Their eyes met

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
Just a little thing I put together.

Submitted: May 04, 2017

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Submitted: May 04, 2017

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The brisk morning air stained the sky a dull grey, coating the remains of a once picturesque village in a thick layer of fog. Streets, fallen victim to the crumbled buildings lay beneath debris and served as a feeding ground for the restless flames. Dust clung to ash-coated cars, shattered windows sprinkled glass beneath them, rust spread along their metallic bodies like a parasitic disease.

A crumpled figure lay above the warped bonnet of a (car name here). Alison’s silk dress was soaked in a pool of crimson blood. Strands of sweat bonded hair fell beyond her eyes, hiding more wounds to her face. The car groaned as she slowly, and in agony, hoisted her frame off the heated surface. She clutched her lower waist and released a violent gasp, like a fish being pulled from the sea. Alison silently wept, tears marked her cheeks with a salty smear. Her town was gone. Smoke stung her eyes as she staggered through the burning rubbish, choking on the stale air and periodically falling to the warm tarmac. Shelter. Alison had to hide.

Up ahead she spied an old church, shrouded in a flaming mixture. A lone building in a sea of destruction. She quickened her pace, every stumble she ignored, the pain grew like a hungry beast.

The abandoned church was infected with the smell of rot, infused with aged must. Boarded stained glass windows let slithers of light into the empty space, revealing worn carpet. Chris lifted the sniper, his skin-worn fingers brushed the familiar magazine cover, freeing the body of dust. The floorboards released a sigh of relief as he heaved his weight off of them, and kneeled before one of the frames. Shards of glass stuck to the borders and served as protection from sight. Only recently had he arrived at the destruction of Calais, a small French settlement nestled between the unforgiving waters of the north coast and the French tablelands. Chris aligned the crosshair, aiming it into the smoky abyss beyond the church grounds. He had one job, eliminate the survivors. The young man gazed into the distance, squinting at the blurred outlines of nearby buildings. There. Chris felt his heart rate quicken as the hazy figure cleared the fog. It seemed injured, one leg hugged the road. Closer it came. Chris could make out the long, tangled hair of a woman, her dress torn. He aligned the sniper, matching it to her chest.

Alison carried herself towards the sandstone building, the dry ash parched her throat, sending her into a series of coughs. She clasped her waist harder, so hard her knuckles turned a crisp white and the threaded remains of her silk dress began to sink into her skin. The sun had pulled away from distant hills and burned through the last of the fog. The sunlight poured onto the church, glossing the terracotta roof. The glinted body of the sniper flashed between her soot plastered eyes. Alison looked towards the boarded window. Chris rested his index finger on the trigger.

Their eyes met.


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