FREEDOM HAS A VOICE

Chapter 7: Our Lonesome

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

NEW YORK CITY, UPPER MANHATTEN, DECEMBER 12TH, 2025

(Major Leon Sharpe P. O. V)

Darkness clouded in a blur surrounded the corners of my vision.

The seething, raging pain penetrated my chest and coursed throughout my body like an infectious virus.

My hand, icy and hot with weight nearly exceeding my strength to lift it, ran across my chest plate. My Kevlar vest's still-hot, torn fibers graced my numb fingers until they came across a cavity.

And singing pain ignited with fury, burning, red hot pain; forcing me to withdraw my hand away that was now dabbed in vibrant red blood.

Sprawled on the muddy, cold ground, blanketed in snow, I found the strength to roll on all fours, eight of my fingers visible from the gloves that had been with me since coming East.

They were bruised, purple and red, bloodied; no amount of farm work in the past could've prepared them for this amount of beating.

A folded sketch paper, spotted with blood, slipped out of its resting place from my breast pocket and gently flowed down onto the snow, its warmth instantly causing the frozen water beneath it to cry out as it began to soak into it.

It unfolded partly, the blue shading of the air causing it to radiate in cold blue. Green, red, and black crayons scribbled on it, and the words 'You can do it!' at the top.

I wish I could say that I did everything-- that I could, that I tried my best, but my best wasn't enough.

Things had not gone as planned, and people who were not supposed to die did.

What happened back in the city still reels me.

I...

I...

I need to push on and hope that the others made it far into Jersey for extraction; they're somewhere right now, safe and secure.. It's too early for me to give up now.

Reaching for the picture, I picked it up and secured it in my pant pocket as I put pressure on my throbbing legs and began the trek to the closest set of buildings; hopefully before nightfall.

My first step in the making was crossing the Harlem River, second: rest, third: returning to friendly territory to rejoin the 100th, wherever they were...

As I walked, my battered XM7 clamored on my back in gentle intervals that argued against the whistling wind. I forced myself many times to continue walking, despite the pain.

I was exhausted.

.

.

.

Silence, that's what I was greeted with on the outskirts of Manhatten. Deafening loud silence, so thin a pen drop could break it, yet so thick, that what the town evidently once was-- lingered in silence.

How can something be so loud and quiet at the same time?

There, sat at the corner of a street, rested an old diner with two of the four walls spilling over onto the street, its blue-colored bricks being chipped away with time.

When I went inside-- I was greeted by broken tables, the smell of nuts? And shattered bottles of alcohol long soaked into the dark oak wooden floorboards.

There was also a pool table, and to me, it looked like the game never finished, as one of the cue sticks was resting on the edge of the pool table.

The floor creaked under my weight, and it was loud, but I didn't care; my legs weakened with every step, and if I were to pass out, at least I'd look pretty for whoever found me.