Sicily | 1943
Rosalie dropped her arms and immediately began pursuing Garret - frequently looking back to see if she needed to fire her weapon. They made it to the next patch of trees, except this grouping was bare, and appeared dead from lack of water. It wasn’t a suitable position to take cover behind, which they quickly realized when bullets began tearing up the deadwood.
“Keep moving!” Garret yelled, readjusting Aida’s body.
The next stretch of land was the most dangerous because it was open. There was no viable cover until they reached the service road, which was protected by another dense wooded area, but was at least one-hundred yards away from them. They had no choice. But it was downhill.
Garret ran first, keeping his legs hunched as low as possible while using gravity to assist him in pumping out maximum velocity.
Rosalie powered behind him.
Unfortunately, because of her momentum, and the force in which she was running, she couldn’t safely turn around and fire at their attackers. So she prayed. She prayed to her brothers to keep her safe.
She watched as a few rounds hammered into the Earth around Garret’s feet. Causing dirt, grass and rocks to spew into the air like tiny hot springs. Luckily none of them found flesh, and her heart rejoiced when she saw them disappear into the shadows of the roadside woods.
Rosalie was close enough to touch the first tree trunk when her name was bellowed out from behind her. It rode the wind and bullets and hit her in the skull with deafening force. She turned around, as bullets collided with the ground and tree trunks all around her.
She found herself staring upwards in a daze, at a single figure slowly descending the hillside. Her hair was different, but her face was unmistakable, even with the newly formed scars and burns.
Nadine.
That meant Ulrich was not far off, that is if he survived the church.
A firm hand suddenly latched onto her forearm, and she was yanked into the shadows. Broken from her hazy spell, she was greeted by a heavily sweating and breathing paratrooper, “She needs help, Rosalie.”
Rosie stepped in closer and realized that her mother was barely breathing.
“She’s lost a lot of blood,” Garret said, “We need to get to that road, and flag down a vehicle. She needs a doctor.”
Her name was called out again, this time terrifying both Rosalie and Garret. It was followed by a barrage of automatic gunfire from two soldiers who had breached the tree line.
“Move!” Garret said while struggling to keep Aida secured to his shoulders.
Rosalie went first this time, and quickly reached the final descent down to the paved road. It was roughly twenty meters and was consumed by Spineless yucca, Mastic tree, Red frangipani and Corn plant. They aided in providing a gripping texture in which to safely descend, but they were sharp and rigid. The final obstacle in their way of freedom.
Rosalie reached the bottom first, then immediately turned around to provide cover for Garret who was still only halfway down. She painted the ridge line with the barrel of her pistol - finger firmly cradled around the trigger.
Bang!
An overly eager German soldier exposed himself too early, and Rosalie made him pay for that mistake with his life. The body slumped forward, and viciously tumbled down the hill - nearly taking out Garret’s legs in the process.
Rosalie fired again. And again. And again.
Each shot missed its mark, but she was successfully keeping the soldiers from getting into a suitable firing position.
Only a few more steps.
A grenade suddenly came careening into view, falling dangerously close to where she was standing. Pushing her body hard to the left, to take cover behind a thick Oak tree trunk, the grenade bounced across the street before it exploded.
Rosalie was hit with shrapnel, but nothing life threatening. Garret lost his balance from the eruption, and fell on his side. Aida was jostled free from his grip, and they each tumbled the rest of the way to the surface of the hot pavement.
Rosalie ran to assist her mother, who was laying limp, but was intercepted by Garret. She began kicking and screaming, protesting his detainment, when a reign of bullets illuminated the hilltop with bright white and orange light - carving crevasses into the road where Aida was laying.
A green U.S military army jeep suddenly came barreling around the steep bend in the road, and parked in front of Aida’s body. The man inside hoped from the driver’s seat, and manned the mounted M2 50 caliber machine gun.
The hillside crumbled away before their eyes in a crazed heap of scorching bullets and flailing flesh.
About the Creator
Kale Ross
Author | Poet | Dog Dad | Nerd
Find my published poetry, and short story books here!
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins6 days ago in Fiction
The Whispering Woods
In the heart of the Whispering Woods lay a deserted village, its identity lost to the passage of time. The residents, shrouded in secrecy and seclusion, exchanged hushed stories of sinister entities lurking among the towering trees. Deep-seated superstitions reigned supreme, and fear clung to every corner. It was said that those who ventured too deep into the woods never returned, their very essence ensnared by the malevolent forces that resided within.
By TheCanadianView a day ago in Fiction
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