With a heavy heart, he whispers to himself, "I'll be back for you, Alex." As he pushes through the wreckage of the ruined city, the remnants of violence surround him: blood and brain matter staining the ground, scattered among the 5.56 bullet casings that punctuate the scene like grim punctuation marks. Before him, a child stands isolated, their eyes reflecting despair, sadness, and the fragile remnants of hope that had once filled their heart. These FUCKING savages, he thinks bitterly.
"Keep it down," he murmurs to his comrades. "We're almost to the safe house. I can see it up ahead." The structure looms like a broken skeleton, comprised mainly of rubble, a makeshift shelter of plywood, dirt, and debris from the buildings around them.
"Quick, let's move!" As if on cue, he pulls a string attached to an improvised alarm system made of cans and bottles. This place had once served as a refuge—now it is populated only by the remnants of a hospital and hastily abandoned homes. Suddenly, footsteps echo outside. "Is there someone out there?"
Before long, two more tugs on the string send a cascade of noise clattering into the air, and they raise their weapons, ready for potential hostiles. The tension dissolves slightly when an elderly man appears, opening a hatch that leads to a wine cellar. He looks about sixty, with short hair streaked with dirt and blood, his clothing a patchwork of black and gray camouflage.
"Shit, Piper," the old man says, frowning. "What took you so long?"
"Artillery barrage, with a tank on top of that," Piper replies, exhaling sharply as he steps into the safety of the cellar.
"Hell, come on in!" The old man gestures for them to lower their weapons. As they enter, a medic pulls Parker aside, urgently assessing her condition.
"She's pale," the medic states, worry etched in his features. "She lost a lot of blood during labor."
"Okay, you can leave this to us," the old man instructs, his voice steady despite the chaos outside.
"Sargent Herold Hawthorne," the soldier says, straightening up, "we are at your service. We need extraction, and I came to inform HQ of our predicament." His voice carries a sense of urgency, reinforced by the weight of their situation.
"Sargent Major Ashford bought us some time to get here," Piper adds, glancing through the cellar entrance, wary of any approaching threats.
"Okay, Stan," Hawthorne orders. "Inform HQ of the situation."
"Roger that," Stan replies, nodding sharply.
A moment later, the radio crackles to life. "Sir! Incoming message from Sargent Hawthorne."
Hawthorne steeled himself as he listened intently.
"We need immediate extraction. We're being overrun. We've lost the cavalry platoon and our contact with the 3rd platoon."
"Okay, you guys take five," Hawthorne commands, trying to maintain a sense of order.
"Yes, sir," they respond in unison, exhaustion evident in their voices.
In the suffocating tension, they take a moment to breathe, waiting for the inevitable rescue—or for the storm to hit.
As he gazes at the weary faces of his companions, a heavy resolve settles over him. He will survive this hell, and once it's over, he'll return for Alex. He has to. For in this world, hope is all that remains.