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The silence of the night was peaceful, almost mockingly peaceful. In the distance, fires raged and people died but right there, in the small forest clearing where the remains of Super Six lie in a smoking heap peace reigned. The dead bodies of the pilots and the four soldiers were silent, their mouths open in unnatural angles and their bodies already starting to swell. In the clearing where Petrov slowly came to, peace reigned. Peace was wrong.
Rising, Petrov held his head in a shaky hand visions slowly peeling away as his mind reentered the quasi sane state that was his combat mentality. Shadows around the grove concealed enemies, of that Petrov was certain. As he regained full consciousness he fired a few rounds into the shadows, shattering the peace of the grove. The chatter of small arms that answered him and the stinging pricks that were several rounds impacting heavily against his side.
Petrov saw spots and then he tasted blood. This served only to enrage him and even as his side was reduced to a ragged wound Petrov killed his attackers. Their lives cut short by the seven point six two times three nine ammunition his carbine hurled at them. Smiling, Petrov slowly sank down and searched for his medical kit. Cloth bandages and some alcoholic cleaning solution were enough for his wound now, he would get real help later or he would die. Turning his head south, Petrov slowly made his way toward the objective point, many miles hence.
Stepping over logs and through bushes, Petrov fought his way south. Engaging several enemy patrols and destroying a fair number of them, the aged killer almost made it when he met the real resistance. Voices, voices plaguing his mind. Petrov had encountered his alter egos before, battling for control in years past as he battled for his soul but this time, this time they were different. Pleading voices in place of the angry demands wore him down as they then outflanked him with a childhood memory or scene. It drove him to his knees.
Sitting upon his knees in the forest clearing in the midst of a war zone, Petrov seemed an almost religious figure. The old warrior shouted an oath and rose, emptying his weapon in the general direction of the foe. He fought on, his vision obscured by a blood red haze that seemed to have nothing to do with the pain or the wounds. As he continued south toward the objective, it got deeper and deeper and the voices, they got louder and louder until he knew that any more would surely cause his death,
More bullets leapt at him from the darkness and he fired a burst in response. Funny, he never remembered changing the clip. His lack of memory and the volume of the voices scared him, he was close to losing control again and when that happened…people would die in horrible ways. He fought the voices but they pulled him, they tugged and he was afraid they would drag him off. Bullets tearing the snow before him was enough of a motivator it seemed and he was quickly back on his feet, limping to the south.
The woods were growing more immaterial, trees seemed almost spectral and Petrov could tell that his hold on life was fragile indeed. He fought on, on his knees and then just crawling. He was almost there, almost to the objective. Almost there, just a few more yards and he wou-…he was there. Dark walls rose around him and before him sat a small girl. He was standing now, his wounds healed.
He stepped closer to her, her small dress covering the fragile body that was turned away from him. Yet even from behind Petrov knew, he knew. He stepped forward and was suddenly inches from here. Sinking to his knees Petrov felt the remorse and sadness that was his jailer wash over him. With tears dripping down him face, Petrov reached out and took hold of his daughter. Yet even as his fingers closer over her in a loving embrace filled with sorrow, she began to crumble.
Ashen skin turning into ashen dust that blew away leaving a blackened skeleton. Yet even her bones were not left to her father and they too crumbled and finally shattered. Her clothes, her room, the small toys that filled it, and finally Petrov’s old home and his homeland were gone. Ash. Simple Ash. He knew that it was his turn but he would not go, the Ash would not take him. With an almost silent and then steadily louder voice the Ash screamed a wordless scream that fills the hearts of men instants before they die. The scream of the fury of the dead. The scream of the ender of sanity.
The scream of Ash, Ash on the breeze.