I coughed and stumbled. I fell and landed hard. I reached out, grabbing the nearest thing. I have to keep moving. Something charred and gooey found it's way under my fingers. I looked up and froze.
It was the remains of an enemy trooper.
They really were everything the Seargents had told us. I stopped to focus as I recalled their words. "Ruthless enough to sacrafice thousands to kill the one"
I wiped my hand and stood upright. There was more bodies. This was the remains of their lines. Their last stand to defend the inner city.
I turned to look back over the plain. There were several large lumps of slag that I presumed were the eighth armored division. The few buildings left standing were just empty shells filled with the dead and dying. The park to the west that was base of operations in the city was completely destroyed. Fires raged all around raining down ashe and soot, breaking the unnatural silence.
The deafening silence. After spending your life in training to fight to the last mans last breath, the sounds of the battlefield become comforting. They let you know you're still in the fight.
A wave of pain and nausia came over me. I clutched my head. Slowly the pain subsided. My breath was ragged and everything was still spinning. I reached out to steady myself just as my legs gave. I screamed as a piece of rebarb burned the flesh on my hand. I craddled my injured hand close to my chest. The smell of my burnt flesh stung at my eyes. I opened my eyes to see my hand bubbling. Then the shock kicked in.
I don't know how long I was out. When I came to the ashe had stopped falling. Small fires burned what little they had left. The mushroom cloud had all but dissipated. I stood and examined the damage to my hand.
My hand was healed, the smallest scar showing where the metal had touched my palm.