Midwinter, 2027 – My team arrives at the northern gates of the enemy base, and we make camp in the nearby woods. We are all frightened of what is to come, but wiser for what we have seen.
The air here is so thick with fog you cannot tell which direction you are headed without a compass. At camp, we try in vain to start a fire, and instead rely on one another for warmth.
We fear we are the only ones left. As we shiver and try to sleep, some pray for relief, but most of us pray for death.
***
Title by: Kenneth Noisewater
Story by: Jeremy
I like this story!Related posts:
Copywrite tip…
insert one word – 2nd from last ’swift’. As in “… swift death.”
Max ~
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Put title AND story on TWITTER… under 140.
But that would throw off the word count. ;)
Not with a tiny.url.