Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: Dispatcher
Word Count: 497
Everything you are has condensed into this moment.
You are the turmoil in the tentative balance between the apocalyptic earth and the unreachable, boundless heaven, a wraith of armor and steel. Your sweat, your blood, your battered weaponry - these are the ammunition in what can only be described as a battle against the inevitable, because the world has ended and so have you, really. You just haven't accepted it, yet.
And in this moment you are at your finest, proud and defiant, wiping from existence the festering dead as they close in, a ring of tormented souls that run or walk depending on the lividity of their tired limbs. You put them down the way a farmer might a downed beast of burden, a casually affectionate bullet to the head, a tinge of regret but far too much to do to waste time on sorrow. You, after all, shed your sorrow with your street clothes, left it crumpled and wrinkling in a dented locker, something for you to throw on when you get home and wash the stink of your deeds from your skin.
Because it stings you to realize how similar you are to these wailing, tortured creatures. Like them, this transformation - from civilian to a vicious, yet entirely awkward killer - was an unwilling one. You have all been drafted into a war in which you did not wish to join, a war that most in this hellish encounter were born into. But you, you remember the days before the rapid sweep of fevers and illness across the country, the days when the grey-skinned once-woman barreling toward you may have been enjoying a walk through the park that once inhabited this very spot.
A chamber clicks empty and you reload with a half-practiced grace, dropping an empty clip to the ground. You feel it thump off the toe of your boot as you turn in a slow circle to pick off those that are closest, like the video games you once played with a little brother who has long since fallen, risen, and fallen again. It was your hand that sent him back to the earth, too, with the same tinge of regret, the careful removal of your emotions. The only difference was that he received the briefest of hesitations, a split-second in which you cried out your frustrations, demanded answers of a God you haven't believed in since the men of His word left you to rot in a cold, dark cell years ago.
No, it is not God that gives you liberation, now. It is not His grace that protects you, it is kevlar and steel and careful aim and the steady, concentrated pulse in your chest.
And a small part of you wonders that, should there be a judgment - perhaps minutes from now, because there's the brush of cold and clenching fingers on the back of your jacket - will it be enough of a separation, this quiet, muffled heartbeat.
Word Count: 497
Everything you are has condensed into this moment.
You are the turmoil in the tentative balance between the apocalyptic earth and the unreachable, boundless heaven, a wraith of armor and steel. Your sweat, your blood, your battered weaponry - these are the ammunition in what can only be described as a battle against the inevitable, because the world has ended and so have you, really. You just haven't accepted it, yet.
And in this moment you are at your finest, proud and defiant, wiping from existence the festering dead as they close in, a ring of tormented souls that run or walk depending on the lividity of their tired limbs. You put them down the way a farmer might a downed beast of burden, a casually affectionate bullet to the head, a tinge of regret but far too much to do to waste time on sorrow. You, after all, shed your sorrow with your street clothes, left it crumpled and wrinkling in a dented locker, something for you to throw on when you get home and wash the stink of your deeds from your skin.
Because it stings you to realize how similar you are to these wailing, tortured creatures. Like them, this transformation - from civilian to a vicious, yet entirely awkward killer - was an unwilling one. You have all been drafted into a war in which you did not wish to join, a war that most in this hellish encounter were born into. But you, you remember the days before the rapid sweep of fevers and illness across the country, the days when the grey-skinned once-woman barreling toward you may have been enjoying a walk through the park that once inhabited this very spot.
A chamber clicks empty and you reload with a half-practiced grace, dropping an empty clip to the ground. You feel it thump off the toe of your boot as you turn in a slow circle to pick off those that are closest, like the video games you once played with a little brother who has long since fallen, risen, and fallen again. It was your hand that sent him back to the earth, too, with the same tinge of regret, the careful removal of your emotions. The only difference was that he received the briefest of hesitations, a split-second in which you cried out your frustrations, demanded answers of a God you haven't believed in since the men of His word left you to rot in a cold, dark cell years ago.
No, it is not God that gives you liberation, now. It is not His grace that protects you, it is kevlar and steel and careful aim and the steady, concentrated pulse in your chest.
And a small part of you wonders that, should there be a judgment - perhaps minutes from now, because there's the brush of cold and clenching fingers on the back of your jacket - will it be enough of a separation, this quiet, muffled heartbeat.