Per 
Between the Shoulders of Giants: Casus Belli
I sat alone on one of the few benches in the square, watching the hubbub of humanity wander by. Tight cobblestone streets led to apartments, tailors, butchers, florists, cobblers—people had walked these paths for a thousand years, and people would continue to walk them for as long as their spirit held. I watched the lovers walking arm in arm along the sidewalk, the mother carrying a young child, the beggar pushing a shopping cart. Regular, common people, going about their lives—knowing that the sun would rise tomorrow, and a new dawn bringing new opportunity. Most of them lived comfortably in the fact that they lived without imminent fear for their lives—the country’s dictators had come and gone, their statues a relic of those dark times. Food was plentiful, anyone could seek out a neighborhood clinician when they got sick. Crime wasn’t high, and people could walk down most alleyways without fear.
People were happy.
And so the hours went by, as I sat there, absentmindedly watching the sun dip below the distant foothills, listening to birdsong in the trees. I was lucky to be in this town—birds stopped here on their migration routes, giving us great diversity. Tonight it sounded like a group of swallows, their reedy trill setting them apart from the constant cooing of the mourning doves that hung around the square.
I was still there, half asleep, when the first blasts started. At first it was only a few in the distance, like the crash of thunder. But they kept coming, growing louder and closer. I started running when a tailor's shop exploded into dust and glass. The ground shaking under my feet, I stumbled towards the library, an ancient, sturdy building. I glanced back, watching my city burn. Orange flames greedily consumed an apartment building, while behind it the ancient clock tower fell, raising clouds of pulverized stone high into the night, the bell letting out a final, defeated ring as it collided with the street.
People ran in every direction, desperately searching for some form of safety. I saw many find nothing but death, crushed under falling debris or by being too close to a blast. All I could do was keep running, with only a direction in mind, hoping that I wouldn't become another victim. Dust filled my eyes—I teared up, nearly blind. It found its way into my mouth and throat, a bitter, sticky paste forming, choking up my breathing. I stumbled, purblind to the chaos around me.
I didn't make it far—a blast ripped a hole in the street far ahead of me, and a fireball erupted in its wake. I felt myself thrown into the air, tiny bits of rock and metal scouring my body like angry hailstones. I came to rest on my back, looking up into a smoke-choked sky, a few pigeons flapping off into the night. Soon, the wind drew the smoke and ash over my eyes, and I was once again back in utter blindness.
Minutes passed as I laid there, struggling to breathe. No longer running on adrenaline, I started feel my injuries. Wet, sticky blood matted my hair down, my chest felt as though it were on fire, every breath searing my mouth and throat from breathing the hot, ashy air. My leg stung, damp to the touch, a deep gash running down my thigh. Blood ran into my eyes, and what vision I had quickly blurred and stung as it mingled with the ash and dust caking my face. Left to the confines of my own mind, my thoughts raced, resolutions on whether to give up and die, or to keep moving.
As a teenager, I’d fallen into a crevasse while mountaineering with a friend.
I wasn’t roped in, I was stupid. I fell a few dozen feet, bouncing from wall to wall before I got wedged. Too far for a rope to reach me, I had to climb my way out. But I had broken ribs and a shattered collarbone. Just existing in that moment was agony. Staying there would have meant death by exposure, so I forced myself to ignore the pain and worked my way upward—my back braced against one side, my feet against the other. It took me an hour just to get ten feet, but I was able to make it, and get off the mountain.
What makes this any different? I go, or I die.
Once again blind and in pain, I managed to feel my way down the street, running my hands along the curb to guide me. The rough stonework rubbed my skin raw and bloody, but I didn't care—staying in one place meant death. I managed to make it to one of the markets before I sunk back to the ground, my sight going dark.
'C'mon, up you get. This is no place to die.'
Lifted roughly to my feet, I found myself face-to-face with a slightly-built woman. Grey ash coated her entire body, giving her the visage of a moving statue. Her voice, while calm and soothing, held an ethereal, almost otherworldly feel, so utterly out of place in the hell that the world had become.
'You look like shit, though I can't imagine I'm doing much better.'
I tried to talk—I had so many questions—but all I could do was let out a hoarse, ragged breath. I coughed and tried again, only to meet the same result—a painful, grating groan.
'Don't talk. Just get to the library. It's a tough old building, it’ll hold.' She directed me towards a side street and shoved me forward. 'Get going! There's no time to waste!'
Trudging ever forward, I limped down alleys, listening to distant booms, hoping that they would not return my way. Every so often, a few people would dash by, heading to some unknown shelter, but other than those few, I was alone. Passing by a collapsed music store, I noticed a few people crouched on the ground, frantically digging into the detritus. I stopped, considering whether or not to help. On the one hand, helping was in my nature—I was a trained first responder—but I was in no condition to help, and staying out of shelter could get me killed. After a few seconds, I decided I would try to help where I could, and I made my way to the gathered people.
‘Is there any way I can help? I can’t dig too well, but I do know some first aid.’ They wordlessly looked back at me, blank stares in their eyes.
‘No place for a medic here. She’s long gone. Could’ve used you a half hour ago. You could’ve saved her then.’ It was then that I saw the tiny form of a young girl held in a man’s arms. My heart sank. For me, being unable to help was just as bad as being the one who needed the help. ‘We’re trying to dig her sister out—nothing you can do. Go.’
When I came to an intersection, I leaned against a lightpost. It was then when I saw the soldiers.
Moving with a mechanical efficiency, they marched down the road, each step in perfect timing. As quickly as I could with my hobbled leg, I took cover inside a ruined bakery, hiding behind the register and peered out towards the parading forms.
Some had metal plating over parts of their faces, some had metal arms and legs, others seemed to be almost completely metal and machinery. Every single one of them had the same sigil on the right shoulder, a hammer and lightning bolt, striking an anvil.
Their eyes were the scariest part. Even if they looked normal, they had a steely, empty feeling to them, like the glass eyes in a stuffed animal. A few had blinking lights, flashing green and red every few seconds, scanning from one side of the street to another.
Once the soldiers reached the middle of the intersection, the rattle of gunfire suddenly erupted from surrounding buildings. The soldiers quickly took defensive positions, returning fire wherever the flash of an enemy weapon appeared. While the panicked counterfire from the soldiers resulted in a small lessening of the volume of fire, a few of the soldiers lay wounded or dead, in only a few seconds of fighting.
What seemed like the group’s leader directed their fire towards the windows, shouting in an unfamiliar language. She pointed at one of the soldiers, who shouldered a tube, and shot a rocket-like projectile into the building, which exploded into green flame. The sickeningly sweet stench of burning flesh immediately filled my nose, and I buckled over, trying not to vomit. From the ground, I heard the gunfire slowly taper off, and the screaming forms people came stumbling out of the building, being cut down by the soldiers as they came into view.
When I got to the steps of the old library, I wasted no time slamming the door open and going down to the basement, a smattering of people following close behind me. Shelves had toppled over, dumping their contents on the floor, books splayed open, a shock of white in a world gone grey and black.
In the basement, people huddled together, holding each other, waiting for the chaos to end. Seated among tall the endless rows of old tomes, parents held their children tightly—as if to shield them from the wanton destruction happening outside. Tear streaks ran down ash-coated faces, bright eyes shining even in the darkened halls. Others held the bloody, broken bodies of loved ones in their arms, vainly longing for some sign of survival—a tiny shiver or slight breath.
I sat down beside a group of other people, their eyes flat and lifeless, looking straight ahead towards the wall. One of them offered me a bottle of water. After hours of choking in dry heat, the sour taste of chlorine-purified water was near orgasmic, as the foul taste of ash washed out of my mouth.
The rest of the night passed in silence, broken only by sudden blasts that shook books from their shelves. Every time the ground shook, I flinched, despite the near-clockwork nature of the booms. Somehow, I still managed to fall into a shallow, fitful sleep, despite the distant, yet constant blasts shaking the ground every few minutes. I had no dreams that night—I was never in a deep enough sleep to be able to.By morning the explosions had stopped, and I decided to watch the sun rise, and get a bearing on my next move. I made my way to the roof, passing families and groups, all huddled together, holding each other close. Once I got to the top, I was taken aback by the level of destruction around me.
