War For The World

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It took him a while to finally get moving.

The moment replayed over and over in his head. Jones. Benson. Braltr.

Another deep groan echoed across the sky, shaking Michaels to his core.

Martians.

He got up, his body screaming at him. The outlook room was destroyed now. Its windows were smashed in and the howling of the wind came rushing in to greet him as he peered down below into the town hall.

A large hole had taken the place of the town halls roof, scattering rubble and other debris down below. His eyes following the debris he noticed solemnly the lack of people.

Braltr was gone. Benson was gone. The only person left in the town hall with Michaels was the corpse of his brother in arms Martin Jones.

A massive pool of blood had grown around his body, lying face first on the ground and riddled with bullets.

Determination and guilt coursed through the Seargent like a raging wildfire. This was undoubtedly his fault. He was the one who had ok'd the mission, to send his friends off into a suicide mission all in the hopes of unrequited love.

If he was going to make it right, he could start by bringing what remained of Jones home.

Gritting his teeth Michaels gripped the windowsill. Pain erupted in his hands as shards of glass dug into the palms of his hands, though he took no notice in such trivial things. In some way, he guessed he deserved it.

With as much grace as his weakened body would allow, he swung himself over the windowsill and leapt off onto the town hall floor below. Bracing for impact did nothing to help him, and as his legs hit the wooden floorboards his knees burst with pain and he cried out.

He was on all fours now. A broken man in a broken town. This wasn't about the mission anymore, it was about doing what was right by his squad.

He looked up. Seeing Jones lying there atop the stage gave him strength and he willed himself forwards, crawling on all fours as he tried desperately to get to his fallen comrade.

Overhead, a large chunk of concrete suddenly gave way from the exposed roof. With a crack it came tumbling down, Michaels following it with his eyes in great sadness.

The chunk of concrete fell fast, crashing down into Jones head. The sound was sickening, and the imagery even more so as blood and flesh exploded outwards. A piece of skin still raw and bloody went flying towards Michaels. He barely ducked in time, hearing it whiz past him and land on the floorboards next to him.

OOLAA

The Tripods were here. He could feel it. The ground beneath his feet had begun shaking not too long ago and by now it was akin to that of a large aftershock. He lay there on the floorboards of the town hall interior as the first of the heat beams shot out.

Michaels saw the red beam sizzle across the hole in the roof. Where it was heading he'd never know, but the screaming that followed confirmed that wherever it had been aimed at it most certainly reached its target.

He got up slowly, moaning as he got to his feet and surveyed the damage of the town hall.

A few other bodies lay dead on the floor, prisoners who refused to follow Braltr to his camp Michaels guessed.

Another chunk came loose, this time just above Michaels head and he leapt forwards. The chunk of concrete crashed behind him into the floorboards and pieces scattered everywhere.

This place was a living death trap, he thought. He needed to get out fast.

He tried to run, though it was more akin to that of a hobble. Slowly Michaels managed to leave, exiting through the giant front doors of the town hall and back out into daylight.