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nearby with the force of sighs. Swirls of crimson and pink bloom within the white clouds. Cotton candy, he smiles to himself, but the scent they give off is the withering odor of a city sewer. Bodies caught in the chemical clouds are collapsing around him. It is like a mercy, their falling; they seem grateful to accept rest. A rebel has collapsed face-down to his left. The back of the man's neck is bubbling like a pool of sulfur. The warrior's eyes water but he is otherwise unaffected -- how can this be? Maybe it was the winters in the mountain, maybe the prolonged exposure to disease at every turn -- others grew weak and he grew strong. He runs on, the red and pink claws straining towards him. The trumpet's melody is now discernible, and the warrior mouths the lyrics, happily swallowing dust and debris:  |
Under the red flag we remain vigilant Across the golden fields we are constant The sun shines brightly on the just The moon will rise over a peaceful land He hacks and spits out dirt from his throat. The words are nothing to him, they are more like a device, something one mutters to oneself before going to sleep at night, part of a routine to occupy the chattering part of the mind. He is not alone; other rebels are with him, just behind him, running with rifles high, shout-speaking the words. Many are falling, but some maintain pace. Somehow he has become the leader of a new troop. Ahead, slouched against a rock that has a carved-out bottom like a throne, is the captain.  |
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