Excerpt from "See Rick Run"
The guns spat the uniformed men’s contempt for their victims with deafening shrillness. Some flinched and closed their eyes. Some stood dully, their minds refusing to recognize the oblivion that scythed down the ragged line. Others spat curses and vain defiance even to the end, their words buried in the abrupt scream of the execution’s thunder.
Richard did not curse; his tongue was dry and his voice frozen in his gut. He did not stare or flinch either. Seeing what was coming was worse than anything, but not seeing it coming was worse still. When death came for Richard, he did what came most naturally to him- what he’d done throughout a life that seemed a hundred years past- he ran.
Actually, he fell. The embankment they’d been lined up across proved to be steeper than it appeared and Richard fell and rolled down the spongy moss and dirt that hoisted the line of men and women in the final, brief moments of their lives. The men with the guns had used fear to force them this far into the forest, but they’d already begun shooting- what was the worst they could do to Richard now?
As the mud and water of the shallow stream beneath him rose to end Richard’s tumble, he glanced upstream and saw dozens of bodies following his path with much the same grace. The idea of hiding amongst the dead flashed into his head for a moment only. Life or death, the only thing that mattered was to run, as hard and fast as he could.
He hit the water, his limbs scrambling to gain purchase in the staining silt and he lunged downstream on all fours. His eyes registered the shapes falling around him, but the sound of his own breathing pushed other thoughts from his head. Rising from the stream’s scarlet water, Richard made for the tree line and shivered as shackles of ice melted from his legs and chest with trembling strides.
The guns’ roar didn’t pause, but Richard felt a tremendous rush of air behind him and he zigged to put the thickest tree he could see to his back. Scouring heat, like the wrath of a vengeful god, blossomed behind him and swelled with bloated zeal. Green withered to black and grey in the licking conflagration but, even as the oxygen from his lungs was torn away by the flame throwers’ breath, Richard ran. Without a direction other than “away,” he cleared trees and bushes and pits with unflinching urgency.
Even after the sounds of death faded and the heat of exhaustion tore at his muscles and even after the forest’s edge gave way, Richard ran. The shadows of buildings and civilization had just begun to creep up from the horizon when he heard it. A distant howl that managed to be both shrill and deep grew by degrees until, with a finality like a popping soap bubble, it burst in a sound so loud it became silence as it washed through him.
Richard did not look back, but he slowed his pace into a pained walk, allowing his exertion to catch up to him. He had no words and just let himself pant as the sky around him bled a torn and tattered crimson.
Richard did not curse; his tongue was dry and his voice frozen in his gut. He did not stare or flinch either. Seeing what was coming was worse than anything, but not seeing it coming was worse still. When death came for Richard, he did what came most naturally to him- what he’d done throughout a life that seemed a hundred years past- he ran.
Actually, he fell. The embankment they’d been lined up across proved to be steeper than it appeared and Richard fell and rolled down the spongy moss and dirt that hoisted the line of men and women in the final, brief moments of their lives. The men with the guns had used fear to force them this far into the forest, but they’d already begun shooting- what was the worst they could do to Richard now?
As the mud and water of the shallow stream beneath him rose to end Richard’s tumble, he glanced upstream and saw dozens of bodies following his path with much the same grace. The idea of hiding amongst the dead flashed into his head for a moment only. Life or death, the only thing that mattered was to run, as hard and fast as he could.
He hit the water, his limbs scrambling to gain purchase in the staining silt and he lunged downstream on all fours. His eyes registered the shapes falling around him, but the sound of his own breathing pushed other thoughts from his head. Rising from the stream’s scarlet water, Richard made for the tree line and shivered as shackles of ice melted from his legs and chest with trembling strides.
The guns’ roar didn’t pause, but Richard felt a tremendous rush of air behind him and he zigged to put the thickest tree he could see to his back. Scouring heat, like the wrath of a vengeful god, blossomed behind him and swelled with bloated zeal. Green withered to black and grey in the licking conflagration but, even as the oxygen from his lungs was torn away by the flame throwers’ breath, Richard ran. Without a direction other than “away,” he cleared trees and bushes and pits with unflinching urgency.
Even after the sounds of death faded and the heat of exhaustion tore at his muscles and even after the forest’s edge gave way, Richard ran. The shadows of buildings and civilization had just begun to creep up from the horizon when he heard it. A distant howl that managed to be both shrill and deep grew by degrees until, with a finality like a popping soap bubble, it burst in a sound so loud it became silence as it washed through him.
Richard did not look back, but he slowed his pace into a pained walk, allowing his exertion to catch up to him. He had no words and just let himself pant as the sky around him bled a torn and tattered crimson.
Labels: dreams war
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