Siege

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The soldier was dying. Wounds and starvation were bringing him to his knees. Death had shadowed him from the moment he had entered the forest, and through a thousand cuts and days of agony it now reached out to claim its victim.

The soldier spat in its face.

He could feel it on his heels – it snapped at them. Grasped at him. Its cold touch was on his shoulders. He ran from this cloying force, every painful mile of the race worn on his uniform like a decoration. Every rip, every stain told a story.

It wasn’t a happy one.

What was left of his clothing was torn and filthy; a broken sandal flapped against a foot rife with blisters.

As the soldier broke through the forest’s branches, the final stitches of his footwear pulled away. He cursed as his bare foot hit wet grass and slid outwards. Feeling the screaming of his tendons that warned of rupture, he gave into gravity. His body slammed down on to the slope, where it gathered momentum. The man grimaced as he felt a sharp stone rake across his back, and then he hit the ditch, feet plunging into the stagnant water. He used his battered knees to absorb the impact, his backside sinking down towards his ankles, the breath forced out of him as the cold water reached his waist.

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