From Escape
by Conner J Willoughby
Chapter 1: Three survivors
I started my new life in a small, destroyed world. My friends, Joe and Anthony, and I were lucky to live. My now-destroyed house had three stories; a basement, first story and second story. My pizza was in the microwave and I was pouring myself a cold red glass of Hawaiian Punch. I didn’t notice the tension in the air.
The first explosion was miles away. I dropped my drink. The glass shattered into oblivion. Overcoming my shock, I raced to the basement.
You would think that running as fast as a freight train and jumping down concrete stairs three at a time without falling flat on my face would make me feel indestructible, but I felt like a small defenseless puppy. I ran toward a shovel that was long and sharp.
I raised the shovel, but another explosion sent me sprawling. After I regained my footing, I smashed the wall in front of me to a spider web of cracks. Now that it’s cracked, I thought, I can just break through. I attacked the wall with all my fear and worry.
Another explosion sent me sprawling. I heard the windows upstairs shatter. I kept digging. The planes sounded like they were right above us. I jumped into my square in the wall. I tucked myself into a ball and waited. BOOM!!!! My house fell on top of me and I blacked out.
* * *
When I reached Joe and Fred they didn’t even look at me. The land ahead was zooming closer to me by the second. I could finally hear the outraged yells and could make out a few grimy faces, along with an assortment of weapons. A shot rang out from a rifle, but I still couldn’t hear the words the people were saying. Another shot blasted out and I backed up. I finally heard what they were saying; it wasn’t pleasant. The word “terrorist” slipped out of their mouths so fluently it sounded like they said it very often.
Chapter 2: The Pitchfork
The farmer swung his pitchfork at me. Blocking it with my axe, I surprised him by stabbing his chest with my sharp, silver knife. Life was quickly slipping away from his body as he slowly slumped to the blood stained cement floor. I turned, without my knife, to the man that was hit with a brick. I swung the axe, grimacing.
The blade was wrenched out with a squeak, like a rubber duck was stepped on by a young boy. Turning, I trudged over to retrieve my knife. As I walked up the stairs I was wondering how my friends were holding up. When I reached the top, fatigue settling onto me, I turned a corner I laid my eyes on a truly horrifying image. |
