Odyssey of the End Times Kyle Crawford

The monolithic thunderhead of a raging storm advances from beyond the darkening horizon, in the wake of a tumultuous vanguard of churning waves and buffeting wind. Acting in concert to slake a terrible hunger shared; the towering nimbus quickly overtakes yet another glittering metropolis caught unawares upon the bay, as the frothing, feral waters below eagerly recede, feigning retreat, building momentum to deliver the killing blow.
Dazzled, deafened and devoured by the grim chaos of an unknown terror unleashed within – it’s sister city of the sea already lost to an insatiable inferno – ink black shadows stretch into being like claws from the bristling towers, greedily reaching out for what scurries at their feet, as the doomed city on the bay stands paralyzed like helpless prey.
* * *
This isn’t a riot. That much is certain to Corporal Aiden Wagner as he leans in to open fire upon the converging crowd once more. Many are still in sleepwear; pajamas, nightgowns, oversized shirts and sweatpants, all barefoot. Some are completely naked. Few are in street clothes. Yet all are marked by the red fever and running mucus of the Uber Flu, covered in blood, bile and vomit, with feral gazes and frothing mouths.
Their faces and eyes are frightening, their relentless charging demoralizing, but Wagner sticks to his post, guarding the rear of the fleeing protesters among a series of leapfrogging firing lines. Littering the street are the remnants of a fierce melee; broken and discarded signs, water bottles, various articles of clothing and other property either surrendered or lost to escape, the occasional blood trail. Beyond and among all that is horrific carnage, as well as the perpetrators of the horror.
Leveling his sights upon the crazed mob, aiming at their center mass, Wagner swiftly picks his targets as he sends every burst into the abdomen of a crazed citizen. Just like before, of the fifteen he drops most get back up again. Worse, only three are reduced to crawling by severed spines. Worst of all, both his fellow squad mates and the police officers flanking him seem to be experiencing similar results.
“Nothing!” someone shouts. “We did nothing to them!”
Falling back behind the next two firing lines with the others, reloading, Wagner voices his concern, “At this rate we’ll be serving another course, free of charge!”
Backpedaling beside him, Sergeant Fines, the woman running his squad, briefly seems content to overlook Wagner’s remark and heckle the panicking beat cop nearby. “At least I hit my targets!”
Ignoring the sharp curse given in reply, Fines turns back toward Wagner, saying, “Well, corporal, either keep blaming our excellent training, or suggest a better option.”
As the firing lines before them rapidly melt to the rear in turn, Wagner recalls the troubling words of another woman he knows, a fellow veteran very dear to him. Suiting those words to the current purpose, he says, “Center mass may be super effective, sir. But I strongly suggest we start making them kiss a bullet.”
“And that’s how we win, corporal,” replies Fines, nodding her approval. She then addresses the rest of the line, “Semi-auto only this time, people! Lean in and make them kiss a bullet!”
The next few minutes are lost to violence.