Post by Jenny (Reffy) on Dec 3, 2010 16:37:10 GMT -5
(Little sister wrote this! She borrow inspiration from Zovo and my "Jill" stories from the Arena competition. Hope you enjoy. I thought it was rather touching ... kinda respect really. Waffling again. She's only 12 - nearly 13. Thought it wasn't bad.)
He grabbed my suit, his tiny fingers squeezed as he burnt; the smell of burning flesh and fat was too hard to control.
I set off. With the fear of knowing it might be my last. Every moment, every day and night set in life, I had to do my job. My boots clunked and clacked as I walk along the no-mans quarantine city wasteland. The dusty cracked cement under my feet, tall abandoned shells of buildings towering over me. The devastation and horror caused to this once lively spirited city; the city I knew as a young child, is now long gone.
Suddenly I hear a dismal patter of naked feet. I caught a glimpse of what to be a boy 5 years of age. His clothes old rags hanging off him, running and ducking between the shells. Symptom 17: Skin disease of blood and puss riddled within all tissue and skin fat – check. He ducked underneath a toppled over gas truck. I stepped back, reaching into my heavy sack and grabbed my flame-thrower, crouched huddling my visa, bracing for impact.
The child ran out covered in flames; his ear piercing screech alarmed granted me to a halt. He grabbed my suit, his tiny fingers squeezed as he burnt; the smell of burning flesh and fat was too hard to control. The pain of killing is unbearable even if he isn’t human or was. Symptom 6) lust for human pain and lack of pupil dilation – check. He slowly burnt, still grasping to my suit. What was left of him fell to the floor. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears pouring down my cheeks.
Suddenly I hear a warm comforting voice. “Gill, you okay? We need to get back to base.”
I turned away almost as if I was ignoring my fears, I replied with a jaggy voice, “Yer.” We trekked back to base.
I walked into the female virus checking chamber. The convoy interrupted “Hey Gill, safety procedures.”
I place my arms against the highly disinfected wall. Suddenly I see it. The boys’ infected flesh was stuck to my suit, his tiny fingers so small. The convoy replies, “All clear, Gill. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll manage to get a piece of the pork surprise.”
101 things rushed through my mind: had he been infected, was there even a virus, images of the burning boy pleading for his life ... it was too much. The guilt swelled up from head to toe. Suddenly I couldn’t contain my breakfast, within seconds there was a puddle of puke swelling within my boots.
I had to carry on; I brought myself one step, two steps, towards to the shutter of a cold steel metal. Like the sergeant had said, “It’s a cold world, when the cold bites, bite back.”
He grabbed my suit, his tiny fingers squeezed as he burnt; the smell of burning flesh and fat was too hard to control.
I set off. With the fear of knowing it might be my last. Every moment, every day and night set in life, I had to do my job. My boots clunked and clacked as I walk along the no-mans quarantine city wasteland. The dusty cracked cement under my feet, tall abandoned shells of buildings towering over me. The devastation and horror caused to this once lively spirited city; the city I knew as a young child, is now long gone.
Suddenly I hear a dismal patter of naked feet. I caught a glimpse of what to be a boy 5 years of age. His clothes old rags hanging off him, running and ducking between the shells. Symptom 17: Skin disease of blood and puss riddled within all tissue and skin fat – check. He ducked underneath a toppled over gas truck. I stepped back, reaching into my heavy sack and grabbed my flame-thrower, crouched huddling my visa, bracing for impact.
The child ran out covered in flames; his ear piercing screech alarmed granted me to a halt. He grabbed my suit, his tiny fingers squeezed as he burnt; the smell of burning flesh and fat was too hard to control. The pain of killing is unbearable even if he isn’t human or was. Symptom 6) lust for human pain and lack of pupil dilation – check. He slowly burnt, still grasping to my suit. What was left of him fell to the floor. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears pouring down my cheeks.
Suddenly I hear a warm comforting voice. “Gill, you okay? We need to get back to base.”
I turned away almost as if I was ignoring my fears, I replied with a jaggy voice, “Yer.” We trekked back to base.
I walked into the female virus checking chamber. The convoy interrupted “Hey Gill, safety procedures.”
I place my arms against the highly disinfected wall. Suddenly I see it. The boys’ infected flesh was stuck to my suit, his tiny fingers so small. The convoy replies, “All clear, Gill. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll manage to get a piece of the pork surprise.”
101 things rushed through my mind: had he been infected, was there even a virus, images of the burning boy pleading for his life ... it was too much. The guilt swelled up from head to toe. Suddenly I couldn’t contain my breakfast, within seconds there was a puddle of puke swelling within my boots.
I had to carry on; I brought myself one step, two steps, towards to the shutter of a cold steel metal. Like the sergeant had said, “It’s a cold world, when the cold bites, bite back.”
