The Attack Consolidated)

8/7/2019 The Attack Consolidated)

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The Attack (Pt 1)"Trapped"

He can't feel his arms. From the inside he comes out...un-hearing, unaware, but

present, and slowly rising from within he starts to notice what's at the surface. Noises,

discomfort, people, jostling and the smell. He is awake. His body bounces side to side

as whatever he's in rides over rough bumps. He opens his eyes and he's in a truck,

mashed next to countless others as it rides over cobblestone and pothole. It all over-

flows with rain. His body is pressed tight against other bodies, sweating and unmov-

able. He can't feel his arms, they won't let him move.

Late afternoon or early evening, the sun is still present though the clouds hide the light.

He doesn't know how long he's been there, has no idea for how long hes slept. Minutes

pass, his eyes fixed to the floor as he concentrates on what he thinks he remembers, a

throbbing pain and burning heat pulsing from his skull. Vaguely he starts to remember

how he came to be in the truck, and who the other bodies are, the ones that won't let

him free. Hours before he'd sat on his porch smoking, inhaling (the rich drag) rich

smoke, and savoring the foul smell as he listened to the radio. Something had hap-

pened, something big. As he listened to the radio hoping for news, he could hear the
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sounds of blasts in the distance, very faint, far off. He dozed, falling within himself,

sleeping on the porch as the light rain wet him, and the cool air entered him. All the

while he'd been drowsing half awake when a heavy slam knocked him to his feet, and a

piercing glass shatter cut through his ears like ice crystals raining down after a vicious

strike. He looked up and his neighbor was on top of him, shaking him senselessly to re-

store his sense. "We must go! Right now!" Without thinking and without questioning he

grabbed what was nearest to him, a bag and his smokes as he followed his neighbor

through the sinking mud which had once been his street, tailing a crowd of people

scrambling towards a parked truck....

The Attack (Pt 2)"Fleeing"

They loaded in one by one, and then two by two, and then finally all pressing in at once,

like piranha converging on a beefy corpse. A dull rumble vibrated the air, as the pan-

icked crowd packed themselves in the truck. The children clung to their mothers, and

were hoisted up above the masses in their arms, while the others crammed in together

awkwardly, finding their spots where there were no spots. The men who were stronger

stood up against the windows and the curving ceiling. An old man sat at the wheel, his
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red creasing face was soaked with sweat, and his hands twitched as he reached for the

keys unseen within his pockets. Seconds of searching and he got them, and nearly just

as soon dropped them, his hands mimicking a Parkinson tremor. A little girl glanced

over at the nervous driver. She (frowned) smiled, not knowing why he was afraid, but

sensing his fear and that of the others. She walked over to him, picked up the keys he

could not reach and handed them to him, before returning to the doll she held to her

chest.

The old man pressed the keys in the ignition, and the engine staggered to life. The

truck moved slowly out of the muddied road as the rain intensified. A few minutes later

it had cleared the street and the man who's head was starting to ache and whose arms

were about to go numb looked out the back window as his village, which they'd scarcely

cleared, was engulfed in a bright light and leveled by a percussive wind. The bus rattled

and he blinked. When he opened his eyes there was only ash and mortar, it mixed in

with the mud. The rain slackened off slightly.

The Attack (Pt 3)-A stab in the dark.
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Present.

It was from all this that (he) the man came. Hidden threats and unknown fears led him

to be where he was now. Trapped next to live bodies, riding in an old truck into an un-

known future. The threat elusive, but certainly real. Direct confrontations were avoided

but everywhere they went, everything they saw: evidence of ruin, recently executed at-

tacks, and empty villages spoke to its existence. They could only hope to avoid con-

frontation. In his burning and sinking village was a warning. "Stay hidden, keep mov-

ing, the threat is real." Now hours later, the man remembered all which he'd tried to for-

get, (while) hiding within (in sleep) his dreams. In his dreams he had forgotten, in his

dreams he was safe. He wished thethose dreams were true. Realty was an unknown,

(and) he wished his empty and delirious dreams could be reality. The driver kept the

bus headed west on small roads bordering the woods, which winded through low hills,

(and) narrow roads. The smell he'd noticed before grew stronger, unwashed bodies

fouling each other. Humans beings were not meant to stay in close quarters for long,

human beings are (a a filthy breed) the filthiest breed.

Later...


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It was near night. The intangible danger became more tangible as one could see flash-

es in the sky, and hear the repetitive rattle of gunfire in the far off. The rain had stopped

but the radio hadn't functioned for hours. No service. The people ducked down as the

bus lurched on. It went on so for about a half hour more and then there came a fork in

the road. One (path) led into the woods and the other towards the bright flashes. The

driver stopped. He rose, steadying himself against the railing with sweaty palms as his

knees wobbled. He looked out upon the crowded bus and he could see dark faces and

uncertain expressions; the sun dipped behind one of the hills and it was night. He ad-

dressed the crowd. "We have to decide, what to do. We haven't much gas and I can

only guess which direction is safest. It's all been a guess and I can't be responsible any

longer, those who want to stay can stay, but I can't take us much further and certainly no

safer. Those who wish to go, choose your path, and God be with you." There was a

deep murmur, voices within the crowd, tired and sick, frightened and uncertain ex-

pressed their anger, their pain, and fear in many voices. The cries muted by the dull

rumble of the many voices, however, for the man the decision had been made hours

earlier. He'd wanted out ever since his conscious mind crawled outside the subcon-

scious and he emerged from sleep. Out! He staggered to his feet, sliding out from the


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greasy bodies, and moved forward, stepping, finding empty spaces where there were

none, stepping over bodies and on bodies. His legs cramping and spasming. He

reached the front of the bus, looked the old man in the eye, then he looked away, and

then he stepped out.

The Attack (Pt 4)A stab in the back.

Fresh. Outside the air was fresh and cool and quite dry. It circulated his nostrils by

changing winds, the freshness carried away the fouling smell. He raised his head sky-

ward and stared at the stars; a more peaceful existence given the Gods, clear of con-

flict. He watched them as he inhaled each breath, it was a cleansing ritual. For a while

he just stood with his head inclined, enjoying the moment, seeing the far out universe

and its endless expansion, and then lowering the angle of his neck just a bit, he faced

the trees. Back to Earth. What to do? On one side the woods, on the other the flashes,

out in the open who knew what could happen? They'd gotten this far by evading the

truth, he did not want to know what was happening yet; thus far all they had seen spoke

to a limited version of some aftermath. No living witness or unfortunate victim to attest

to anything else. Others disembarked behind him, a few brave souls to take their lives
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in their own hands. He looked left, he looked right. (Left) (Right) Into the woods, no

looking back. Some followed.

Minuets later...

"And where will we go?" Among the short line that tailed from behind him a voice sound-

ed. The man turned his head over his shoulder briefly to answer, but his feet never

stopped (moving) walking. "From what our driver said, it's almost a moot point. We are

blind, and if you follow me it's the blind leading the blind. Nothing is safe, we don't know

what's safe, and I only hope to find a place to sleep and to think." The answer seemed

to satisfy. He swiveled his head forward and marched on, inline behind there were

mostly men, some women, some children, all too fearful to stop. They marched up hills

staggered by rocks, knee deep in mud at parts, stumbled on sticks, and trekked the

crisscrossing streams facing uphill gravity. The flashes continued to light up the sky,

each more so than the sun, illuminating all for less than a second. In one of those in-

stances he could see men not too far, and maybe the barrel of a long gun.

Quiet, Drop.


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Darkness returned instantly. The man ducked quickly and motioned the others to do the

same, all followed suit, he laid himself down, back to the ground facing the others to

make a quick count. Twelve people. Five men, four women, and three children. He

flipped over and laid his face to the land, chest to the earth. The ground was still damp

and mud caked his face as he starred silently into the distance, waiting for the next flash

to brighten their position.

Flash.

The next flash came. He locked his eyes to the place from where he'd seen the gun

barrel. Through the searing brightness he concentrated, about twenty meters down he

saw ten soldiers in the trees (consider cutting below) below, some in uniform, some

without, all with rifles and dogs (insert tracking dog breed). The dogs sniffed the air. He

closed his eyes and pressed his face to the dirt once more. What to do? The wind car-

ried away their scent, but winds change, dogs track, and bullets fly faster than people.

His mind scrambled for a plan, (consider cutting what to do) what to do? Perhaps (he

thought,) if the men split up, and one guided the women and children they could take


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the soldiers off course from the most vulnerable, but at what risk? What would happen

if one got caught? Their only chance was to split up for good, no one could know where

the others went for fear of being found out. The man pulled his face from the ground,

flipped on his back, and motioned for the others to follow him. They needed to hear the

plan, and they had to agree to it.

Stay low.

"Stay low." He whispered. "Mothers quiet your children and everyone withdraw, follow

me, stay close." (How had he become this leader?) They followed him up the hill, fur-

ther into the trees, seeking cover in the shadows. Up until this point everything they'd

seen and heard had been rumor, but with soldiers in the field the attack became much

realer (became real) (more real) (became reality). When they'd reached a point about

30 meters into the tree cover, the man turned to address the people, they stayed low

hidden in bushes. He spoke in a voice nearly a whisper. "I am not your leader, but I

have an idea and I'd like you to listen, and to decide quickly. We have women and chil-

dren here, seven in total. I think it is our duty to protect them as much as we can and if

they catch us together, then they have us all. We should split up. Each man going alone


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except one who will stay to guide the women and children. We won't meet up again, or

if we do it will be by chance because otherwise if one is caught, we're all caught."

Split.

They remained silent. Backs to the ground, others on their stomachs, the children were

ghosts. The people stared at the ground, and at each other. Some looked to the man.

They couldn't speak loudly, for fear of being overheard. Then one of the men, who'd

been eyeing the soldiers nervously, made a move, without a word he crawled away on

his belly parallel to the tree line. The leaves rustled slightly underneath as he moved

away a few feet at a time...until even the slight rustle became inaudible. One down.

The Attack (Pt 4.5)A stab in the back.

Eleven.

Beneath the silence was the tension. All together, but all alone. No more bus, no more

leaders. Just decisions. The people wanted a choice but they didn't want to make it.
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Some closed their eyes, some looked away, waiting for the next man or woman to make

their choice, to move on, life in hand into the unknown (consider replacing with life un-

known or life into the unknown), away from the others. Somewhere (To a place) where

chance and fortune would see one (them) into their future or to their death(s). Flashes

continued to ignite the night and panting dogs wet the chill night air with musty breaths.

A cold gust blew through the tops of the trees, the temperature dropped, the air became

gelid, and slowly the winds began to change course. Blowing towards the tree line. No

one moved. The man stared at the group, his plan was on the verge of failure. The

people wouldn't leave, and looking at eyes that would not look back he came to realize

they would not leave him. (Once more he tilted his head skyward, hoping to discern an

answer from the powers that be.) Up was a new moon, a dark circle hidden in more

darkness and below in its shadow he made his choice. He turned his back to the crowd,

laid flat on his belly and crawled away, up further into the brush, face to the thickets with

chills erupting down his spine like a live wire firing. He cursed himself under his breath,

and left them all behind. Listening to the underbrush rustle beneath him as he made his

way off, minuets passed, the people grew smaller but he didn't look back, soon they

wouldn't see him, already they couldn't hear him.


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Ten.

One.

He moved on for sometime, the caked mud flaked, and his body once freshened by the

air had returned to its familiar reek. He couldn't hear the people, he couldn't hear the

dogs, but most likely if they hadn't moved, well then most likely something would have

happened. Who knows? Guilt could wait. They all were left to their best chance. Up

above, meters in, round the bend of a stream he stopped to drink. The man pressed his

lips to the water which ran the depth of an inch flowing around pebbles, he felt his

tongue touch the earth as he lapped at the cool clean flow. He drank for a minute, took

the water in his hands and ran the cold liquid over his face, letting it drip down his body,

through his clothes. It felt clean. Left of the stream, a step across was a large tree, two

trees actually. In between where the trunks split into a twist and went their own ways

was a space, dark and guarded. He glanced over at the gap, and made his way into its

shadow disappearing in the blackness. He was a lost object, a toy not to be found. He

sat up straight, his back to the bark, staring out into night. He listened, hearing for

news, evidence, warnings...as he withdrew a cigarette from the disintegrating pack

stashed in his bag. He struck the match, watched the flicker, put the stog to his lip and


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inhaled a rich drag. He then closed his eyes and enjoyed the poisonous puffs while

drifting into sleep, finally sleep. How many were left? Who knew the numbers?

The Attack (Pt 6)The Bus.

The fork. The fork in the road left the driver with two choices, but having few choices

wasn't always easier than having many. Especially when the choice was between life or

death. In the hours of travel he'd become accustomed to the nervousness, the fear, and

so now he sweat no more, nor did his hands tremble. Instead he merely gazed out into

the night, gazed upon the fork and contemplated their choice. He the leader of a group

of shadows. The flashes continued to ignite the night, half of the people were asleep,

the other half subdued by the horrors they'd yet to see. Living in uncertainty. The driver

closed his eyes, sliding his hands along the groves of the steering wheel, he thought an

intense thought, it might have been a prayer. Then. He turned left towards the flashes.

The road went down as well as left and the bus descended quickly over rocky bumps

and crippling potholes to a lower altitude. It wasn't just a whim which made him decide

to take this path, at the bottom there was a lake and near the lake an abandoned paper


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mill where they might stop to rest. Nearby there was also a deserted port from which

the people might find small boats. A river entered the lake, but he wasn't sure where it

ended. In the bus the windows were open, frigid air blew through the truck, numbing

his ear as he listened to the rumble of an approaching storm's wind whipping through

the tops of trees. He'd long since cut the headlights and as the bus approached the low

lying lake he also cut the engine, letting the it roll discreetly to their destination.

At the bottom of the hill there was a concrete path which led to the mill, but the bus

wouldnt stop (before hitting). Gravity had bequeathed it with too much momentum and

it would soon crash into the building. The driver experienced as he was, down shifted,

and jammed the emergency break full. The cables stretched as he forced the brake

down, he could hear grinding from within as the bus came to a gradual halt, gradual but

violent and not quiet. Bodies fell to the floor, those who were awake tried to brace the

sleeping. Moments of terror and it was over. The bus stopped. No one screamed or

shouted. The driver sighed, as he took the keys from the ignition and listened to the fa-

miliar rattle that they made as the nervousness which he had conquered returned, and

his hands began to tremble (quiver). He stood up, turned to the crowd and addressed

the newly awakened faces of his shadow tribe. Were here. End of line. Good luck.


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With that he opened the doors, stepped out, and walked to the shores edge stripping off

his shirt to bathe.

The people disembarked not as they had embarked. They walked slowly and cautious-

ly, one by one, helping each other out as the daze and dizziness of half a days driving

and half a day without eating hit their stiff bodies. A crowd gathered (coalesced) and

they made their way through the lakes mist and the blackened night towards the paper

mill. The ones ahead broke the locks on the doors and pushed them open, and the

larger crowd followed behind moving into a vast black space filled with thick dust

ladened with asbestos. They moved tentatively, feeling for sharp objects, holes, dis-

carded machinery, obvious dangers. Minuets of searching and quiet exploration passed

without consequence. It felt safe, they continued walking.

Soon...

At the front of a group a man froze, his ears had caught the faintest of sounds. A low

growl followed by a spiteful bark. Before he could move, a lone dog, much like a wolf

leapt out from the dark corridor striking him with its clawed paws, which dug in as he fell,


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next its large jaws were over his slim neck, and they clamped down with total force. The

sharp wet teeth lacerated his flesh like a spiked hammer, and cut complete like a scis-

sor. In an instant he was dead, and behind the first dog more came running. Blood was

in the air; behind the dogs came flashes and thunder, as well poised soldiers fired into

the group cutting them down one by one, bullets through the throats and faces, collaps-

ing lungs and exploding hearts. They ran, some screamed, but no one made it out.

Outside the drivers head emerged from underneath the pool of icy water. He heard the

shots and the shouts, and he knew the mental coin flip hed made had landed them on a

loser. Men and dogs exited the once abandoned mill as the firing ceased. He swam out

into the water towards the middle of the lake hoping to avoid notice...but from the shore

vehicles emerged and (shining) spotlights and flashlights shone. The soldiers were

thorough. They scanned the lake under searchlight while the dogs sat alert at the wa-

ters edge waiting for a smell or the sight of movement

The Attack (Pt 7)Mourning


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Facing west the man didnt notice the early rays of dawn. His eyes were closed as his

body struggled to wake, his mind stuck in dream. In anticipation of the new day the

birds began their song, the predawn chorus, and not long after the birds began their rou-

tine, the first rays of daylight streamed in between the trees, appearing over a hill as

dawn struggled to become day. He shivered, he tried to forget, he tried to sleep, but

slowly rising from within he started to become aware of what was at the surface, still-

ness, moisture, chirps, and the light. Coming from the inside out, he emerged. He

opened his eyes and he was in a forest. Awake. Back to reality, back to hell (night-

mare). Yawning he searched for his last cigarettes but they were wet and so was he. It

must have rained overnight.

He shivered, his clothes were soaked, his skin was chill, and it had been over a day

since hed even heard the word food. He didnt know anything and now he could stop

pretending that he did. The man stepped out from his hiding place, and stood up. His

knees shook, he could feel the sensation (blood) drain from his face and the light dim

from his eyes. Everything went dark as he fell (collapsed) to his knees, his eyes were

open but he couldnt see anything and his body convulsed. He lay on the ground star-

ing up, unseeing. He felt weak.


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The others.

He coughed, his headache came back, as his eyes regained sight, the blood pooled to

his face and his skin livened once more. He reeked of rot, bad breath, soiled pants, and

he hacked (coughed) loudly feeling pains in his chest and guilt on his conscience.

Where were the others? Where was he? He needed food. He searched the ground,

the dirt, and the sticks looking for something alive, edible. Near the opening of the hole

that was his hiding place he spotted pooling mud, overwhelmed with water, from the

mud earthworms burst out dying, struggling. Without pause, without thought, driven to

feed, dying to eat, the man dove down head first from his knees into the mud. He gath-

ered the worms in his palms like wet pasta, and preyed on them as a child on candy;

their guts and blood mashed in his mouth, his stomach quivered and ached as the dying

worms gave him their life. He was alive. If you were miserable then you knew you were

alive.

______________________________________________________________________

The Attack (Pt 8) The Driver


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He is cold. But not physically. A psychological chill pierces through his consciousness.

Murder and horror, not always in that order, how does one register it? Physically, he

feels nothing, in reality he is quite cold, however, the frigid black pool which conceals his

location has long since severed communication with the nerve endings. They are dead,

and so is he; the passengers of the ill fated bus. From time to time he peaks his nose

above the waterline, breathing and expelling air at the surface so as not to form bubbles,

then he dips his head gently below eye level; half submerged and half above the water-

line. Time is not on his side, the soldiers are no longer occupied with the casualties,

they long since finished loading the corpses, moreover, the vicious canine component of

their expeditionary force seems even more intent than the men on finding survivors.

Their heightened senses put into the service of fulfilling their training, locating a target.

So he waits

So he waits

Playing the prey with eyes on the side, trusting that the hounds with eyes ( facing front)

in front, will cut their losses and move on before the icy water suppresses all his senses,

and drags him into a (sanguinary) (eternal) sleep at the bottom of the lake. Trusting,


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hoping, praying. His spiritual reversion has been such, moving from a secular trust in

chance, to a general hope that the situation will (all get sorted) (sort itself out), to an all

out humble petition to God. Perhaps with the chips fall have fallen, and when the future

is no longer something to look forward to (then) we find God. He remains idle but ever

present in our drastically changing lives.

Fifteen minuets later

At the edge of the lake, where the windy road which led them to their end begins, the

driver can see dim lights moving off, up into the foothills. The sound of barking has dis-

sipated, and he can count three, four, military vehicles withdrawing from their positions

on the shore. His numb limbs, have become phantom limbs, he struggles to force them

to life as he pushes towards the coast. The vast lake is shrouded in black and once the

last vehicle withdraws the border (boundry) between water and shore disappears. Its

night. He cannot determine the distance. The driver becomes a mover, and forces his

stiff limbs to action pushing his legs to kick, whilst his arms falter. Edging slowly through

(blindness) towards life at what was just an hour ago (the site of so much killing).


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The wind picks up as he meanders through the deep waters, rain falls, and a storm ad-

vances over the hills, he opens his eyes, and closes his eyes. The difference is imper-

ceptible save the rain and the wind, in the dark everything is equal, the lake is endless,

the land is endless, and there is no difference between the two. But he must find a dif-

ference, if he is to survive, the endless lake must end. He can barely feel his legs and

he cant feel his arms, but he sends a thought to the limbs he once recalled having,

telling them to move, hes not sure if they do, hes not sure if hes moving. The inky vista

provides no evidence of progress, and his frozen extremities do not communicate life,

but with a hope and a prayer to a God most declare dead he hopes he may yet move

on.

On and on and on...the minuets pass.

He is there.

Dim background light without source or direction registers on his weary pupils; they ex-

pand. (and) The light transmits a picture. Muted shapes, broken patterns, and a varying

texture unlike the unchanged smoothness of his lake. Detectible almost undetectable

complexities that read as white spots and hallucinations, an emerging outlook of some-

thing different. The light builds, the patterns shift, and his body washes onto a beach


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full of sand. His breath is heaving as it had been when he was moving swam, but he is

phlegmatic, he feels calm. He stares straight with his head resting on the grainy topog-

raphy (land). In the moment he can feel nothing but joy. He is alive, and hes made it to

the place he never thought hed be (to the beach hed never thought hed see.

The Attack Consolidated)

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