Bite Size Stories

From the Ashes

*** *** Weekend Write-In for 7th July 2017 *** ***

"life": In 500 words, tell what happens when the event is life changing

Still playing catch up - written July 13th.

THE OLD MAN

He was one tough old sunnava bitch and he'd been doing this a looong time.

His hair was long and white, currently tied back in what he thought of as a 90's ponytail. Back then he'd had the same look, except his hair had been grey - stubble too.

The old man had a full white beard now, trimmed close but not too close. Apart from that his look hadn't altered much in twenty, thirty years - leather jacket, gold hoop earring and he was still rocking his jeans.

He had more tats. That was a change. The USMC was old, as were his Japanese letterings and the small angel wings on his shoulder blades. The pair of red dice on his right shoulder ... relatively new. He'd got those in a back room bar in Laos about six years back after the gun running thing. Nice bit of work and he'd got to take out a bunch of dirt bags.

The old man gripped his wounded arm and remembered the joker card faces on his biceps - he was actually more muscular now than he'd been at any point up to his fifties. Gotta keep things working, specially at my age, he thought, or rather muttered, mouth working through his perpetual lit stogie.

Cuban. Called to mind that mission to Havana, the one where he'd met that Soviet chiquita - the thought made him sad. They'd had some fun but the game took a bad turn - he'd had to put a bullet between her eyes to save the doc. Two of his guys had died before the airlift.

Damn. How many were dead over the years? Even the ones with the enhanced skills. He reached into his backpack and took out the bottle and more ammo. The former rested between his knees while the latter ... well that went into his big ol gun. This baby packed some goddamn punch and if there was one thing the old man knew how to do, it was punch.

But first he had a promise to keep. Using his teeth, the old man removed the cork and lifted the bottle to his lips. He drank deeply, until a third was gone, with excess fluid dribbling through his white beard. Then he sighed and poured the remainder in the ground - a drink for his dead buddies.

He uttered names, far from a full list but the ones that came into his head - good men and women, all gone. Goddamn warriors. 'Bronco, Duke, Legrand, Staci, Ackerman, Sarge, Red Dog, Macgill, Cormack, Jayne, Sharpshot, Colonel ... Vaya con dios mi amigos.'

He had been hearing the scuffling and the chatter for minutes as the enemy swarmed around his position, getting closer. It was time.

The old man shucked his jacket, tightened the bandage round his wound and spat out his almost dead cigar, replacing it with a fresh cohiba. He lit it and hefted the big gun - half rifle, half machine gun, half goddamn rocket launcher. A lesser man wouldn't have even been able to lift the thing, but not ol FT, pushing 90 and he'd never felt s'goddamn strong.

He stood and pointed the nozzle forward. 'Come and get it you sons of bitches!!'

The walls opposite disintegrated as thousands of rounds slammed into it - the enemy dove for cover but not before his sweep had taken down dozens, cutting them into bloody red shreds.

The old man grinned at the sheer glorious carnage before his eyes. He whooped a rebel yell and swung the big gun upwards, raking the helicopter as it tried to aim a bead at him.

The thing crashed in a huge fiery explosion. Just like old times except ... it wasn't. They were all dead, every last goddamn ... Emmy ... he saw her face again, as clear as it had been back in 55' Emmy! A tear caught in his sky blue eyes and that was the moment.

He could have walked like he always walked, but what was the damn point. Besides he wanted to see if it was true ... if it happened. Didn't matter much either way though.

'I'm a comin Emmy! I'm a comi ...' The sniper's bullet took him clean between the eyes.

15 minutes later, the insurgents crowded his position. They searched for the body ... disbelief! Nothing except a pile of clothes and a big patch of blood ... blood that was leading away in a trail to ...

The officer radioed in as he turned - he saw the kid, no more than sixteen, a leather jacket too big for him draped around his shoulders and in his hands ...

The brown haired kid opened up - he couldn't have lifted the big gun but he could manage an itty bitty rifle and there were plenty laying around.

Back in the insurgents comms centre, the communications operator relayed the last message from the officer in the field. 'Commander, there is no body. The operative known as Father Time is not confirmed dead. Repeat, not confirmed ... message ends.'