He can hear the chopper blades but he can’t see anything. Blinded, panicked, he stumbles across the blooded plain, and trips over a body, living or dead. The gas swept in on the wind. Blinding. Choking. Yellow hell. He can feel his skin dissolving. Smell the acid in his nose. The heavy beat of the chopper’s blades pound in his head. He stands again with arms outstretched, searching. The rapid cracks of gunfire out in the void. He begs. He screams. Stumbling along in his infinite night to find that chopper. The last thing he ever saw were jets screaming overhead, unleashing this apocalyptic haze on the world. And he saw they bore the flag of his nation.
Paddy Dobson
24th June 2021