| Horror and Thriller Fiction posted October 23, 2015 | Chapters: |
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There is no escape
A chapter in the book Miscellaneous stories
The (Other) Ring
by CD Richards
Sergeant Mark Lewis had endured more horrifying experiences in the past few years than most men would in a hundred lifetimes. He had stood his ground, unarmed, whilst a Taliban fighter aimed a Kalashnikov rifle at his chest and screamed at him in words he didn't understand. He had narrowly escaped being blown to pieces when the armored vehicle in which he was travelling ran over a 100 pound IED in Al Anbar, Iraq— an experience which left him feeling what could accurately be described as "mild consternation". His collection of service medals resembled a catalogue of military honours. And now, at age 37, the veteran of countless campaigns in the Middle East, the man his fellow soldiers dubbed "Ice" was, for the first time he could remember, absolutely terrified.
Beads of sweat trickled from his hairline, down the nape of his neck. His palms were clammy and moist, but his throat and mouth were bone dry. He knew a few men who had been in this position before, and had heard stories of several more. Some of those men had survived, but not one had been left unscarred. The battle-hardened soldier stood (amazed that his trembling knees permitted such a feat), and prayed he would not demean himself by urinating all over the floor.
The woman, of course, was at the root of all this. She had a military record at least as impressive, if not more so, than Lewis. She was Kurdish Peshmerga, on the front line of the battle against ISIS. Mark had found her strikingly beautiful— not in a catwalk model sort of way, but in an "I love a woman who can kick my butt" sort of way. She had Stygian eyes that somehow spoke of incredible resolve and toughness, yet deep compassion. He had never dreamed those first intense encounters, the clandestine midnight meetings, would result in this. His friends tried to warn him, of course, but he knew better.
Now, because of this woman, he was captive within this stone-clad prison; his best friends in this world —Private First Class John Munro and Corporal Alan Newcombe— standing feet away, each waiting their turn, silently contemplating how they would behave when their time had come. Lewis knew when their turn came, he would be powerless to help them.
His mind raced through dozens of scenarios he had practised repeatedly during his military training. But there was nowhere to run, and there were too many of them— at least sixty between the three comrades and the two on guard at the door. The heavy stone walls seemed to be closing in on him as he felt the darkness creeping into his mind. He could hear the voice of his interrogator, sounding as if it were disembodied, coming through a fog from hundreds of feet away, firing questions at him like they were missiles— and yet they were standing face-to-face.
Finally, Mark Lewis could take no more. He realised there was no escape, and he felt the last vestiges of his resolve being crushed to powder. With one last, despairing look around him, he took a deep breath and uttered the words his tormentor demanded to hear:
"I do."
Flash Fiction Writing Contest contest entry
Sergeant Mark Lewis had endured more horrifying experiences in the past few years than most men would in a hundred lifetimes. He had stood his ground, unarmed, whilst a Taliban fighter aimed a Kalashnikov rifle at his chest and screamed at him in words he didn't understand. He had narrowly escaped being blown to pieces when the armored vehicle in which he was travelling ran over a 100 pound IED in Al Anbar, Iraq— an experience which left him feeling what could accurately be described as "mild consternation". His collection of service medals resembled a catalogue of military honours. And now, at age 37, the veteran of countless campaigns in the Middle East, the man his fellow soldiers dubbed "Ice" was, for the first time he could remember, absolutely terrified.
Beads of sweat trickled from his hairline, down the nape of his neck. His palms were clammy and moist, but his throat and mouth were bone dry. He knew a few men who had been in this position before, and had heard stories of several more. Some of those men had survived, but not one had been left unscarred. The battle-hardened soldier stood (amazed that his trembling knees permitted such a feat), and prayed he would not demean himself by urinating all over the floor.
The woman, of course, was at the root of all this. She had a military record at least as impressive, if not more so, than Lewis. She was Kurdish Peshmerga, on the front line of the battle against ISIS. Mark had found her strikingly beautiful— not in a catwalk model sort of way, but in an "I love a woman who can kick my butt" sort of way. She had Stygian eyes that somehow spoke of incredible resolve and toughness, yet deep compassion. He had never dreamed those first intense encounters, the clandestine midnight meetings, would result in this. His friends tried to warn him, of course, but he knew better.
Now, because of this woman, he was captive within this stone-clad prison; his best friends in this world —Private First Class John Munro and Corporal Alan Newcombe— standing feet away, each waiting their turn, silently contemplating how they would behave when their time had come. Lewis knew when their turn came, he would be powerless to help them.
His mind raced through dozens of scenarios he had practised repeatedly during his military training. But there was nowhere to run, and there were too many of them— at least sixty between the three comrades and the two on guard at the door. The heavy stone walls seemed to be closing in on him as he felt the darkness creeping into his mind. He could hear the voice of his interrogator, sounding as if it were disembodied, coming through a fog from hundreds of feet away, firing questions at him like they were missiles— and yet they were standing face-to-face.
Finally, Mark Lewis could take no more. He realised there was no escape, and he felt the last vestiges of his resolve being crushed to powder. With one last, despairing look around him, he took a deep breath and uttered the words his tormentor demanded to hear:
"I do."
 Recognized |
From the contest brief:
In this flash fiction contest we are challenging writers to write a flash fiction piece that is between 500 and 800 words on the topic provided. The topic is "fear". What is your character fearful about?
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. In this flash fiction contest we are challenging writers to write a flash fiction piece that is between 500 and 800 words on the topic provided. The topic is "fear". What is your character fearful about?
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