Afterwards

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…

Benz waved his arms and screamed to be heard above the thunder of tank fire as a kamikaze drone tore through the air above the squads’ heads. It screamed through a broken window on the first floor of the admin building behind them, shards of glass hanging from the frame like broken teeth, and exploded with a ‘whizz-thump’ that seemed to pull the very air from your lungs before pulling in the walls and then suddenly hurling them outwards.

“Corporal Hill, get your arse out of that crater and over to sat-com,” he shouted, throwing himself to the ground behind the rubble of a small fallen wall to avoid the falling debris of the admin building. Just as quickly he then regained his feet and sprinted across the open ground towards what had once been a wide car park that had welcomed visitors as they approached the long-abandoned robotics factory.

More drones whizzed overhead, cutting through the billowing smoke that swirled around the tanks as they navigated slowly between the falling buildings. Hill pulled his battle jacket tight around his waist as he lay in the high sided crater, still warm from impact with smoke rising up slowly to join the fog of war that lay thick in the air. God only knew why command had sent them this way, he thought to himself. The bots had been waiting for them – as if they knew exactly where and when they would be there, and if they didn’t get out of here soon those drones were going to finish every last one of them off.

“let’s not make this another San Francisco,” Benz barked as he dived into the crater alongside Hill. Three other wide eyed grunts lay across from him with their weapons clenched close to their chests, probably only 16 years old if they were a day. Cannon fodder. There to serve the war effort.

“Evening boys,” Benz said smiling, eyes wild and steely blue. “Enjoying the war are we?”

All three shook their heads and Benz roared with laughter.

“No shit, they never told you it would be like this down in the caves did they”.

Again, all three shook their heads and seemed to shrink even further down into the crater.

For the briefest of moments compassion flickered across Benz’ face before he turned to Hill.

“I need you to get to forward command and let them know just how royally fucked we are. We’ve lost 80 percent of the battalion and it’s turning into a tank graveyard. Visibility is near zero and we can’t stop those kill drones.”

He turned back to the three grunts that were staring intently and listening to the two senior men.

“Oh, don’t worry lads,” said Benz, flashing them a thumbs up. “I’m pretty sure it will be just fine.”

The recruits nodded once more as Benz turned back to hill.

“It probably isn’t going to be fine,” he said as quietly as he could through the din of explosions and gun fire that rang all around.

Hill knew full well fine was the very last thing things were going to be.

“Can you do that for me?” Benz asked, not focussed solely on Hill. “Can you get that message to forward command? All other channels are down. We need air cover and exit or we are toast.”

Hill said nothing. What choice did he have he wondered? What would happen if he said no, if he admitted just how terrified he was and how he really did not want to be a corporal and that he did not even know why they were fighting.

“Hill,” snapped Benz, placing a hand on the man’s shaking shoulder. “So, can you do it for me? While I try help protect those tanks. Can you get that message to them.”

Hill stuttered that he could and scrambled to his knees, ready to leap from the crater. Benz was up in a flash and grabbed a handful of the webbing on the back of Hill’s battle jacket and helped heave him to his feet.

“Go,” he shouted and pushed hill up and over the lip of the crater.

Benz scrambled after him to make sure he had got away and as he raised his head over the lip of the crater he saw Hill ripped clean in half as a low flying drone tore clean through him. He didn’t even get to scream, his middle third was a bloodied mist before he even realised and his top and bottom thirds fell to the floor as his blood seeped into the dust and dirt.

Benz slipped back inside the crater cursing, fists crashing into the steaming earth. For a moment he closed his eyes to compose himself, taking in a deep breath and then exhaling, his breath mixing with the smoke and steam.

He looked across at the three boys across from him, huddled close together, terrified and unable to move.

“Is…is he okay?” one of them asked, a pale faced boy with a shock of red hair peeking out from under his helmet.

Benz smiled. “Oh yes, ran like a whippet after a hare,” he said, obviously lying. He’s probably  half way there already.

The three boys eyed him up warily. They were young and naïve, but not completely stupid.

“Anyway, “ said Benz. “Which one of you is the fastest…?”

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back(September 2022) I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…What concerns me most about this one is that I have no recollection of writing it. How curious.

When the dead rose, yawning graves willingly vomiting up their rancid, worm riddled treasures, there were those that cried that this was surely hell. They thumped their chests and proclaimed – often waving leather bound books – that these were the end of days, and that it was time for judgement and oh boy were we going to be sorry. They insisted that we weren’t to complain because the truth had been there all along, mostly tucked away in the bed side tables in hotel rooms they conceded – but none the less it was our own fault for not believing and not paying attention and we should just get on with what was surely coming our way.

Now obviously I should point out that other faiths and theologies were available for commentary on the matter, and in the main those professing them were also found with leather bound books, different ones, but most generally concurred that we had this coming and there was nothing that could be done now.

That is probably one of the positives of the whole end of the world thing. They were all right to a degree and were able to find common ground at last with a shared message. The smug satisfaction did not last long though as they – like most people – were soon trying – and failing – to avoid the dead because they weren’t at all interested in whether you or any of your newfound friends had a leather-bound book at all. They would quite happily feast on you regardless of denomination or size of your leather-bound book collection.

A few months later those of us that remained were rather convinced that in fact almost everybody – regardless of persuasion – had been so very far from the mark.

The dead it turns out just wanted everything else to be dead too you see. They weren’t at all fussy. Cat? Sure, thing they would happily make that dead. Dogs? Easy pickings. One dead dog coming up. Cow found wandering unsuspectingly. You got it. Deaded. And people? There were plenty of those to make dead so absolutely they were all in on people too. It seemed a straightforward and simple lifestyle, and given they seemingly had none of the complexities and strains of modern life to contend with they could focus all of their energies on making things dead, and they were making a bloody good fist of it.

No, this was not hell, because hell would have been preferable in some regards. At least hell was warm. This was something on a whole new level, well beyond the gnashing of teeth and the wailing of the childless mothers the Old Testament had promised in repayment for our iniquities. There was no horned chap sat on a throne with a pitchfork insisting that we calm down, stop complaining, and bend over for our daily anal probing.

This was worse than hell.

This was London 2042.

Oh, and did I mention I’m dead too? Oh yeah. Pretty unfortunate turn of event but that’s how it goes these days. I had wanted to be an accountant but turns out the universe had other plans.

Guess there are things worse than death eh. Accountant. What the hell was I thinking…

Having slowed somewhat in my writing, a while back I sat down to force myself to write 500 words a night. These are some of those word-salads. Unedited, raw, and just done for the hell of it…

In the endless possibilities of eternity there are things of such horror that they have yet to be imagined. Truly, truly terrible things that defy all description and would drive you mad if you were to know just how awful they might be. But on that list of things that have been both imagined and endured, there is the endless torture of being trapped inside a space suit, thousands of miles above the Earth, with your own fart.

Evolutionists would have us believe that homo sapiens, as well as lower and higher functioning mammals, have a natural proclivity to the stench of their own internal brewing as it is an affirmation of ones effective inner workings. Or something like that.

And here, in the darkness of space, on the edge of Earth’s atmosphere, Buster Wilde found himself wholly convinced that once that list of universal horrors was finalised there ought to be space made on it for the intestinal effects of government ration 158, beef chilli burrito.

It was not exactly a burrito in a way that a potato is not exactly a bottle of Russian standard vodka, though the chemical constituents would undoubtedly argue to the contrary and persist in their assumption that the dark paste he had endured, if coupled with the particularly large and lumpy potato, were in fact the basis for a rather good start to a night out on the town. They would further assert that they were technically correct in their belief in being a great dinner on the basis of being technically correct. And that is of course the purest form of correct and therefore the most compelling.

This was no night out on the town though. This was an attempt to unjam the launch arm of the satellite docking bay, whilst being suffocated by his own bodily functions.

“Screw it,” he thought to himself as he pulled down on the crowbar that he had jammed under the bent plating that had come loose when the bay doors had opened. He took a number of deep breaths and coughed. A couple more followed and for a moment sprite of light danced before his eyes. A warning light beeped on his wrist panel indicating a drop in oxygen levels, and then it blinked green once more and then went off.

“Everything ok out there?” came a voice over his com. “Swallowed a fly?” they continued, laughing.

Buster watched as the jammed plate came loose and drifted past his visor, spinning slowly. He reached out a gloved hand and managed to grab hold of it, clamping it to the magnetic belt hung around his waist.

“I’m fine,” he replied, “nothing to worry about. Arm is freed and I’m heading back to the lock now.”

Buster pushed himself away from the rail that ran the length of the cargo bay doors and drifted slowly back towards the entry hatch. He watched the Earth thousands of miles below, silent in the inky blackness. The smell had mostly gone now, and only a feint remnant lingered on his pallet. 

“Entering hatch one now,” he said as he swung the heavy handle and pulled the large square hatch cover open.

“That’s good,” came the reply across the com, “now get yourself inside, it’s curry for dinner tonight and you have another scheduled walk out there later – one of the access panels needs bolting down.”