Against the Rushing Tide


Over the rotting dead, he stood; still holding tight to the .22 rifle. Down on the second death he gazed, still wide eyed, still fueled by adrenaline and fear. Somehow he survived the onslaught of the coming death, and in the field of the maggot flowers, he found himself standing; still alive and breathing under an infected sky; under a moon who's fading light had long abandoned the soul. Alone in the cold silence of midnight, no sound filled the putrid, dank air; no movement clashed against the vast expanse of darkness; nothing but the sound of his heart thrashing madly filled his ears as he looked up toward the sorrow infested face of the moon. In the distance, the silhouette of a long forgotten building reached out to hold him.

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