Aftermath

Sergeant Culver clutched his rifle as he made his way through the ruined city. Shards of rock and gravel from destroyed buildings crunched softly under his feet. The once colourful and numerous buildings that had covered the horizon were now mixed together in a mish-mash of grey and brown.

His footsteps echoed into the distance. A few shattered fragments of sandstone tumbled down a mound of rubble that had formed in the centre of the road. Culver stumbled and fell on to his hands, dropping his salvage pack to the ground. Its contents spilled out. Some sticking plasters and bandages, also a few ration packs that he found in a demolished army surplus store.

The stench of death singed his nostrils as he breathed in the stale, polluted air through his gasmask.

He crept down the street like a cowering mouse. Culver came to a large open, flat of ground. His foot hit off something metal, hard. He cringed, not from the pain, but more because of the noise echoing off into the distance.

He got up and ran hurriedly away from the area. They would be coming. He couldn’t bare the thought of being caught.

As he ran, fear surged through his body. It made him run faster. The kind of fear that gave men wings.

He heard footfalls behind him…one set…then two…three then four.

He urged his legs to go faster. He heard a gunshot from behind him something hit his leg with a dull thud. The power disappeared from his legs and he fell to the ground.

He spotted an old sign, lying rusting on the ground. The lettering was faint but he was sure it read:

“George Square”

Whatever the hell that meant.

Then it went black.