InkMature

He awakes with amnesia, unsure of where he is or how he got there. The ground shakes with the foreboding cacophony of war outside, yet in the darkness around him all seems still. She calls to him then, from the inky darkness, her soothing voice giving him direction again. In an adrenaline-fueled sprint, he races to remember.

 With a low rumble, the boy burst from sleep, gasping. His room was dark, shadows swimming around him like ink. The only light was from the nearby window; it took the form of a checkered pattern on the hardwood floor beneath his feet. His window, lined in checkers like one would expect a window of the time to look, displayed an umbra in the shape of other houses, silhouetted against the night sky and the bright moon. It was dark, darker than usual, but the shadows never scared him; even as they crawled and stretched and contorted his vision to make ordinary objects look sinister, he was not afraid.

 Outside his window, all was quiet, and that was normal. But then came the low rumble again, and this time he was convinced it wasn’t his dream. He had dreamt, quite vividly, an army of uniformed soldiers with faces blank and grey, guns drawn, helmets grim, in a formation quite reminiscent of a parade. He had dreamt of fire rain, of the wrath of the heavens in the form of bombshells; he had dreamt of an end time come and gone. He, not only dreamt, but remembered. He dreamt of the tanks he now recalled, hulking masses of steel and rust with cannons longer than he stood tall, machine guns spitting fire and lightning, and hellfire fueling the infernal engines. He dreamt and recalled the flames of blue fire, of scorched corpses and dead-eyed, empty-socketed, still screaming children. He remembered it well, after all, it was his school which was hit first. And he remembered the sinister faces, the cold gun barrels containing fire and metal, the stomp-march of each unified and organized daemon.

The End

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