by Holly Rose Scott
In Four Parts
(publishing January 2nd-5th)
The Horrors Below
The sky is a deep, brooding red, as if the heavens themselves had been scorched by the flames that raged below. Smoke billows in thick, acrid plumes, curling around the remains of once-proud buildings, reduced to skeletal shells by the relentless bombardment. The air is thick with the scent of burning fuel, melting metal, and something more sickening—flesh.
the sergeant stands on a jagged outcrop of rock, his boots scuffed and worn from weeks of trudging through the war-torn landscape. His rifle, now more a part of him than his own limbs, hangs loosely from his shoulder, its barrel still hot from the last volley.
Beside him, the sniper is a statue of grim resolve, watching the inferno below behind his mask, as if absorbing the destruction into his very soul.
They both watch in silence as another round of explosions erupted in the distance, a chain reaction of detonations ripping through the enemy’s supply lines. The night has become day, illuminated by the fierce orange glow of fireballs rising to the heavens, as if they, too, sought escape from the horrors below.
“Quite a show,” the sergeant finally says, breaking the silence. His voice is rough, gritty, carrying the weariness of a soldier who had seen too much, felt too much.
the sniper gave a curt nod, his eyes never leaving the carnage. “Yeah,” he replies. “It’s the end of the line for them. No more running, no more hiding.”
There is a pause, the kind that hangs heavy in the air, weighed down by the unspoken thoughts that circled between them.
the sergeant takes a deep breath, the acrid smoke stinging his lungs, and exhales slowly, watching the breath dissipate into the war-torn night. “You ever think about it?” the sergeant asks, his tone more contemplative now, almost as if he was afraid of the answer.
“Think about what?”
“How it all ends,” the sergeant says, his voice quieter now. “How everyone gets what’s coming to them in the end. Doesn’t matter what you’ve done, or how far you’ve run. Sooner or later, it catches up to you.”
the sniper is silent for a moment, the only sound between them the distant thunder of collapsing buildings and the faint cries of men whose lives are being extinguished one by one. “That’s the way it is,” the sniper finally replies.”You make your choices, and you live with them. But in the end, justice catches up with everyone. Could be in a courtroom, could be on the battlefield, or it could be somewhere else entirely. But it comes. It always comes.”
the sergeant nods, as if he’d been waiting for that answer. It’s a truth he had known deep down, something that had guided him through every firefight, every close call. He had seen it play out too many times—men who thought they were invincible, who thought they could outrun their past, only to find themselves staring down the barrel of a gun, or lying in a ditch with the life ebbing out of them.
“Sometimes I wonder,” the sniper continues, “if we’re not all just waiting for our turn. Maybe that’s why we’re here, why we keep fighting. Maybe we’re just hoping that when it finally catches up with us, we’ll be ready for it.”
the sniper turns to look at the sergeant then, really look at him, as if seeing the other man for the first time. There is something in the sergeant’s eyes—something haunted, something that spoke of nights spent in cold, lonely places, staring up at the stars and wondering if they were the last things he’d ever see.
“Maybe,” the sergeant says softly. “But it’s not about being ready. It’s about accepting it. Knowing that you’ve done all you can, fought your fight, and when the time comes, you meet it head-on. No regrets, no second-guessing. Just… acceptance.”
the sniper absorbs those words, lets them sink in, lets them become a part of him. He doesn’t know if he is ready to accept it yet—whatever ‘it’ was. But he knows that he has to keep moving forward, keep fighting, until the day came when he will be ready.
Or until he has no choice.
“Let’s talk about something else now.” the sniper says finally, his voice steady now.
They stand in silence again, watching as the last of the explosions died down, leaving only the burning wreckage of what once was, the echoes of destruction lingering in the air like a distant memory.
The night is eerily quiet now, the sounds of battle replaced by the crackling of flames and the occasional distant shout. People are screaming. People are dying.
“Yeah,” the sergeant says. “Let’s talk about something else.”
Part Two
That’s not how it begins, of course, but beginnings aren’t everything.
They converge, a watershed of minor tributaries linking a thousand rivulets into the same ocean. The sniper drops out of Yale after just one year, joins up, doggedly works his way through training, boards the troop ship, shoots some people, kills some people—myriad comings and goings perfectly orchestrated, until one day he realises that he no longer feels bad about taking a life.
It scares him.
It doesn’t seem to matter: he has simply skated along, following a groove already made for him.
The sniper crouches low, peering through his scope into the twilight haze that stretches over the empty valley. The air is thick and cold, the kind that clings to skin like a bad memory. His gloved fingers hover over the trigger, though no targets are in sight. The silence hums, filled only by the distant rustle of the trees and the faint creak of his rifle.
Behind him, the sergeant stands, arms folded, watching.
“Anything out there?” the sergeant asks quietly, breaking the stillness.
The sniper lowers the rifle just a fraction, his eye never leaving the scope. “Nothing. Not yet.”
There’s a long silence before he speaks again. “Can I tell you something?”
The sergeant nods, stepping closer. “Go on.”
The sniper’s voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t feel it anymore.”
The sergeant’s brow furrows, and he tilts his head. “Feel what?”
A bitter, tight smile tugs at the sniper’s mouth. “The weight. The guilt. That… pinch in the gut you get after taking a life.” He pauses, as if considering his next words. “It’s gone. Completely. I could pull the trigger a thousand times, and I don’t think it would change a thing.”
The sergeant studies him, saying nothing. The sniper feels his gaze, heavy, like a stone pressing into his back. “Doesn’t that bother you?” the sergeant asks finally.
“That’s what scares me.” The sniper’s voice is low, almost inaudible. “It used to haunt me. Those faces. Those last moments. The look in their eyes. Now, they’re all just… shadows. Like dreams I can’t remember. I can picture myself taking another shot, and it’s like watching someone else do it.”
A chill seems to settle between them, deeper than the evening air. The sergeant shifts, but the sniper doesn’t move. His finger brushes the trigger, absent-minded, like it’s a reflex he can’t shake.
“War can do that to you,” the sergeant says softly, though he sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself.
The sniper shakes his head. “No, it’s more than that.” He lifts his gaze, finally meeting the sergeant’s eyes, and there’s something hollow there, something beyond the pale of exhaustion or numbness. “It’s like… I’m turning into the weapon itself. I think I’d do it even if there wasn’t an order. Just to see the way they fall, like it’s some kind of twisted rhythm I can’t get out of my head.”
The sergeant’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he almost takes a step back. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it.
The sniper looks back into his scope, a faint, unsettling calm overtaking him. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep doing my job. I’ll follow orders. But you should know…” His voice trails off, low and distant. “I’m not doing it for the same reasons anymore.”
The sergeant doesn’t respond. He only turns, walking back into the fog, leaving the sniper alone, as silent as the dead earth beneath him.
It’s years later, time beyond measure, when the sniper comes up for air again.
Part Three
The air is thick with smoke and dust as the sky lights up, an orange glow flashing over the valley below. The sniper and the sergeant stand on the ridge, their silhouettes hidden among the rocks as they watch the airstrike unfold.
Wait, we’ve been here before, haven’t we?
Explosions ripple through the valley, echoing like thunder, sending up pillars of flame that pierce the darkening sky.
The sniper rests his rifle on his knee, but his eyes aren’t on his scope; they’re fixed somewhere beyond the flames, somewhere past the twisting shadows. He speaks up, voice barely audible over the distant roar of destruction.
“Can we talk about something else?”
The sergeant doesn’t look away from the burning horizon. His hands are tense, gripping the straps on his gear as he watches the village below disappear in fire and smoke. “Now’s not the time.”
The sniper shifts, his gaze dropping to the ground, his jaw tight. “I mean it. I don’t want to watch… this. Let’s talk about something else. Anything else.”
The sergeant glances at him, a shadow of impatience in his eyes. “We’re here to observe. You know that.”
The sniper doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches between them, broken only by the distant blasts and the crumbling of buildings collapsing into dust.
Finally, the sergeant speaks again, his tone sharp but hushed. “Is this what you meant when you said you ‘didn’t feel it anymore’?” He pauses, watching the sniper’s reaction. “Is this what you were talking about?”
The sniper’s eyes flick up, a strange, hollow glint in them. “It’s not just that I don’t feel it,” he murmurs. “It’s that… I don’t even want to. I don’t want to feel anything about this.” He gestures toward the wreckage below, his voice detached, cold. “I used to care. Used to think about the people… what was left behind. But now? It’s just noise. Ash. Shadows that mean nothing.”
The sergeant narrows his gaze, studying the sniper’s face as if trying to find something buried within him, something that still has a spark. “That’s not something you say lightly.”
The sniper shrugs, gaze fixed on the flames licking through the remains of what was once a village. “Maybe not. But I don’t think it’s something you say with meaning, either. Not anymore.” His voice grows quieter, almost a whisper. “That scares me, Sarge. More than this… this destruction. It’s the emptiness that gets me. It’s like I’m becoming the smoke. Fading.”
The sergeant watches him in silence, his face unreadable, lit by the orange flicker of flames. The explosions have quieted now, leaving only the crackling fires and the low rumble of jets retreating into the night.
After a long pause, the sergeant sighs, turning back toward the ridge they came from. “Maybe I understand what you meant,” he says, almost to himself. “Maybe we’re all starting to feel that emptiness.”
The sniper doesn’t answer. He only stands there, motionless, watching the fire burn until it becomes nothing but embers in the dark.
Part Four
The sniper knelt beside the sergeant, his fingers pressing down on the wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. They were alone, tucked into a ridge that hid them from the rest of the world—a grave built of dirt and rock.
“I got him, Sarge,” the sniper whispered. His voice shook, barely steady under the weight of relief and the cold knife of failure. “The one who hit you. I got him.”
The sergeant’s breathing rattled in his chest, each breath catching like a barbed wire snare. He blinked, looking at the sniper with an empty calm in his eyes, the spark already beginning to dim.
“Too late, kid,” he said, his voice a rasp like sandpaper against the bones of his throat. “But don’t worry… It’s all right.”
The sniper felt his stomach twist. He wanted to argue, to do something, anything, to hold on to the man who’d been a force of steel and strength, who’d marched beside him, taught him how to live, and how to kill.
“Don’t say that, Sarge. I can—I can carry you back.” He sounded desperate, even to his own ears.
The sergeant gave him a slow, sad smile, blood slipping from the corner of his mouth, dark and thick. “Can’t carry what’s already gone, kid. Everything burns. Everything rots.”
The sniper’s mouth tightened. “But… you didn’t deserve this.”
“Deserve?” The sergeant’s chuckle was a hollow, painful sound. “What anyone deserves is what they’ll get in the end. Don’t be sad for me, kid. Don’t be sad for any of it.”
A faint glimmer of bitterness crossed the sniper’s face. “That’s… that’s messed up.”
“It’s just how it is.” The sergeant’s eyes were unfocused now, his gaze fixed somewhere past the sniper’s shoulder, at something only he could see. “Everyone gets what’s coming to them. Someday… you’ll understand.”
The sniper looked away, unable to bear the sight of his sergeant—of his friend—slipping further. The dirt around them felt like it was swallowing them whole, dragging them into a pit they’d never climb out of.
The sergeant’s hand, surprisingly steady, reached up and grabbed the sniper’s collar. His grip was weak, but there was a fierce insistence in it.
“Remember this,” he muttered. “Nothing… stays untouched. Not by fire, not by time. The best thing you can do is… make peace with that.”
The sniper swallowed hard. “I’ll remember, Sarge.”
The grip on his collar loosened, the sergeant’s hand falling limp against the dirt. His eyes, still open, looked out into the distance, seeing something far beyond the sniper could imagine.
And just like that, the sergeant was gone, leaving only silence and a faint scent of smoke on the air, as if the world itself mourned.
The sniper stayed crouched there, feeling the weight of those words sink into his bones like a curse. Everything burns. Everything rots.
And in the end, everything catches up with you.
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