Never shared any of this before, don’t judge me too harshly… it’s kind of going to be a love story of sorts… but it’s still a mess… my big brother helped with some of it, I won’t begrudge his excessive Call of Duty gaming so much

Survivors war pt1

“Shut up, will ya?” Amy hissed, her voice a harsh whisper cutting through the oppressive silence. She glared at the whimpering boy next to her, their eyes meeting in the dim light. He swallowed hard, his young face contorted in fear. “You’re gonna get us all killed.”

The boy, barely ten, nodded frantically. His cheeks glistened with tears, and he clutched his rifle so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Amy sighed, a mix of exasperation and pity. They were all just kids, thrown into this hellhole. But she had learned early on that pity didn’t keep you alive. Only the cold, hard truth did.

Her eyes darted around the ruined room they were hiding in. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes, and the floor was littered with debris. The scent of mold and death hung in the air, a constant reminder of what awaited them outside. They were in a once-proud building, now a mere skeleton of its former self, standing tall amidst the shattered cityscape.

Amy’s hand tightened around the handle of her knife, the metal cold and reassuring against her skin. It was her most trusted weapon, silent and deadly. The rifle slung over her shoulder was for backup, but she didn’t trust guns like she did her knife and the close up kill, the smell of fear on her opponent’s breath, it was all too familiar to her now. But she wasn’t always like this, she had a normal life before the war, but now at 12 years of age she was a trusted soldier, her previous life separate and like a dream. She didn’t ask for this, but it was a necessity of war

Amy was hiding with a group of children, not true child soldiers, they just had to fight until they could escape the remains of three city. Next to Amy in the dilapidated room, was a younger boy, she reminding him to stay quiet. Amy reflects on their harsh reality as child soldiers and the necessity of survival in a war-torn city.

Amy took a deep breath, willing her own heart to calm down. She knew the fear was contagious, and if she didn’t get a grip, it would spread through the group like wildfire. She had seen it happen before - good soldiers, hardened by months of fighting, turned into trembling wrecks at the first sign of trouble. They didn’t last long after that.

Suddenly, a distant rumble echoed through the streets outside, followed by the staccato of gunfire. The boy’s whimpers grew louder, and Amy’s instincts kicked in. She leaned in close to him, her voice firm but gentle. “You need to be quiet, okay?” She placed a hand over his mouth, her eyes holding his until he nodded again, his sobs muffled.

The noises grew closer, and the other children in the room began to stir, their eyes wide with terror. Amy’s gaze swept over them, her expression stern. “We stay put until I say otherwise,” she ordered, her voice barely above a murmur. She knew they were counting on her, the oldest and most experienced among them.

As the minutes ticked by, the sounds of battle grew louder, the vibrations from the explosions resonating through the very walls of their makeshift shelter. The young ones clutched at each other, seeking comfort in the warmth of their comrades. Amy’s mind raced, planning escape routes and defensive strategies. Despite her youth, she had been through this enough times to know that survival was a numbers game, and she would do anything to keep the odds in their favor.

The door to the room crashed open, and a figure silhouetted by the dust and smoke outside stepped in. The children shrank back, their fear palpable. But as the figure took a step forward, a familiar voice called out, “Amy, it’s me!”

It was Tom, another child soldier, a few years older than her, with a head of unruly brown hair and a grin that could charm the birds from the trees. If the trees still had birds, that is. He was her closest friend in this hell, the only one she had allowed herself to get close to.

“We’ve got to move,” he said urgently, his eyes scanning the room. “They’re closing in.”

Amy nodded, a plan already forming in her head. She turned to the group, her voice steady. “Stick together, follow my lead.”

They moved as one, their footsteps almost silent on the debris-covered floor. The adrenaline pumped through her veins, sharpening her senses. As they approached the staircase leading to the rooftop, she could hear the thunderous boom of a grenade from somewhere in the building. Her heart skipped a beat, but she pushed the fear down.

“Ready?” she whispered to Tom, her hand hovering over the doorknob.

He nodded, his grip tight on his own weapon. “Let’s go.”

Together, they burst through the door, guns blazing, and leaped into the chaos of the night.

The rooftop was a whirlwind of activity, with shadows darting across the broken tiles and sharpshooters popping up from makeshift cover. Amy’s eyes scanned the area, identifying targets with the ease of a seasoned predator. She dashed to the edge, her heart pounding in her chest. The city was a canvas of fire and destruction, a stark reminder of the war that had stolen their childhoods.

With a swift movement, she slid the knife from its sheath, feeling its familiar weight in her hand. Her movements were fluid, almost graceful, as she took out the first enemy with a swift, silent strike. The look of surprise in the man’s eyes was almost a comfort - it meant she was still good at her job. Tom was right behind her, his gun firing in controlled bursts, his movements precise and calculated.

The rooftop was their battleground, and they danced through the shadows, a deadly ballet of survival. The air was thick with smoke, making it difficult to breathe, but she didn’t let it slow her down. She had learned to ignore the coughs that threatened to betray her, the sting of tears in her eyes, the acrid taste in her mouth.

They fought back-to-back, a well-oiled machine of death, each covering the other’s blind spots. Bullets whizzed past them, but none found their marks. They were ghosts in the night, slipping through the enemy’s grasp like water through their fingers.

Their group had made it to the rooftop, and now they had to hold their ground until the extraction team arrived. The radio crackled to life in Amy’s pocket, the voice of their leader, Captain Harris, cutting through the din of war. “Hold tight, kids. We’re five minutes out.”

Amy felt a flicker of hope, but she knew better than to let her guard down. Five minutes was an eternity in a battle like this. She glanced at Tom, his eyes gleaming with determination. They nodded to each other, a silent promise to keep fighting.

The enemy was relentless, but so were they. As the minutes ticked away, the sounds of battle grew more intense. The whirlwind of gunfire and screams was a cacophony that drowned out everything else. But through it all, she could feel Tom’s presence, a constant reassurance that she wasn’t alone.

And then, like a beacon of light in the dark, the sound of a chopper’s blades sliced through the air. The extraction team had arrived.

“This is it,” she yelled over the noise, her voice hoarse from the smoke. “Stay tight, don’t let anyone through!”

The children formed a defensive line, their fear forgotten in the face of the promise of escape. The chopper’s spotlight found them, bathing them in a harsh, white light that made Amy squint. The enemy’s fire grew more desperate, but she and Tom stood firm, their bodies a living barricade between the others and the jaws of death.

The wind from the chopper’s blades whipped around them, lifting dust and debris into the air. Amy’s heart raced as the first few children were plucked to safety, their faces a mix of relief and disbelief.

One by one, they disappeared into the darkness, until only she and Tom remained. The rooftop was a mess of blood and bullet casings, a testament to the fierce battle they had fought.

The helicopter suddenly banked away as it started taking sudden intense fire from the enemy on the rooftop

Amy looked to Tom who gave her that damn grin and then she took a deep breath, turned, and faced the oncoming storm. They could make it, the knife in her hand ready for the final dance.

The enemy grew bolder, sensing the end of the fight approaching. With a feral snarl, Amy launched herself at the nearest threat, her knife flashing in the artificial daylight cast by the chopper’s spotlight. The blade found flesh, and a man’s scream was cut short as he crumpled to the ground.

Tom reappeared beside her, his rifle smoking. “You good?” he yelled over the din.

“Always,” she shot back, a grim smile playing on her lips.

The enemy forces were closing in, driven by desperation. They knew the game was almost up, and they were throwing everything they had at the small band of children. Amy’s knife sang a deadly melody, a silent counterpoint to the symphony of gunfire. Each strike brought a new enemy down, each death a step closer to freedom.

The radio crackled again. “Two minutes, hold on!” Captain Harris’s voice was tight with urgency.

Amy felt a surge of adrenaline. Two minutes. That’s all they had to survive. She looked around, her eyes meeting the terrified gazes of the remaining children. She couldn’t fail them. She couldn’t let them down.

The enemy was relentless, pushing harder and harder. Bullets whizzed by her head, so close she could feel the heat. A grenade arced through the air, and without thinking, she dived for it, rolling it back towards the attackers. The explosion sent a shockwave through the rooftop, knocking her to the ground.

For a moment, everything was silent except for the ringing in her ears. Then the cacophony of war crashed back in, louder than ever. She pushed herself up, shaking off the dizziness, and found Tom crouched beside her, his rifle trained on the advancing figures.

“Last one,” she murmured, her voice thick with dust.

Tom nodded, his eyes never leaving the horizon. They moved as one, a deadly duo that had faced down death countless times before. The chopper’s blades grew louder, the promise of escape almost within reach.

The enemy was close now, their shadows long and menacing on the ground. Amy’s knife was slick with blood, her armor of cold detachment cracking under the weight of exhaustion. Yet she continued to fight, driven by instinct and the will to survive.

The sudden downdraft of rotors threw debris and dust everywhere as the helicopter returned. the children were safe, their tiny forms swallowed by the darkness within it. Amy’s eyes remained locked on the rope ladder, her hand tight around the knife handle. The enemy was surging again upon them, their gunfire deafening.

With a roar, Tom leaped into the fray, his rifle spitting fire. Amy took advantage of the distraction, slipping through the shadows, her knife finding home in the throats and chests of the soldiers who had come to claim their lives. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood, the metallic tang filling her nostrils.

The final moments of the battle were a blur. The world narrowed to the space between her and the enemy, each breath a fight for survival. The roar of the chopper’s engines grew louder, the downdraft from the blades beckoning them to safety.

A hand grabbed her arm, and she spun, knife at the ready, only to find Tom’s firm grip. “Go, now!” he bellowed, his face a mask of concentration.

Amy didn’t argue. She sprinted towards the ladder, the wind from the chopper’s blades pushing her back. She felt the heat of bullets as they barely missed her, the bite of pain as shrapnel tore through her clothes. Her legs burned with the effort, her chest tight with the fear of failure.

With a final burst of speed, she reached the ladder, her free hand grasping the first rung. The world was a chaotic whirl of noise and light around her as she climbed, each rung a victory over the darkness below.

Tom was right behind her, his breath ragged in her ear. “Move, move, move!” he shouted, his own fear barely contained. They climbed the rope ladder together, the wind trying to tear them away from their salvation. The chopper hovered precariously, bullets pockmarking the metal hull.

With a grunt, she hoisted herself up, her arms trembling with the effort. Tom pushed her and together they pulled into the safety of the chopper.

The world around them was a blur of noise and light. Bullets ricocheted off the metal, the screams of the dying echoing in the night. Captain Harris leaned out from the cockpit a fierce look on his face as confirmed they were all safe

The chopper lurched into the air, the buildings receding into the distance. The children huddled together, their faces a mix of relief and shock. Captain Harris slapped her on the back, a rare smile gracing his weathered features. “Good work, kid.”

Amy didn’t respond. She was too busy watching the city shrink, the battleground that had been her home for so long now a mere memory. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. The knife lay forgotten at her side, a silent testament to the horrors she had endured.

As the chopper soared higher, the city’s flames grew smaller, swallowed by the inky night. But in her heart, they burned brighter than ever, a constant reminder of what she had become. A child no more, but a soldier, forged in the crucible of war.

The children looked at each other in disbelief, some crying openly, others in shocked silence. They had made it out alive, thanks to Amy and Tom.

The base was a hive of activity when they landed, medics and officers rushing to attend to the children. The little ones were ushered away, some to be reunited with families who had thought them lost forever, others to find refuge in distant lands where the war’s touch had not yet reached. The scene was bittersweet, a stark reminder of the lives they had led and the ones they were leaving behind.

Tom and Amy watched them go, their faces expressionless. They knew the drill - debriefing, medical checks, and then back to the barracks. As they walked, the silence between them was a comfort, a shared understanding of what they had just been through.

In the barracks, they shed their dusty gear, the weapons that had been their lifelines now just cold, heavy metal. They walked to their bunks, side by side, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. For a moment, they stood there, looking at each other, before collapsing onto the hard mattresses.

The quiet was almost deafening after the noise of the city. The only sound was the distant thud of explosions, a grim reminder that the war raged on. Amy rolled onto her side, her eyes on the ceiling, and felt the knife she hadn’t realized she was still clutching. She placed it on the small table beside her, the blade gleaming in the soft light.

“You okay?” Tom asked, his voice quiet.

“Yeah,” she murmured, though it was a lie. The truth was, she didn’t know if she would ever be okay again. The war had taken so much from her, and she wasn’t sure if she had anything left to give.

He nodded, his own eyes distant. They lay there, the silence stretching out like a battlefield of its own, a testament to the unspoken bond between them. Two children who had grown up too fast, their childhoods stolen by the monsters of war.

Tom stood up and pulled Amy to her feet and told her “come on Corporal Amy, let’s hit the shower before we pass out, we’re filthy. How is it you always end up with the most blood on you?”
Amy looks at her knife on the table and shrugs “just lucky I guess, not my blood at least… we’re both corporals, you know just to call me Amy”
They head to the showers together, the hot water washing away the grime and the stench of battle. Under the spray, the stark reality of their situation hits Amy like a sledgehammer. She’s just a kid, a kid who’s seen and done things that no one should ever have to. Her body is lean and toned from months of fighting, but the lines of exhaustion etched into her face make her look much older than her twelve years.

The water runs red as it mixes with the blood that soaked through her clothes and to her skin. They scrubbed themselves clean, the warmth of the water a stark contrast to the coldness of their hearts. They’ve learned to live with the horror, to bury it deep down where it won’t get them killed. But it’s always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the moment when their guard is down