Incarna

1 - Episode 1 Orange Man

Day 1: Syrian Desert - Mid Morning

His orange clad knees were driven hard into the yellow brown sand by the force of the shove into his neck. The black clad figure made some sort of grunting sound of satisfaction as his hands moved from the orange clad mans shoulders and began remonstrating with the three others holding a camera in front of him.

The man focused on his knees and the way the heat of the sand had begun to burn his skin. He relished the sensation. It was new and different from the beatings of the previous days and had a delicacy about it that made him close his eyes and breathe in the moment.

His mind began to chatter again and the sensation was lost. Why was the sand the colour of a young child’s shit. Memories of changing his children’s nappies and feeding them and taking them off to day care flooded his mind and for a moment he was carried far away from his predicament.

The black clad figures ceased their bickering and the man behind him slapped him hard across the head, “look at the camera and read the words for your government to hear!” the voice said with a familiar accent.

The man was past caring and knew he had nothing left. No act of final rebellion would save him now. No act of compliance would gain him an extra day or week of life. There was nothing left for him, he was a dead man kneeling.

He read the words held up for him, or at least some part of him did. Something about his government being to blame and that they would all soon submit to the Word or face the Sword.

His knees still burned. Perhaps he could somehow use that heat to self immolate, to explode and send burning flesh to kill these black clad demons of inhumanity.

The figure behind him, he refused to think of him as a man, began preaching at the camera. Something about infidels and gods will. Hah, what did god have to do with any of this farce. The man had been taken prisoner as he’d driven a truck full of humanitarian relief supplies through a declared Safe corridor, to help besieged civilians, mostly women and children. He’d seen many of the convoy shot or beheaded on the spot and he and a couple of others were seized and blindfolded and secreted away into a depraved captivity.

He thought it had been months but he’d lost track of time, no matter how hard he’d tried.

The figure stopped berating the camera and he felt a hand grab his shoulder. All the men began shouting, he understood the words but they were a lie. There was nothing great in this act of barbarity.

A hand came across his mouth and out of the corner of his eye he saw the knife begin its trajectory toward his throat. His knees burnt and his head from the sun. He was sunburnt and blistered but who cared about that now.

Blood splattered across him and he jumped at it’s impact but he felt no pain. Then the figure behind him exploded and he was thrown face first into the sand by the impact of the body against him.

He could just turn his head enough to see the three other men hit by something silver and they too exploded. There wasn’t an explosion but they were rent wide open and knocked off their feet.

A series of booms and crashes assailed him as if a jet flew past. Another boom and the ground shook under him and the air filled with sand and dust. Out of the dust laden sky, large gloved hands appeared and picked him up and began to carry him away from the scene of his death.

A deep musical voice reached his ears. “You’re safe, there will be no paradise for you quite yet!” and the voice chuckled and he closed his eyes and wept!