War For The World

CHAPTER THIRTY

OOLAA

Another loud cry of war from the tripod as Michaels continued to hear the cacophony of roasting screams ascend up from the courtyard and through the open windows.

Men screamed and wailed. The flurry of desperate limbs clinging to one another in an attempt to gain momentum was hellish, and Michaels found himself struggling against the rising current. He poked his head round once again in an effort to locate Benson, though proving to be fruitless.

Suddenly, a great beam of light pierced the nearest wall, a raging burst of fire spewed inwards as a group of men not too far in front of Michaels evaporated into dust and ash.

"Christ!" he exclaimed, being thrown back by the powerful burst as the large mass of people retroactively decided to change course.

The beam continued steadily, burning the unlucky few unable to turn around in time. Their screams and wails joining the pain and sorrow being endured down below within the courtyard.

The heat was intense. The light, blinding. Michaels shielded his eyes as he attempted to stay afloat in the sea of bodies. Benson was now lost amongst the crowd, all the Seargent could really focus on now was staying alive.

The beam began to move once more. Slowly at first, the death ray continued to pick up speed until it was slicing through the castle wall like butter.

Michaels noticed at the last minute, diving into a nearby door as the beam soared overhead. He watched in terror from his position on the floor as men were cut clean in half, their upper torsos set alit whilst the lower half was left to flounder and fall. It was hideous. It was monstrous.

For a moment Michaels was back in Yöpil. Pained and near death he had hung on by the skin of his teeth.

For reasons unbeknownst to that of the Seargent, faces and images began to surface as he lay amidst the fire and brimstone.

The girl and her grandfather he'd murdered back in Yöpil. His men on the front line. Jones. Abigail.

All people he had failed to save, choosing instead to save his own life and satiate his own morals when life began challenging him. As the screams of burning men continued to echo out, Michaels could see now how wrong he had been. He'd been wrong about it all. No decisions he'd made had been good ones, no morals he had followed had been just. He was a man without a code. A soul without a conscience.

"Get up Seargent!"

A figure. It stood before him, hand outstretched and begging for him to join.

The voice sounded fair off at first, however clarity soon returned to the near breaking point Seargent and he soon realised the figure standing before him was none other than Benson himself.

He was bloodied. Already looking more worse than when the Seargent had initially found him, Michaels could see scorch marks on the soldier's shirt and large cute along his arms and legs. He dared not look down at his own body. He knew himself to be covered in scars, he needn't the confirmation.

Shaking his head in an attempt to physically rid himself of the negative thoughts, the Seargent clasped hold of the soldier's hand and pulled himself up off the ground.

The noise from the whirring tripod was deafening. Michaels could see Benson talking right in front of him and yet he struggled to hear. After a few attempts he finally understood.

"are you alright!" Benson shouted.

"let's just get the fuck out of here!" Michaels cried.

The beam was continuing its way across the castle, working its way around in a circular motion. Half of the inner wall had been caved in. This meant Michaels and Benson were awarded a full page spread at the terror of the tripod. It spun on its legs, graceful like a ballerina, slowly burning its way through the interior of the castle in a clockwise fashion. The beam had passed them obviously. However it now was clear that the war machine would not stop once it returned to its original position, and the pair would need to evacuate fast in order to not be caught in the second cycle.