let out. It was just loud enough for the soldier and the survivor to hear.
The soldier stood up slowly and aimed his rifle. The light was a guide in the dark. The soldier slowly walked with the survivor falling close behind. The soldier quietly stepped through the apartment. The soldier turned back to the survivor and put his finger over his mouth to show to stay quiet. The only sound being heard was the sound of rain crashing on the roof. The soldier got to the door that the noise came from. The soldier grasped the doorknob and slowly opened the door. The soldier put the tip of his rifle into the slightly opened door. One small shard of light bled through the door, and became wider as the door became open. The door was almost halfway open until something began to move in front of the light. The soldier quickly withdrew his rifle from the door and waited for another moment. The soldier covered the light with his left hand. The survivor began to move back slowly. And in one moment, the whole building was silenced only with rain dancing quietly onto the building. The soldier then, swiftly lifted his rifle and kicked open the door only to see lighting burst out from the window and the sound of thunder cracking like a bone. The soldier fired off a single round into the wall. A small ringing could be heard. No response or moment in the room.
The soldier looked to see a shotgun on the bed with two boxes filled with a dozen grenades each. The soldier picked a grenade and moved it around in his hand only to put it back down. The soldier came back into the main room and moved back to the crate labeled “Shipment 3527.” The soldier waved the survivor over. The two opened the crate to see a yellow envelope without a mailing address or a stamp on top of five AK-47 assault rifles. The soldier picked up the yellow envelope and slid out a pile of papers. The papers didn’t have names, numbers, or locations. Just simply stating, “There Is NO Worshiping. There Is NO Justice. There Is No Protection. There Is NO Right Side. There Is Greed. There Is Corruption. There Is Dishonesty. There WILL Death. There WILL Be CORRECTION.”
The soldier threw the pile of papers onto the floor. They separated and cascaded around the floor. They held numbers possibly bank accounts, security codes, social security. They meant something to someone or some ones. “Do all of these crates have guns in them?” The soldier asked looking around briefly.
“What is all of this?” asked the survivor. For once, the soldier had no idea. The survivor found a pile of mail on the floor. White envelopes lay on the floor with no stamps and no names, but contained letters. “Where are these letters going?” The survivor asked out loud. The soldier answered, “Or where did they come from?” The soldier handed the survivor an AK-47. And once again, silenced broke between them; questions remained unanswered.
The two moved recklessly, splashing puddles, and not watching for hostiles. Although the survivor held out his handgun as the soldier had his bloody arm around the survivor. The two stopped at a corner of the street with their backs against a building. The survivor looked around the corner and said, “Right down here.”
The two moved down the street and stopped in front of a gate. The survivor opened the gate and led the soldier in. The two stood in wet clothes in an apartment complex. “Up these stairs,” The survivor said walking the soldier up stairs. The two moved down a narrow hall-way. “My place is right here.” The survivor said as they passed an apartment door that had been kicked in. The survivor opened up his door as the soldier stood in other opened doorway.
“Hey,” The soldier said to the survivor. The doorway led into a dark apartment and in the doorway was a trail of blood. The blood had been dragged as if who ever was bleeding was resisting. The survivor stood behind the soldier, “Come on, you need to get patched up.” The solider began to walk down the hall and into the survivor’s home.
Inside, the apartment was dark with the only light from the window, although the gray sky did not do much for the light. The survivor stepped in and flipped the light switch. Nothing. The survivor repeatedly flipped the switch. “Forget it,” The soldier said out loud, “The electricity is dead.”
As the soldier stood in the dark apartment, he felt safe and was reminded of home. He was reminded of his wife and the home they shared. He saw her in his mind. She had ebony hair, light, luminescent skin tone, a beautiful smile, and she wore glasses that complimented her. The soldier always thought of her, in the good and the bad. The soldier was never aloud to see his wife, for she was in a different time zone. Being in service, the soldier was always fearful of his demise and the impact on his newly wed. With the new global crisis, the soldier was in pain at the possibility that his wife was dead or that he would never see her again.
The survivor dashed into his restroom and grabbed some pain killers and his first aid kit under the sink. He went out to the soldier, who was laid out on the couch. The survivor put the pills and the kit on the coffee table. The soldier opened the kit and withdrew his needed items. The soldier also took a pain killer, dry. He said to the survivor, “I need a kitchen knife.” The survivor came into the living room with a knife as the soldier took off his shirt. The survivor gave the soldier the knife, and took a few steps back. The soldier dug into his wound with the knife. He gave a few grunts as he removed the bullet. A thin river of blood ran down the soldier’s arm. The soldier pulled out a small bullet on the knife and dropped it on the coffee table. The soldier wiped his wound and wrapped it up.
“Hopefully, that doesn’t get infected.” The soldier said to the survivor. “Let me get you a different shirt.” The survivor said leaving the room. He came back with a towel and a two black t-shirt, one for the soldier and one for himself. The soldier had a pale toned body that was chiseled. The survivor was a little depressed compared to his mediocre status of his own body. He was almost nothing like the soldier’s strong brad body. The survivor gave the soldier the towel. The soldier dried off with the soft towel rubbing against his wounded arm. He could slowly feel the pain numbing. It almost stopped bleeding out. When, the soldier was dried, he put on a plain black t-shirt that wrapped tight around the soldier.
The survivor threw on a different shirt, but left on his moderately dry pants. It was a black t-shirt that had his favorite band logo on it. It seemed that it was the only shirt he had left that wasn’t button-up. He remembered receiving the shirt at a concert before all of his friends went their separate ways after high school. He seemed the only one of his friends to have had went off to an average life-style. The survivor had become a drone within a building full of cubicles. And each day he would wear another shirt that did not have something that made him smile; he had almost resented the blank white shirt with the seven, small, cheap white plastic buttons. His tie seemed to be the only means of letting out some sort of individuality, but even then he despised the tie he was obligated to wear. The survivor almost wanted to put the tie into a tool of suicide.
The soldier handed the survivor, the towel to let himself dry. The survivor took it and began to rub the towel on himself to slowly rid the drops of rain. The survivor walked into his kitchen to gather up some food for the soldier, who might have been hungry. The survivor grabbed a box of cereal that had a small cartoon character holding up a bowl of the cereal at a magnitude that was suppose to make the food more appealing to the consumer. The survivor put the cereal on the coffee table as an offering to the soldier. The soldier noticed the cereal box and the cartoon character on it. The soldier wasn’t hungry but did want to violently beat the cartoon character on it.
The soldier stood. He grabbed his assault rifle and lowered the gun down. He looked up to the survivor and said, “Get your gun.” The soldier then moved out of the survivor’s apartment. The survivor walked behind the soldier and made sure there was a round in the chamber. The soldier took a flashlight from his pocket and placed it at the edge of his rifle. He turned it on as he stood outside of the survivor’s next door neighbor’s doorway. The light from the flashlight bled through the dark apartment. It was like a staring into a deep, pitch black cave.
The soldier took a step into the dark, dark apartment and slowly waved his rifle around, scanning the apartment. It seemed the apartment was filled with green, military crates. The soldier slowly stepped closer to one of the crates as the survivor followed close behind. It remained quiet between the two. The soldier got close enough to a crate to where he could begin reading some writing on the crate. The crate was covered in a blanket. The soldier slowly grabbed the blanket and slowly withdrew the blanket. The soldier began to read the writing, it was in English. “Shipment 3527,” The soldier read out loud in a small whisper. Just then, in the other room, a small noise was let out. It was just loud enough for the soldier and the survivor to hear.
The soldier stood up slowly and aimed his rifle. The light was a guide in the dark. The soldier slowly walked with the survivor falling close behind. The soldier quietly stepped through the apartment. The soldier turned back to the survivor and put his finger over his mouth to show to stay quiet. The only sound being heard was the sound of rain crashing on the roof. The soldier got to the door that the noise came from. The soldier grasped the doorknob and slowly opened the door. The soldier put the tip of his rifle into the slightly opened door. One small shard of light bled through the door, and became wider as the door became open. The door was almost halfway open until something began to move in front of the light. The soldier quickly withdrew his rifle from the door and waited for another moment. The soldier covered the light with his left hand. The survivor began to move back slowly. And in one moment, the whole building was silenced only with rain dancing quietly onto the building. The soldier then, swiftly lifted his rifle and kicked open the door only to see lighting burst out from the window and the sound of thunder cracking like a bone. The soldier fired off a single round into the wall. A small ringing could be heard. No response or moment in the room.
The soldier looked to see a shotgun on the bed with two boxes filled with a dozen grenades each. The soldier picked a grenade and moved it around in his hand only to put it back down. The soldier came back into the main room and moved back to the crate labeled “Shipment 3527.” The soldier waved the survivor over. The two opened the crate to see a yellow envelope without a mailing address or a stamp on top of five AK-47 assault rifles. The soldier picked up the yellow envelope and slid out a pile of papers. The papers didn’t have names, numbers, or locations. Just simply stating, “There Is NO Worshiping. There Is NO Justice. There Is No Protection. There Is NO Right Side. There Is Greed. There Is Corruption. There Is Dishonesty. There WILL Death. There WILL Be CORRECTION.”
The soldier threw the pile of papers onto the floor. They separated and cascaded around the floor. They held numbers possibly bank accounts, security codes, social security. They meant something to someone or some ones. “Do all of these crates have guns in them?” The soldier asked looking around briefly.
“What is all of this?” asked the survivor. For once, the soldier had no idea. The survivor found a pile of mail on the floor. White envelopes lay on the floor with no stamps and no names, but contained letters. “Where are these letters going?” The survivor asked out loud. The soldier answered, “Or where did they come from?” The soldier handed the survivor an AK-47. And once again, silenced broke between them; questions remained unanswered.
