Certainly Fooled

Chapter Two

“Greece?! What the hell am I doing here?!” Fumbling clumsily through the documented maps and journals, until something clicked in his mind.

“No...” He said with distaste as he sprinted out of the cabin, racing like lightening along the wooden hull. The thick fog drifted around the island, blocking anything beyond 6 feet from vision as it slowly devoured the lush landscape. Slinging his musket on his back, he crouched down as he inspected the mud. Deep footprints had trodden along a main road that led to the nearest town, the port that the ship had docked at was deserted and a ancient relic compared to the high-tech (for the time) ship that has just pulled up. Searching the landscape, still being eaten away by the fog, he scurried over to the hillside on the left of the road. Silently, he began to stalk the garrison of troops that were stationed on the ship.

In the distance, a loud marching sound, in perfect rhythm could be heard, echoing around what seemed like a deserted abyss. The starving fog had started to fade now, revealing the beautiful island of Greece to him, showing off its beauty with a landscape of emerald green trees and golden sands; that sparkled alongside the calm and elegant sea. The newly visible island also revealed his target. The garrison. The beautiful illusion of the island was soon broken to the sound of blood shed and war, of human cries and explosions. The mark of man on the stone of nature, the burn on the Earth. Rushing over, still silent, he observed the brutal bloodshed unfolding before him. The garrison of troops had been ambushed, ambushed well. The ambushers were outnumbered, but were winning. Piles of bodies lay lifeless on the ground, swimming in pools of fresh blood that stained the beauty of nature. Muskets laid just as lifeless as the dead. Death stood by the bloodshed, waiting to welcome all of the dead home. Aiming his musket, he crept along the back of the ambushers, slowly, patiently he waited.

Checking his musket, he readied himself, removing the bayonet and attaching it to his belt. Now. Rushing out, Alexei shot towards the ambushers, raising his musket and firing on the first one he saw. Hit. His ribs were blown from his puny side as he collapsed onto the floor, blood pouring out of his wound with as much vorticity as the rain had done three days before. The garrison paused, cheering Alexei on, despite that fact it was not to save them that he was doing this remorseless deed. Taking the bayonet from his belt, he thrust it swiftly into an ambushers neck, a waterfall of pure blood gushing out from the wound. Met by an ambushers offensive, Alexei was disarmed; not that this disarrayed him. Sending the next bayonet attack to the side, he dived up, grabbing hold of his neck and breaking it in the process – flying over the falling body and landing on his toughened shoulder, gracefully rolling off it onto the blood stained floor...

Half an hour later...

Silence. Everyone had stopped. Alexei stood, staring at them all 163 of them – the garrison and the ambushers. Only to be returned with the deathly glare of all 163; all of which had, half an hour ago, been fighting to the death...