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Authors: Jeffrey Kosh
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The South Will Rise Again
Mists …
The young soldier stood up from where he had fallen; shaking off his head, as if trying to wipe away the horrors he had been witness of.
Around him there was only smoke, the stench of gunpowder, and the sounds of the dying.
The battle had ended and only Death reigned supreme on that combat field.
When he had joined the rebellion he had no idea that war would be like that.
Horrors upon horrors upon horrors.
Mutilated bodies were everywhere to be seen, partially concealed by the clouding fog of hundred spent gun-shells. Blood covered the once-verdant grass and what once were men now appeared as broken dolls, set aside by a capricious child. Discarded weapons pockmarked the ground and pieces of equipment, mostly damaged beyond repair, added to the forlornness.
Had they won?
Had they lost?
He looked around, yet saw no one to ask that question.
Only the dead.
Nevertheless, he had survived the ordeal; somehow … someway.
Colin Jefferson lay nearby. Crows were eating away his past from what remained of his cracked head, while disgusting bloated flies already were unloading their progeny inside the stumps of disclosed flesh.
What had happened? He couldn’t recall, he tried frantically to summon up his last memories, yet only mists responded to his beckoning.
But he remembered his family.
Yes, they were safe now; the battle was away from their homes. His wife … his daughters.
What if he was wrong? What if the enemy had won and now they were marching toward his hometown, slaughtering everyone on their path, or doing worse things to them?
One of the large birds eyed him with craving, but opted to bump on an unmoving morsel.
No. That’s not the right way. First thing first: try to get up.
He tried to move the left leg. It didn’t work. He tried again. No way.
He could just stand there, a sitting duck in the middle of a carnage field. So, he resorted to yell, calling out for any other survivor, but before his voice could escape out of his parched mouth, a terrible thought invaded his mind. What if the ‘eventual’ survivor was one of the enemies? Or worse; what if there were enemies still prowling around, looking for the dying to slash their throat in a fast and swift stroke. Nope. Better to wait and try to evaluate the situation before doing anything stupid. If God, in His grace, had opted for him to survive, he had no right to unravel the Lord’s will. The mists continued to swell on the desolate battleground, when he succeeded in moving both legs.
The Will of God.
He stood up, as a bamboo cane flailed by wind, staggering back and forth, unable to regain a stable stance. From that new position he could get a better look at his surroundings. There were dark mounds everywhere. Yet only the momentary parting of the constant mists allowed him to ascertain those were not mounds but corpses, already inflated by decomposition gases. He had never seen - or even imagined - so many dead people.
There! Something had moved. No, just another of those damned flying ghouls.
He had to do something, he could not stay there staggering and dazed as a beaten up pugilist.
He moved one foot, then another. It worked! He was walking again. Nonetheless, he could not run or keep a sturdy gait; he could just stumble and shuffle, as an oldster does in his last waning days. Those hideous little black monsters flew away, scared by his movement.
He smiled to this tiny victory.
Again that blurred movement to his left. He turned, slowly; sure it was another of those pesky beasts. Yet, this time, his dry eyes spotted something larger; a dark shape, yes, hidden by that cursed fog, but standing on two legs, erect as only God’s creation could do.
He moaned, involuntarily, and took notice the mysterious visitor had no hurried his pace to get at him. No, he kept the same shuffling gait, inching its ground like a stalking predator. He wasn’t a rescuer, nor an ally. No, it had to be one of those
Mists …
The young soldier stood up from where he had fallen; shaking off his head, as if trying to wipe away the horrors he had been witness of.
Around him there was only smoke, the stench of gunpowder, and the sounds of the dying.
The battle had ended and only Death reigned supreme on that combat field.
When he had joined the rebellion he had no idea that war would be like that.
Horrors upon horrors upon horrors.
Mutilated bodies were everywhere to be seen, partially concealed by the clouding fog of hundred spent gun-shells. Blood covered the once-verdant grass and what once were men now appeared as broken dolls, set aside by a capricious child. Discarded weapons pockmarked the ground and pieces of equipment, mostly damaged beyond repair, added to the forlornness.
Had they won?
Had they lost?
He looked around, yet saw no one to ask that question.
Only the dead.
Nevertheless, he had survived the ordeal; somehow … someway.
Colin Jefferson lay nearby. Crows were eating away his past from what remained of his cracked head, while disgusting bloated flies already were unloading their progeny inside the stumps of disclosed flesh.
What had happened? He couldn’t recall, he tried frantically to summon up his last memories, yet only mists responded to his beckoning.
But he remembered his family.
Yes, they were safe now; the battle was away from their homes. His wife … his daughters.
What if he was wrong? What if the enemy had won and now they were marching toward his hometown, slaughtering everyone on their path, or doing worse things to them?
One of the large birds eyed him with craving, but opted to bump on an unmoving morsel.
No. That’s not the right way. First thing first: try to get up.
He tried to move the left leg. It didn’t work. He tried again. No way.
He could just stand there, a sitting duck in the middle of a carnage field. So, he resorted to yell, calling out for any other survivor, but before his voice could escape out of his parched mouth, a terrible thought invaded his mind. What if the ‘eventual’ survivor was one of the enemies? Or worse; what if there were enemies still prowling around, looking for the dying to slash their throat in a fast and swift stroke. Nope. Better to wait and try to evaluate the situation before doing anything stupid. If God, in His grace, had opted for him to survive, he had no right to unravel the Lord’s will. The mists continued to swell on the desolate battleground, when he succeeded in moving both legs.
The Will of God.
He stood up, as a bamboo cane flailed by wind, staggering back and forth, unable to regain a stable stance. From that new position he could get a better look at his surroundings. There were dark mounds everywhere. Yet only the momentary parting of the constant mists allowed him to ascertain those were not mounds but corpses, already inflated by decomposition gases. He had never seen - or even imagined - so many dead people.
There! Something had moved. No, just another of those damned flying ghouls.
He had to do something, he could not stay there staggering and dazed as a beaten up pugilist.
He moved one foot, then another. It worked! He was walking again. Nonetheless, he could not run or keep a sturdy gait; he could just stumble and shuffle, as an oldster does in his last waning days. Those hideous little black monsters flew away, scared by his movement.
He smiled to this tiny victory.
Again that blurred movement to his left. He turned, slowly; sure it was another of those pesky beasts. Yet, this time, his dry eyes spotted something larger; a dark shape, yes, hidden by that cursed fog, but standing on two legs, erect as only God’s creation could do.
He moaned, involuntarily, and took notice the mysterious visitor had no hurried his pace to get at him. No, he kept the same shuffling gait, inching its ground like a stalking predator. He wasn’t a rescuer, nor an ally. No, it had to be one of those
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