The Trail of Ashes

1

On-screen, a man with glowing red eyes jumped from a rooftop in a desert village, landing on the burning tank two stories below. The camera feed was hazy, the only clear bit being the news network's name tab on the bottom. The cameraman breathed hard, running away while turning every few seconds to capture the attacker behind him. The man's skin was scorched black like a burnt piece of wood, from the ridge of his hairline to what remained of pants around his waist. A squad of soldiers around the tank opened fire, riddling him with bullets from all sides, but the man roared and jumped from the tank like a mountain lion, swinging wildly at the men around him in a rabid frenzy.

"Russians, on the left." One of the soldiers shouted and dove for cover as a round ricocheted against the metal husk of the tank. Panicked and uttering a string of curses, the cameramen turned to capture the building from which the man had leaped. From around the side, a tank with the Russian flag, flanked on either side by soldiers, rumbled around and opened fire with its cannon. Finding themselves surrounded, the Americans started to fall back right as a building beside them crumbled. The feed cut off with a final frame of the scorched man taking down an American before turning to charge the Russian tank.

"You know that stuff is all fake. My dad said it's all propaganda," Noah's friend said. He smirked and moved the timeline back to highlight one of the frames when the man landed, zooming in on his red eyes. "See, totally fake. CGI."

Noah shoved his friend's hand away and slipped his phone and earbuds back into his backpack. "Shut up, idiot, you'll get us in trouble again."

The teacher stopped her droning lecture and pointed her laser pointer at the two of them. "Do you two have something to share? You better not be on your phones again."

An announcement came over the intercom before Noah could come up with an excuse. With the crackle of static behind his voice, the principal spoke shakily. There was an attack on a navy vessel off the coast near. He paused, his heavy breathing still audible as he forgot to let go of the mic. After a few deep breaths, the principal continued and listed the names of several teachers who needed to come to his office. Noah felt a chill roll down his spine. The last teacher that got called to the office hadn't come back. Finally, the principal declared that the school day would end early for safety, now that the war had touched the homeland, and that all parents were on the way to pick up their children.

The teacher had them line up before leading them to the doors. A group of masked soldiers manned the entry to the school, dividing the flow of children between two lines. As each kid came through, the soldiers knelt and shone a light in their eyes, looking for something they only knew. Noah watched as a 5th-grade girl ahead of him trembled, tears streaming down her cheeks when one of the soldiers approached too closely with a gleaming rifle. Noah wanted to tell the girl it would be alright, but talking in line got you yelled at or pulled aside.

Noah's turn came. Setting his backpack on the scanner tray, he stepped onto the black mat and spread his arms. He felt a surge of discomfort as the soldier's fingers forcibly parted his eyelids, momentarily blinding him with the tiny but harsh light. The smell of latex made him want to sneeze, but he forced the feeling down. Finally, after scrutinizing both sides of his hands, the soldier nodded.

"Alright, next." The soldier passed Noah his pack and pushed him out the door. A biting wind made Noah tuck his chin into his jacket. Outside, children huddled together at the curb, some seeking shelter from the cold like penguins and others trying to quell their panic in the arms of their friends. The 8th graders were the most shaken, oddly enough. They knew more about war than the lower grades, and like prairie dogs looking for hawks, they scanned the horizon for missiles or planes. Meanwhile, the smallest kiddies from the merged elementary school didn't know what to do with themselves. Some cried while waiting for their bus or parents, with the few remaining teachers who had avoided the draft thus far doing their best to keep order.