The rancid atmosphere burned the young scout’s throat and lungs—even through the Soviet-era gas mask. He could almost choke on the stench of burnt flesh and dust. Ash falling from the bleak sky coated him in a stygian blanket. Around him, his squad-mates fanned out in the dark, desecrated landscape. What were once majestic structures were now nothing but searing stone, misshapen lumps of glowing glass and streams of molten metal.

            The young man shivered. His ash-laden fatigues hardly kept out the cold, and the gruesome sight of smoldering trees and crispy human husks sent a chill down his spine that had nothing to do with temperature. As he got closer to the charred ruins, he could feel the smothering heat. Oh! How great are human-kinds’ tools of destruction. The simple sticky gel that brought destruction to this community was used against fellow man out of immorality. There was no mercy for those trapped in the napalm’s grasp.

            The freeze brought on by an eternally blackened sky could not ward off the remnant heat emanating from the ruin. The scout cautiously crept toward the rubble with his squad-mates, his automatic rifle held in tight in a grip that could strangle an animal. The young scout’s gas mask hid the expression of sheer terror on his face. Sweat etched a dirty trail down his face as they arrived at the site of carnage. The squad leader issued an order for the ten-man group to split into pairs. The young man was paired with a more experienced scout—a sergeant—who told him they were to walk down the center of the ruins.

            It was all so much for his senses to take in—the unbearable heat, the eye-watering stench, the searing air in his lungs, the foul taste on his tongue, the carnage that perpetrated his innocent eyes, the nauseating fear—it almost overwhelmed the young man. On he pushed. Around every corner was danger. What may have looked like solid ground spelled doom for someone if it gave way. Teetering molten fuselage hung high, and deadly obstacles lined the path below.

            The young scout could almost see a madman or villain sprinting out in his peripheral vision. It was only a trick of the mind. His mind created phantom sounds of the deep growling of a pack of feral dogs. He could envision them, drool flowing from their foul maws. His teammate signaled him to come forward. They were to enter a relatively sound looking structure. The young scout took his position next to the door, flung filthy sweat from his forehead as he kneeled. His teammate held his rifle in the crook of his shoulder with one arm and gave a shuddering cough into the other. His teammate grabbed the malformed door handle but immediately released it and swore. A wisp of smoke rose into the air. The veteran braced himself and gave a powerful kick to the door.