Through Dead Lands

      There was no life in the dead lands. There were no spoken words. There was only the sound of a solemn breeze, gently carrying away the smoke and the ash out to sea. He who had risen could not hear the wind, could not hear his own voice. A small muffled ringing filled his head as he carefully watched the battered land for a flash, the tiny spark that would end this chaos. He would not hear the sharp report that would take him from this place, would not hear it echo across the empty spaces that spanned the length of this hell, would not hear it resound through the hollow trenches that wound their way like rotted wire through the cold and bitter earth. But the flash did not come, for there was no one left in the cold and quiet. As he stood, the world nearly toppled once more, but he was saved by the instrument at his side, the implementation of a desire and the purest expression of evil. The blade on the end stuck defiantly in the earth and the worn rubber pad jammed hard under his arm. His numb finger found the trigger and pulled too hard, but that was also lost to him. He gave up and left it in the earth, standing as the final marker for a pointless struggle. He moved forward, clearing the gaps across the narrow trenches, and stepping lightly through the fallen. The glassy eyes of a patriot gazed up at him, the life gone from them.