NUMB

The explosions echoed the cries of hundreds of innocent men, women and children, whose only crime was to stand up to this mercenary, or to hide. He was standing like a ghost among his victims, his eyes finding little pride in his work. The village drew colours of red, and orange, and brown, and black, a stark difference from the green grass and grey buildings which lined the village not an hour ago.



Dozens of corpses lay around the mercenary, scattered through the streets for hundreds of meters. They were merely collateral, incidental to the one man he was seeking. Many of them may not have even known his intended victim. To him they were just in the way of his bounty, his riches he stood to claim.



The mercenary strolled though what was once a busy street. Now only silence was all the village could cry out, its voice deafened by explosion. Through the rubble and ruins of one building, he could see his prize. Bodies and limbs rolled down the dirt and gravel as he upset the ground he walked on and over. His victim, forever in his twenties, carried with him bullet holes and shell fragments. Leaning over, the mercenary reach into the victims pockets, and pulled out a passport. This would be proof of his goal he accomplished, but not of the toll he left with it.



He put the passport into his pocket, and slowly made his way out onto the streets. He pulled out a paper, and crossed out the name of his prize. He glanced at his watch. Six fifteen, he’d been there no more than a couple of hours. With that he made his way down the road, towards the next village, and a place he could spend the night. He did not look back at the legacy he left. There was nothing of interest to him in the wreckage. He’d done his job, and all he could think of was the money he’d earned for his hard work. Nothing else mattered.