Here's another penny-prompt that I did last weekend:
2) Write about something ugly–war, fear, hate, or cruelty
Johnson
swung the barrel of his rifle around in a complete circle, taking in the vast ruined
city. ETA of his rescue-chopper was thirty minutes and counting. The air was ghostly
quiet.
Might as
well do a sweep. One devastated building blanketed in ivy drew his attention, partially because of the enormous letters painted beneath the ropy vines. He squinted, trying to make out the faded characters.
“ST. MATHESON’S RE----- -OME FOR CHILDREN”
“Refuge home…” he mouthed, intrigued. It looked like it come from an aged fairy-tale. Old brick, faded colors that could’ve been happy – plus, fairy-tales always had orphanages. We drove these kids out. Guilt struck deep beneath his armor as he thought of his own child, only three years old, back home.
He stepped up to a hole in the brick wall and peered in. It was dark and covered in rubble, but he could see light further down the hallway. Probably a battery-powered emergency light. Most public buildings had them.
Despite the fact that nobody was supposed to be there, Johnson couldn’t help but step lightly as he entered the building. It felt haunted, like the ghosts of all his victims had converged on this one spot. A sickening idea struck him: what if there are bodies here? Childrens’ bodies? Now that it occurred to him, it was probably true. Everybody had been taken by surprise when his team swept through, not just the militia. Even the friendlies, even the ones who weren’t supposed to get involved.
On second thought, maybe he ought to go and wait out in the open.
Johnson turned and stepped back into the sunlight. Today wasn’t the day for violence. There would be other opportunities to forage through the tangled, mystical ruins on supply-runs with his team. Natives from the neighboring town would come in and remove the dead. Maybe then they could –
Johnson’s ears perked up. He thought he heard… no, it can't be…
He listened closer.
The sound came again.
“Oh my God!” he shouted, ripping his radio out and pressing the button. “Where are you, Mariel?”
Static. “Captain, are you alright? Are the hostiles back?”
“The hell they are! I’ve got a survivor on –"
“What are you saying? Calm down! Nobody survived that attack, sir, everyone’s gone – ”
“Don’t talk to me!” He screamed. “I hear it right now! Somebody is crying, I can hear it! Get a medic, now!” He dropped the radio and brought his rifle up to ready position. His own heartbeat was knocking the air out of his lungs. Looks like it’s into the dark, after all.
Muffled static. Finger on trigger.
Muscles tensed, like a prowling cat, Johnson tried to maintain composure. Nobody’s supposed to be alive. Nobody is alive. He proceeded quietly into the darkness, chanting the words over and over in his head.
The sound grew more and more distinct as he advanced through the black hallways. Just a friendly, he began to think, no longer able to accept that he was hallucinating. The crying was too loud, too clear. He kept his eyes forward, ignoring the eerie, peeling wallpaper decorated with flowers and clouds.
There was a shadowy doorway just up ahead. That’s where the sound was coming from, he could tell by the way it echoed. With his lips, he formed the words, “who’s there?” but no sound came out. Fear had caught him by the throat.
SCHHH! “Captain?”
Johnson yelped and pulled the trigger. A deafening bang cut him straight to the bone, and somewhere in front of him, rubble was knocked loose. Johnson disconnected his radio and brought his gun straight back up, panting heavily.
Damn it, damn it, damn it, please, Lord, help me…
There was a moment when he couldn’t hear because his ears were ringing, but then the noise subsided and all that was left was a soft crying. Exactly as before. It hadn’t changed at all. It was a quiet, weak voice, and… somewhat familiar.
Fear turned to terror. Icy terror.
“Oli?” he called out, voice trembling. “My s- oh, God, my son?”
The crying stopped abruptly. Like it had been waiting all along.
