Rain pattered lightly against the bank of the river as black smoke and clouds filled the sky. The drizzle danced across the surface of the water, breaking the mirror-like sheen into ripples that spread and faded among the drift. Overhead, the sky churned with dark clouds, thick with ash and gunpowder.

  In the distance, artillery thundered, each rumble rolling through the forest like distant gods at war. Sharp cracks of rifle fire echoed in bursts, erratic and close. Somewhere beyond the trees, fighting was still happening, and it was fierce, yet floating silently through the river were the dead.

  They moved with the current, uniforms soaked, faces pale and still. Some drifted face down, arms limp beneath them, while others stared upward with glassy, unblinking eyes. Every so often, a body, too swollen and waterlogged to stay afloat, would slip beneath the surface, disappearing into the depths with barely a splash.

  Yet not all of them stayed in the water. Several had been pushed ashore by the current, left in disordered piles along the muddy banks. Their uniforms were torn and soaked, their faces pale and bruised. Blood from open wounds had mixed into the earth, turning the soil into a wet, reddish paste.

  Amongst these corpses, one figure lay half-submerged near the edge of the water. At a glance, he looked no different from the others—soaked to the bone, mud streaking his coat, unmoving. But unlike the rest, though, this man was still breathing.

  A sharp gasp cut through the quiet. The man's chest rose as he rolled onto his side, almost being dragged off by the current as he began coughing hard. Water and bile spilled from his mouth as his body fought to function. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, his muscles straining under the effort. After a moment, he collapsed back onto the riverbank, chest heaving.

  He lay motionless for a moment, eyelids fluttering, face pressed into the wet mud. Gradually, he lifted his head, squinting through a mix of rain, blood, and dirt. The landscape around him blurred into a dark smear of green and grey, indistinct shapes slowly solidifying into the stark reality of his surroundings. Near him, a pale hand protruded from beneath a pile of driftwood, fingers curled as if grasping at something no longer there. Swallowing hard, the man forced himself to look away, fighting a surge of nausea and dizziness.

  With effort, he moved again, fingers clawing deep grooves into the mud as he dragged himself up the slope of the riverbank. Every motion was slow, punctuated by grunts and ragged breaths as pain surged through his battered body. Finally reaching level ground, he turned onto his back, gasping sharply, the rain splattering cold drops onto his face. His gaze moved skyward, focusing on nothing as he lay in exhaustion. He tried to recall how he'd ended up here, but memory came only in

  Gradually, something clearer pushed through his disorientation—the urgency of survival. Around him, the forest remained quiet, punctuated only by the distant, sporadic echoes of the ongoing battle. A shiver passed through his limbs as the chill of exposure seeped into his bones. He knew he couldn't stay here; the enemy would soon sweep through, checking for survivors. Summoning what little strength remained, he rolled onto his side, grasping a nearby root protruding from the damp earth. With gritted teeth and trembling muscles, he began the slow, painful task of pulling himself deeper into the cover of the trees.

  Each movement sent fresh spikes of pain shooting through his limbs, but he didn’t stop. Crawling now, dragging his weight inch by inch, he pulled himself under the low branches of a fallen pine. Wet needles stuck to his face and hands, but the cover it provided was enough to hide him from a casual glance. He pressed his body flat against the ground, heart pounding loud enough he swore it might give him away. Every sound around him—branches creaking, the river’s rush, a sudden shout in the distance—jerked his attention, keeping him alert despite the pain and exhaustion.

  It wasn’t long before he heard voices. Muffled at first, then clearer. Boots squelched through the mud along the riverbank, and the clink of gear rattled with each step. He didn’t move. Not an inch. He pressed his face into the wet earth and held his breath as the footsteps drew closer. The voices were speaking in a language he understood, though it sounded weird, perhaps an accent?

  "Check the treeline. I want eyes on every ditch and body."

  "Most of them are already bloated, sir. Doubt any made it through that shelling."

  "Doesn't matter. Orders are to sweep for stragglers no matter what."

  He clenched his jaw as boots squelched through the mud just feet from his head. Rain tapped against helmets and leaves. A shape moved past the fallen pine. Boots caked in mud stopped just a few feet away. One of the soldiers stood still for a moment, rifle lowered, head turning slowly as if listening. Rain tapped against his helmet. Then, without a word, he moved on, the gear on his belt rattling softly as he walked.

  After some time, silence and the patter of rain returned to the area as the soldiers went off in search of stragglers. He didn’t move. Not yet. He stayed flat against the ground, face pressed into the damp earth. His heart was still racing, his muscles tense from the effort of staying still for so long.

  Eventually, the pain in his limbs became too sharp to ignore. His fingers were numb, his legs stiff. Breathing through his nose, he shifted one arm forward and planted his palm against the ground. Mud squelched beneath his weight as he pushed himself upward.

  He rose slowly, first to his knees, then onto shaky legs. His muscles trembled with the effort. The cold and damp had worked their way deep into his body, but he didn’t have the luxury of resting. If the soldiers returned, he’d never have time to hide again.

  Standing fully now, he scanned the area around him. No movement. The forest ahead thickened into dense undergrowth and broken trees, likely hit by shelling or gunfire. Still, it offered cover—and a direction.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He took his first steps cautiously, each footfall sinking into the wet ground. He kept low, body hunched slightly, eyes darting between trees and brush. The forest floor was slick and uneven, roots and debris hidden beneath the undergrowth, but he moved forward.

  The deeper he went, the more the sounds of battle faded. The thud of artillery and the staccato of rifles became distant echoes, replaced by the soft rustle of rain in the branches and the wet squish of his own steps. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t even know who he was. But staying still hadn’t helped. Moving forward was all he had left.

  Eventually, the trees began to part, and he found himself looking at a farm. The two-story farmhouse sat in the center of a clearing, its outer walls weathered but standing. A few windows were shattered, and a large patch of the southern wall had been blackened by fire, but the roof remained solid. Near it stood a barn, large and sturdy, with its doors slightly ajar. Two trucks were parked nearby, their beds partially loaded with crates and fuel drums.

  He stopped at the edge of the trees. Soldiers moved around the property. Not many—four, maybe five—but enough to keep him down if they spotted him. They didn’t appear to be searching anymore. Most were gathered near the trucks, checking cargo and shouting short commands to one another over the rain.

  He ducked behind the remains of a crumbling fencepost and studied the scene. One soldier lit a cigarette under the protection of a tarp canopy, while another struggled to strap down a pile of salvaged supplies in the back of a truck. A third man emerged from the house with a sack over his shoulder and tossed it into the pile.

  “Where’s the rest of it?” one of them shouted.

  “Barn. Someone said there are tools and feed stored in there. Maybe more.”

  “Then grab it and let’s go. We’re supposed to be out of here ten minutes ago.”

  They weren’t in a hurry—just working with the dull routine of men on the tail end of an operation. Their rifles were slung or leaning against the vehicles, their attention mostly on the cargo.

  He moved from the fence to a patch of overgrown bushes, keeping low and staying quiet. Since the group seemed occupied, it looked like it wouldn’t take much to just—

  A scream tore through the rain.

  Shrill. Raw. Full of pain. It was unmistakably a woman’s.

  His head snapped toward the barn. The soldiers turned at once, a few pointing, others laughing. Whatever had just happened, it wasn’t an accident. Their words were mostly lost under the roll of thunder, but their tone was clear—mocking, careless, unbothered.

  One of them shouted, “Told her not to hold back on us!”

  Another chuckled. “Give her a reason to talk next time!”

  Their laughter continued for a moment, then faded as the group loaded into the truck. The engine sputtered to life, tires grinding through the mud as the vehicle pulled away, disappearing behind a bend in the treeline. Just like that, they were gone.

  Where the truck had been was now a motorcycle with a sidecar, parked sloppily near the barn. The sidecar was piled high with burlap sacks, the tops left untied. Even from a distance, he could see the rough outlines of grain spilling out from one of them.

  His eyes shifted back to the barn. Something was going on in there, and he knew he couldn't just leave it be. The scream had said enough.

  Sticking to the tall grass and staying low, he crept forward. The rain helped mask his movement. Each step was careful, measured. He stayed crouched until he reached the far side of the barn, pressing his back against the wall beneath a warped, rusted window.

  Another scream echoed from inside. This one was shorter—guttural. There was a pause, then the heavy sound of boots scuffing against wood.

  He edged toward a crack between the boards. Inside, the woman was on the floor near the rear wall. She was curled in on herself, one arm shielding her head. A soldier stood over her, breathing hard, pistol drawn but not yet raised.

  She looked to be in her twenties, her face streaked with blood and mud. Her long black hair was tangled and clung to her skin from the rain. One side of her face was already swollen from a hit, and the fabric of her dress was torn at the shoulder. Her body trembled in place—not from the cold, but from fear. Her lips moved silently, maybe in prayer or in shock, but no sound came out.

  The soldier took a step closer, raising the pistol slowly with one hand while the other rested on his belt. His jaw clenched as he muttered to himself, either working up the nerve or savoring the moment.

  “Stupid fucking Voshnian's,” the soldier growled as he placed a finger on the trigger. “Don’t you ever learn?”

  The woman didn’t respond, but instead, an odd look crossed her face—wide-eyed, not with fear, but with something closer to recognition. Her gaze shifted, not to the pistol or the man towering over her, but to something behind him.

  The soldier caught the expression and hesitated. His brow furrowed. “What—”

  Before he could finish the thought or turn to see what she was staring at, something slammed into him and tackled him to the ground.

  The pistol flew from the soldier’s hand as both men hit the dirt floor hard. He landed on top of the soldier but barely had time to react before the soldier twisted beneath him and threw an elbow into his ribs. Pain flared through his side, and he grunted as his grip loosened.

  The soldier swung again, catching him across the jaw. Stars burst behind his eyes as he rolled sideways, scrambling to stay on top. He swung back, catching the soldier across the face, though this didn't seem to do much besides anger the man. The soldier grunted and grabbed at his collar, dragging him down as they grappled across the floor.

  They wrestled over loose hay and splintered boards, boots kicking, fists landing in short, ragged bursts. His movements were slower than they should’ve been. His muscles ached, and the throbbing in his head blurred his focus. He brought his knee up, trying to pin the soldier's arm, but the soldier shifted and slammed a boot into his opponent's stomach, sending him sprawling to the floor.

  The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, ribs screaming, vision swimming. He tried to push himself up, but his arms barely held his weight. His hands slipped in the dirt, reaching for anything—nothing came.

  Across the floor, the soldier picked himself up and spotted his weapon. He staggered toward it, grabbed it off the ground, and turned, chest heaving, eyes wild. His finger slid onto the trigger as he raised the pistol.

  The man on the floor stared up at the barrel, too slow to move, too weak to stop it, and he closed his eyes just as a crack echoed throughout the barn. For a brief moment, he thought he was going to die, but when he didn't feel the impact of a bullet hitting him, he opened his eyes.

  The soldier’s head was pointed in an awkward direction, jerked violently to the side as much of his skull was now caved in. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to say something,g but nothing came out as he dropped without a sound. The pistol clattered from his grip as his body slumped face-first onto the floor.

  Standing behind him, the woman breathed heavily, both hands wrapped around a blood and bone smeared brick. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes wide as her body trembled. She let the brick fall from her hands. It landed near the corpse with a dull thud.

  He tried to speak—tried to say something—but the words wouldn’t come. His mouth opened slightly, breath catching in his throat, but no sound followed. The edges of his vision darkened. His knees buckled beneath him, and the last thing he saw was the woman staring back at him, frozen in place, before the world pitched forward and everything went black.