The sky is a deep, brooding red, as if the heavens themselves had been scorched by the flames that raged below. Smoke billows in thick, acrid plumes, curling around the remains of once-proud buildings reduced to skeletal shells by the relentless bombardment. The air is thick with the scent of burning fuel, melting metal, and something more sickening—flesh.
The sergeant stands on a jagged outcrop of rock, his boots scuffed and worn from weeks of trudging through the war-torn landscape. His rifle, now more a part of him than his own limbs, hangs loosely from his shoulder, its barrel still hot from the last volley.
Beside him, the sniper is a statue of grim resolve, watching the inferno below behind his mask, as if absorbing the destruction into his very soul.
They both watch in silence as another round of explosions erupts in the distance, a chain reaction of detonations ripping through the enemy’s supply lines. The night has become day, illuminated by the fierce orange glow of fireballs rising to the heavens, as if they, too, sought escape from the horrors below.
“Quite a show,” the sergeant finally says, breaking the silence. His voice is rough, gritty, carrying the weariness of a soldier who has seen too much, felt too much.
The sniper gives a curt nod, his eyes never leaving the carnage. “Yeah,” he replies. “It’s the end of the line for them. No more running, no more hiding.”
There is a pause, the kind that hangs heavy in the air, weighed down by the unspoken thoughts that circle between them.
The sergeant takes a deep breath, the acrid smoke stinging his lungs, and exhales slowly, watching the breath dissipate into the war-torn night. “You ever think about it?” the sergeant asks, his tone more contemplative now, almost as if he is afraid of the answer.
“Think about what?”
“How it all ends,” the sergeant says, his voice quieter now. “How everyone gets what’s coming to them in the end. Doesn’t matter what you’ve done or how far you’ve run. Sooner or later, it catches up to you.”
The sniper is silent for a moment, the only sound between them the distant thunder of collapsing buildings and the faint cries of men whose lives are being extinguished one by one. “That’s the way it is,” the sniper finally replies. “You make your choices, and you live with them. But in the end, justice catches up with everyone. Could be in a courtroom, could be on the battlefield, or it could be somewhere else entirely. But it comes. It always comes.”
The sergeant nods, as if he’d been waiting for that answer. It’s a truth he had known deep down, something that had guided him through every firefight, every close call. He had seen it play out too many times—men who thought they were invincible, who thought they could outrun their past, only to find themselves staring down the barrel of a gun or lying in a ditch with the life ebbing out of them.
“Sometimes I wonder,” the sniper continues, “if we’re not all just waiting for our turn. Maybe that’s why we’re here, why we keep fighting. Maybe we’re just hoping that when it finally catches up with us, we’ll be ready for it.”
The sniper turns to look at the sergeant then, really look at him, as if seeing the other man for the first time. There is something in the sergeant’s eyes—something haunted, something that speaks of nights spent in cold, lonely places, staring up at the stars and wondering if they were the last things he’d ever see.
“Maybe,” the sergeant says softly. “But it’s not about being ready. It’s about accepting it. Knowing that you’ve done all you can, fought your fight, and when the time comes, you meet it head-on. No regrets, no second-guessing. Just… acceptance.”
The sniper absorbs those words, lets them sink in, lets them become a part of him. He doesn’t know if he is ready to accept it yet—whatever ‘it’ is. But he knows that he has to keep moving forward, keep fighting, until the day came when he will be ready.
Or until he has no choice.
“Let’s talk about something else now.” the sniper says finally, his voice steady now.
They stand in silence again, watching as the last of the explosions died down, leaving only the burning wreckage of what once was, the echoes of destruction lingering in the air like a distant memory.
The night is eerily quiet now, the sounds of battle replaced by the crackling of flames and the occasional distant shout. People are screaming. People are dying.
“Yeah,” the sergeant says. “Let’s talk about something else.”
About the Author:
Holly Scott is an Australian speculative fiction and author and first reader for Flash Fiction Magazine. She crafts stories to explore worlds and spark wonder.
