Thursday, 8 October 2015

Barry Island Part 1

For audio click here 
Vic  wrapped his arms around himself, but it didn’t help; it was no protection from the cold. His thin jumper had been too much earlier in the day in the warmth of the sun, but now it was next to useless against the bitter breeze which whipped into his face off the sea and carried with it the first taste of winter. Vic could taste the salt on his lips as his teeth clattered together. He longed to go home, to have a warm shower and a warm cup of tea, but that just wasn’t an option anymore. There was no home, there was no shower and he could forget all about the idea of a warm cup of tea.
Vic had just been coming out of the pharmacy when the bombs started to fall. There’d been no warning, no sirens, just the drone of a squadron of planes, then the sound of a slide whistle, then boom; Vic’s world had come tumbling down around him. Vic looked around, half the population were wandering around like the walking dead, and the other half were lying on the ground, the real dead.
Despite the fires that burned in the shelled homes, the night felt darker than ever, a low, dark cloud hanging over Vic, swallowing him into the darkness, into desperation.
Vic stared out to sea, out into the blackness. The shush of the waves helping to settle his fidgety mind. Questions teetered on everyone’s lips, but no one spoke. Where had the bombs come from? Why? Would those planes come back again? Surely help would come soon, surely there would be people coming to treat the injured and bury the dead. Surely someone would come to feed the hungry and shelter the homeless. But the bombs had stopped 5 hours ago and no one had come yet. A low deep rumble disturbed him from his thoughts, he jumped, was it the planes coming back? He looked around to see headlights, floodlights coming in his direction, the cavalry were coming, they were being saved.
‘Put your hands up and fall into single file,’ a tinny, megaphoned voice said.
The walking dead began to shuffle into a line, doing as they were told. But Vic hung back, butterflies in his stomach.
‘Please, when asked get undressed and put on the clothes provided to you.’ The voice was British, terribly British.

Vic watched, this was odd, why did they need new clothes and why did the clothes look suspiciously like prison uniform. From Vic’s position it looked like they were shackling the survivors, hands and feet together like the American prisoners he’d seen shuffling around his TV screen. Why were victims of an air raid being shackled and detained? Vic had seen enough, despite his shivering bones and growling stomach he slipped away into the shadows.

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1 comment:

  1. Petra Goláňová10 October 2015 at 17:06

    I'd sent lines of this story but they somehow didn't come to you. Now when I read the story for the third time I realised it's perfect from the beginning to the end.