Third Day Of Death Short Story

[teknoTom 0]

I've started writing a short story. Very harsh.

The wind buffeted his frail body. He was not alone. Alongside him, their now worthless lives on the line, were several others. They knew each other not by name, but by number. They as people did not exist. They had been baptised as a numerical code. Foot marks in the putrid mud slowly disappeared under a tide of murky slurry. They no longer cared, that they were no longer trudging through the bog in shoes, but in scraps of cloth. They need not care for their loved ones, whom had been directed upon arrival to the Krematorium. Their fate had been decided by a quick flick of the hand of a soldier. Who was he to kill innocent people? Where they now lay, he did not know. His life, as with the others was worth nothing. He had been stripped of his dignity, his humanity. He was no longer a man. He was a living entity, nothing more than an inconvenience to the humans of his planet. He was brought back into the present. He had a job to do. They had previously acquired the key to his destination. The Guard Room. As they approached their destination, the bitter wind biting their ankles, they carefully contemplated the moral difficulties of what they were about to do. No. It had to be done. For the good of his people. Regardless of their nationality, they were a people. Persecuted, they had been brought together. They had reached the hut. Sitting, alone in the middle, was a solitary guard, reading pornographic magazines. They looked at each other, fear emanating from them, cold sweat dripping off their skeletal chins.

He suddenly contemplated their situation. There was no situation. He was no longer living. At least in the normal sense of the word. He wished he was dead. Anything was better than the horrors to come.