His smile, partial yet entirely realized, drew hisses from his brothers-in-arms. Rifle slung low across his chest, he belted out word for word the most beautiful song yet heard by my pitiful ears. Blood caked on the lobes, trickling down my neck and into my shirt. The bombed out husk of the church created the perfect stage for young Alexander Goodchild to hold each and every one of us in Rapture.
Hands crossed, intertwined, nervously picked at scabs, scratched at filthy scalps. His voice leapt from low to high back and yet again soared. The planes buzzed by in the milky daylight, The sun infused with the droll smoke which lolled up into the sky. Our faces had an unearthly pallor. Sunken eyes rimmed with fatigue. Our cheekbones cut the wind which caressed our faces. Our bones shook to and fro.
His harmonies crescendoed over the falling munitions. The church floor heaved and rolled. The very earth upon which we stood gave way to the beatific Alexander and his siren song.
He climbed to his feet, as did each and every one of us. Clambered back to the living to catch one more earful of young Alexanders death rattle.
He choked back the very blood that he so wished to heave up and onto the Church foundation. Red teeth clenched, he continued on. The lot of us hidden beneath the thick black smoke lifting past the sun.
His voice. O' his voice, the last thing we heard before the final bomb fell.
Lord that voice.