Post-War Zone

         The man, clad in tattered clothes, continued through the city. He threw his cigarette to the ground, crushing the flame under his well worn boot before talking a quick sip from his canteen. The rifle on his shoulder chafed the skin beneath the threadbare jacket, making the hike all the more uncomfortable.
         His feet screamed with agony after the several mile walk, begging him for rest. Knowing his destination was still a days walk away, he decided a break was in order.
         He stepped towards the wooden bench, scorched like the rest of the city. Atop the seat was what may have once been a woman. Her charred face was still twisted in agony, frozen in the moment of the blast. Maggots inched along her ruined flesh, making their life in her death.
         He sat down next to the corpse, the smell to familiar to bother him. His blistered feet praised him for the momentary rest. Looking around, the sight was the same everywhere; bombed out buildings, scorched stone, stinking rubble and rotting bodies. He thought back to a time, not to long ago, that this street was alive with activity. People would scurry about like ants, all of them with somewhere to go, something to do.
         Things had changed all to quickly. Where once people would run about the place all hours of the day, now the only thing that moved were the rats, looking for another body to feast on.
         The man lit his cigarette, tossing the used match aside. He took a long, deep drag, letting the warm smoke settle in his lungs before blowing it back out. The smoke ascended up to the sky, mixing with the heavy fog that covered the city.
         He took the last drag from his cigarette before flicking it away. Unsheathing the olive canteen, he put the smooth plastic to his lips.  Just a mouthful of water escaped before the bottle ran empty. He swore under his breath, standing from the bench and walking towards the apartment across the street.
         He moved up the rickety stairs, walking through the first open door. The apartment looked like the site of a battle; charred furniture, shattered windows, torn paintings and trash covered floors. He took a moment to look at the burned portrait on the wall. It depicted a happy, content looking family; a beautiful young woman, a professional looking man and a young girl.
         The man stepped into the nearest room to him. The walls were plastered with hand drawn pictures, obviously made by a child. Most of them depicted a happy, stick figure family doing various things; fishing, camping or having a picnic.
         He stepped over the various broken toys that littered the floor, until one caught his attention. A brown teddy bear, with black button eyes. He kneeled down, taking the toy in his gloved hands. The burnt hair crumbled under his fingers, and one of the button eyes slipped to the floor. The small bear was a perfect representation of the time; something innocent and beautiful tainted by the fires of war.
         Dropping the bear, he made his way across the room. A plastic bottle of water sat beside a pile of dirty child's clothing. He poured the water into his canteen, slipping an iodine tablet in after it.
         Back on the street, the man continued on his journey. He still had a long walk ahead of him, and the days were getting shorter and shorter. He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, taking a last look behind him; at the corpse on the bench, at the little girls apartment, before moving on.