Finally, some peace and quiet. The only music that played was the rhythmic sound of ocean waves crashing against each other and the crunching sound beneath heavy boots. A murmured chatter filled the air as some soldiers move up the hills and some carried their comrades away. The beach was littered with bullet shells and dead bodies.
Luckily enough, Lincoln was brought in after Omaha was captured. Thought, the blood and sulfur in the air, still making his stomach turn. The nasty beach smell was replaced by an even more pungent odor. The sand was scorched and full of barbed wire that littered the ground.
Warbirds and Bombers zipped in the air. Jeeps and M3 Half-tracks rolled onto the beach. Soldiers marched up the hills, their kits rattled at a tempo.
Lincoln looked down at the beach and saw everything. From the soldiers beneath him to the destroyers in the distance. From the sand on the beach to the clouds in the sky. And he thought how easy it was for the Nazis to just point and shoot. Point and shoot. Point and shoot.
Lincoln gripped his sniper rifle; an old Mosin-Nagant with a semi-clean scope. A wave of unease ran down his back. He looked at the beach one last time. He sighed and shook his head. Brave sonsabitches, Lincoln though as he marched up the hill, following the flow of soldiers.
Hours of non-stop walking. Lincoln's feet ached but he showed no sign of it. The high grass brushed against his knees and the trees gently swayed side to side. The sun was warm, but not too hot. The breeze was gentle and not too cool. It was actually really nice. The green field stretched out for miles and the blue sky was serene.
It'd be nice if it weren't for the occasion.
Lincoln was with Second Lieutenant Oz and 3 other men: James, Frank, and Eddie.
James was from the deep South. Grew up as a farmer, supposedly. His accent was strong but his luck was stronger. Some say they saw James walk through countless firefights and walk out unscratched. Frank was the quiet type. Real shy, but real smart. He once said he was going to go to college, but chose this path instead. And Eddie was a medic. He was a tough one, though. One minute he's bandaging up a man, the next he's firing his pistol like crazy.
Lieutenant Oz was an upperclassman, grew up wealthy and rich. Most people would be comfortable where he was at, but not him. No, Oz wanted something else, something more, or maybe something different.
Most men joined the fight hoping for something out of this war and some were just dragged in. Lincoln was neither of those. What Lincoln wanted the most was an escape. A comfortable distance from here and his past. He ran away from home and now…
What?
What was he supposed to do? Lincoln shook his head. He looked around. Grass and trees still around. Sky and clouds still high. His gun was loaded and his gear was swaying. His small squad was evenly spread out. The crunching grass filled his ears and his blood ran smoothly through his body. What was he supposed to do again?
Oh, right! Liberate France. No, wait. No, no. The Lieutenant and his crew were heading westward. The mission was to scout out the city of Caen, Secure, if possible, then wait for reinforcements. If any Nazis show up, then open fire. Yeah, that was it.
Sounds easy enough.
The Lieutenant, Lincoln and the men have been walking for days. Everyone's exhausted. Rest has been kept to a minimum. Walk until the dead of night, get a couple hours of sleep, then start marching before the sun rises. The chilly winds were left behind a hundred miles back and the hot sun felt like it was cooking the Earth.
It was only after James started complaining that the small crew finally made it to the outskirts of Caen.
"Happy?" Eddie mockingly said. James growled and mumbled a curse.
Lincoln never really liked getting too attached to people, no one was supposed to, but he couldn't help liking Frank the most. Mostly because he never talked. From the moment Lincoln got placed on this team, it's been the farmer and the doctor arguing non-stop. Mostly trivial matters, like-
"Damn." Eddie whistled. "What happened here."
Caen was trampled. Two story apartments were missing large chunks of wall. Windows and doors were broken. Shops were either raided or evacuated. Random, gray smoke coming from burning houses. And shattered glass littered the streets.
Probably the cause of heavy bombing or a strong battle. Whatever the case may be, the place was like a ghost town. Not a single person around.
Lincoln and his men walked through the streets, passing by demolished buildings. The Lieutenant and the men casually walked by a home, but Lincoln stayed back. He looked past the broken window and saw the kitchen. The dinner table was full of half eaten food. Some fruits and silverware littered the floor. The table seemed uneven and the chairs were flipped over, almost like the family was forced out of their home. Lincoln looked back at his squad and managed to catch up without drawing any suspicion.
The silence was unbearable. The men's boots clicked against the stone streets. The popping and rattling of gunfire in the distance smoothed Lincoln's nerves, reminded him of where he was and where he wasn't.
The crew passed by a couple collapsing buildings. A bakery that still smelled of fresh bread and coffee. The wooden sign above the bakery's door was tilted at an odd angle. The cursive, dark writing read "La boulangerie de Brandon".
The door and windows on one side were unscratched, almost flawless. On the other, half of the building was missing. The rubble filled the inside of the bakery. Chairs and tables were buried under the wooden walls.
Down the street, past a couple of caved-in apartments, was a furniture store. Lincoln walked up to the entrance and looked inside. Some of the stuff looked well enough. Some couches were buried under rubble and some were barely touched. The nasty, tacky carpets were disgusting and tasteless. Lola would probably like them, Lincoln thought.
There was a wooden dining table that grabbed his attention. It wasn't just the style or the freshness that was interesting. Nor was it the color or quality of the table. Rather, it was the size of the table. It was long, comically long. Too large for any normal family to fit around, but just right for the Loud family.
Oh, how Lincoln loved to reminisce about the happy days. The old days. His youthful days. His childhood home was empty and vacant. Most of his furniture and belongings were sold and the food was a rarity. His family suffered and worked endlessly. Money was just paper, but still worth dying for. Lincoln's parents and sister all had low paying jobs that barely kept their house standing.
And that's when Lincoln screwed everything up. But that was eleven years ago. Things change. People change. Whether it's a slow, painful process or quicker than the blink of an eye. He just wanted to do what was best for his family.
His family needed money and that's what Lincoln provided. Who cares by what means? Times were tough.
Lincoln violently shook his head. Looking back at the table, Lincoln noticed half of the table was torn off. The broken half laid on the floor amongst the rubble. Lincoln began to walk away, but his eyes stuck to the furniture store. His neck reached its limit and he turned his gaze forward. His crew was a couple paces ahead of him, but nothing to worry about.
By the corner of his eye, Lincoln noticed another building. It was a boutique. The mannequins were still standing. Their clothes were a weird combination of greens and browns. The horrendous act on clothing would make Leni faint.
Lincoln giggled to himself. His firm voice dwindled away and his childhood laughter filled his ears. His squeaky, prepubescent laughter grew louder and more uncomfortable. His giggles turned more into a choke. His chest ached. Lincoln cleared his throat and pounded a fist on his chest. He huffed and puffed. His rigged breathing was similar to an out-of-breath runner.
"What's so funny?" A firm voice called.
Lincoln looked ahead. The Lieutenant and his men were all looking at Lincoln. There was an awkward silence. Lincoln's cheeks burned. He looked back at the boutique, then back at his men.
"Um, nothing," Lincoln stated. "Nothing," Lincoln said to himself, quietly. He walked up quickly and marched alongside his crew.
After minutes of aimless walking, it seems the wind finally started hitting the men's backs again. Their boots sizzled and crunched beneath the rubble and concrete. The crew was heading down a long, narrow street that had a three-way junction at the end. Two lines of abandoned shops and apartments at their sides enclosed the men in a single path.
An old church hovered behind them. A gothic (Catholic?) church whose spiky tips punctured the skies and the simplicity fit naturally to the surrounding. Lincoln loved the design and style of the holy place, but he couldn't see himself taking a step inside.
Lincoln wasn't a strong believer of the big man in the sky, but he wasn't an atheist either. Lincoln was just himself, finding greater interest in people and science than a couple of proverbs and nice stories.
But Lincoln couldn't help pray silently at night from time to time. It seemed automatic, engraved in his daily routine. Especially now that he's here… fighting, crying and hoping for the betterment of everything.
Yeah, Lincoln knows proudly that hope has kept him alive so far. That's the wonderful thing about religion: It's solely meant for the weak. That's why Lincoln can't fully discard religion from his life. I guess-
A roaring BOOM filled the air. The ground shook and trembled. The men ducked down and grabbed their helmets firmly. Shrapnel fell all around them. Clicking and tapping against the concrete streets and their metal helmets.
An apartment complex to the left, a couple yards ahead, had black, inky smoke crawling out of it. Lincoln and his men saw the apartment slowly falling and the rubble crashing to the ground. Another explosion rang out, completely wiping out the apartment and leaving grey dust in its place.
"Was zur Hölle ist passiert?" A squeaky, childish voice called out.
"Ist jemand verletzt?" A firm tone said from the smoke.
A dark silhouette of a skinny man rose from the smoke. He came out to the debris and into the open streets. He was limping and choking. The man fanned away the thick smoke from his face. He looked down the three-way that the crew was heading, then turned and looked straight at Lincoln.
Lincoln gazed at his sharp clothing. The skinny man had his grey German uniform on, along with matching pants. Below his throat was an Iron Cross that dangled and twinkled under the sun. There was a medal on both sides of his breasts. Above the man's heart were flamboyant, colorful service ribbons. A black, leather belt wrapped around his chest and his waist.
The bastard had one hand on his recognizable MP-40 and another around his mouth. His eyes grew wide and the hand on his face fell. The Nazi looked away from Lincoln and gazed at the other Americans.
There was complete silence. The sound of the whistling winds was deafening. The clattering of concrete and rocks was unnerving.
The Nazi looked back into the smoke. He cupped his hands to the side of his mouth and hollered, "Feinde! Wir haben Feinde!"
Once the man finished, two shots rang out. The Nazi fell to the ground and the barrel of Frank's M1-Garand was lightly smoking.
In an instant, random bullets came flying out of the smoke and zipping by Lincoln and his crew.
"Cover!" The Lieutenant commanded as he fired his SMG into the wall of smoke. He fired and jogged backward. "Get to cover!"
Lincoln was the first to run. He held his sniper rifle with one hand and pressed his helmet down with the other. He looked back and it seemed his crew was following close behind. Stray bullets crashed everywhere. Pieces of the concrete street jumped in the air as the bullets landed close to the men's feet.
Lincoln heard a quick bullet brush by his ear. Sounded close to a mosquito. When he heard another bullet run by, Lincoln took a hard turn to the right and jumped through the empty window frame of a dead brewery.
The Lieutenant and his men followed close behind. The other glass windows around the store shattered and fell to the ground like tons of snowflakes. The Nazis were firing relentlessly.
Lincoln picked himself up and ran over the liquor bar. He swiftly jumped over the counter and hid beneath the empty shelves. The Lieutenant and the men followed suit. The shooting seemed endless. There was a variety of booms, pops, and rattles.
"Dammit!" The Lieutenant cursed. "Does anyone know how many there are?" No one said a thing. Either the men were too scared or didn't know a thing. Lincoln was both.
The Lieutenant had orders to secure Caen and he'd be damned if he ran away like a coward. But the safety of his men was above his pride. The Lieutenant's mind was running crazy and his heart was beating loudly. He gripped his SMG and pressed it against his chest. A count, the Lieutenant needed a visual count before he can make a reasonable decision.
But how?
A glimmer at the side of the Lieutenant's vision grabbed his attention, sunshine on the floor. It was coming from a door to his right. The sunshine looked like paint, but the dust particles casting tiny shadows reassured his whimsical assumption. Then the Lieutenant got an idea.
"Loud!" The Lieutenant shouted above the gunfire. The Lieutenant repeated and Lincoln jumped. Lincoln's shoulders grew tense and his face was full of shock. Lincoln's jaw was hung and his hands were shaking. The rifle trembled against his chest. "I need you to listen carefully! You're going to slip out the back and head to the church! Get to the top and see what we're dealing with!"
Bullets began to land on the wooden rack above their heads. The impacts sprayed the floor with tiny bits of wood.
"If there's too many, then head back here and we'll retreat!" The Lieutenant began again. "But if there isn't, then shoot at them and drag as much attention as you can! I've got a plan, but I need those damn Nazis distracted! Got it?" The Lieutenant asked.
Lincoln noded with that flabbergasted expression still on his face. The Lieutenant slapped Lincoln's shoulder hard, "Go! We'll cover you."
The Lieutenant firmly clenched his M50 Reising and turned to the other men. "Boys, cover fire! On me!" The Lieutenant took a deep breath. Lincoln unknowingly did the same.
"Go!" The Lieutenant shouted with a roaring power.
All of the crew peeked over the counter and fired outside. Bullets shattered glass and crushed wood. The Nazis outside repeatedly shouted a word. Once the first empty shell hit the floor and rang, Lincoln grabbed his rifle and pushed himself up. He sprinted to the door frame. Once the light hit his body, Lincoln entered the room and turned a corner, away from the open and gunfire.
The room was closed off by walls. At a closer look, the room was more of a storage room. Empty beer crates filled half of the room, no doors. The room was closed off by walls. The sun's rays were shining through a single window. Lincoln quickly flipped his rifle and pierced the butt of his rifle through the window. The glass shattered and fell. With the end, Lincoln ran his gun around the frame, removing all the glass from the window.
Lincoln climbed out the window and into an alleyway. There was only one narrow path, either leading far down one way or far down another. Lincoln forgot where the church was. He remembered the tips of the church stabbing the sky.
Lincoln looked up and over the buildings, barely noticing the pointy tips of the church to his left. A goofy smile stretched across his face. Without a warning, two powerful explosions rocked the ground. Lincoln hunched over and pressed down on his helmet. He looked back through the window and into the brewery.
Lincoln shook his head and ran down the narrow alley. His luggage swayed back and forth, clicking with every step he took. The taps of his heavy boots echoed in his ear. The sound of his rigged breathing was louder than the gunshots.
The alley lead him to the side of the church. Many of the windows were boarded up or broken. The crackling of the gunfire was faint but still dangerously close. Lincoln looked down the street, where the Nazis were firing and where the Lieutenant and his men were waiting. When the coast was clear, Lincoln ran across the open street staying low and being swift.
Lincoln stuck close to the dark side of the church. The heavy cast shadow kept him invisible as he crawled to a half-boarded window and slithered inside.
The inside of the church was a mess. A large chunk of the roof was missing, most of the rubble was piled up beneath the gaping hole. Sun shined through the open roof, seeming natural and divine.
The wooden benches were scattered and flipped about like there was a riot in here. The benches were facing the altar as if there was still something worth hearing. The whole inside of the church felt coated in a layer of grey dust. All color was drained and everything felt bleak.
Lincoln looked at the top of the church. His eyes ran down the side of a wall and fell on a ladder across the room. Lincoln gasped in delight. He ran over to the shanty ladders and shook it for good measure. Some dust fell off, but firm nonetheless.
Lincoln strapped his rifle on his back and began climbing. The ladder creaked and settled under his weight. Lincoln felt himself swaying, but he knew it was just in his mind. After minutes of climbing, Lincoln's head surfaced above an open hatch.
With great relief, Lincoln tossed his rifle on the platform and pulled himself up. When he got up, Lincoln was still enclosed by walls. No window or openings. Lincoln looked up and noticed there was another set of ladders under the bright light. He sighed and grabbed his rifle. With a small curiosity, Lincoln looked down the hatch and into the darkness below. Lincoln winced and took a giant step back. He shook his head and tried to control his breathing.
"Slowly. In and out, In and out. That's it." Lincoln remembered a groggy, but gentle voice. "Breath. Breath. Nice and easy."
Lincoln collected himself. He looked up at the top again and felt just as worse. His heart was racing and his throat was extremely dry.
"Just a little more," Lincoln told himself.
He went and grabbed onto the ladder, which seemed just as fragile and covered in dust. He looked up and saw only the light of day. So high up.
"Oh, God," Lincoln said in vain. He swallowed hard and then began to climb. On his way up, he felt a soft, cold breeze brush against his back. He didn't know where it was coming from, below or above, but he kept his eyes fixed on the steps.
His feet weighted tons and his hands were sweaty. His hands and feet quivered every time he reached and moved up another step. Lincoln felt he was moving at a snail's pace, but really, he was very close to the top.
A couple steps and his head peeked over another hatch. This time, bright sun and fresh air met him. The popping and rattling of gunfire were still heavy. He quickly threw his rifle onto the platform and pushed himself up. He noticed an old, giant, bronze bell that was hung and took up most of the space.
Lincoln looked out into the city and it was beautiful. Everything seemed new and foreign. Colors looked different and the fighting was non-existent. Lincoln could see himself moving here. Starting a new life, a brand new life.
Lincoln shook his head and scolded himself. No time for wishful thinking.
Lincoln laid down on the wooden platform and brought up his sniper rifle. He looked through the sight and tried to find his men.
Where are they again? Where're the shots coming from?
At a boutique, right? No, no. That was Leni. She couldn't. What? Where? Was it the furniture store? Carpets. Lola did it. No, no. Don't think like that. She's family. They all are.
Oh, the table. The funny, long one. The Lieutenant is at the furniture store, for sure. Damn, no! That's where family is at. But family is at home. What are they doing right now? Who did it? It was Lori. It had to be. She hated Lincoln the most. No, no, Lynn hated Lincoln the most.
What was it? That color? Yellow! It was yellow. Right, those damned envelopes. But he did it for his family. They needed money. They needed food and shelter, and Lincoln gave it to them. And what did they do? They killed him.
Lincoln saw a slight movement down a street. He saw it, the brewery his crew was in. And there they were, a whole battalion of Nazis. At least… one of them? No! There was nine. Nine! Nein, Nein!
Lincoln saw a couple Nazis firing somewhere else. Across the street, parallel to the brewery was Jamie and Frank. They were hiding in a dark alleyway. Jamie was tacking quick glances and firing one or two shots. Frank's mouth was moving drastically. Lincoln can see his tongue. He was shouting above the fire.
Without thinking, Lincoln aimed at a random Nazi. He was young, had smooth skin and a chubby face. About 19 years of age. Lincoln's breathing was slow, all his focus was on the end of his scope.
Lincoln pulled the trigger. The boy jumped. His chest pushed back and his gun fell to the ground. The boy's legs gave out and he fell. Lincoln took in a deep breath of fresh air. He pulled the bolt from his rifle. A bullet ejected from the rifle with a satisfying cling when it hit the wood. Lincoln pushed the bolt and got another shot ready.
He darted around looking for another target. The Nazis were scurrying around like scared ants. A glimmer of light caught Lincoln's attention. One of them had an Iron Cross on their chest. Lincoln aimed at the medal and fired. The Nazi stopped dead in his tracks, dropped his rifle and grabbed his throat with both hands. He fell to the ground, blood was seeping through the cracks of his fingers.
He thrashed about, like a fish on land. Lincoln could almost hear the man gurgling and choking on his blood. Lincoln's heart skipped a beat. With lightning speed, Lincoln got another bullet ready. He aimed at the wounded Nazi's head and fired. Brain matter and blood sprayed the ground in a form of abstract art. His kicking and whaling stopped. Lincoln was relieved.
Lincoln got another bullet ready. He looked around for another target. A foolish Nazi, tall and lean, was in the open street. He shouted to his side and pointed at Lincoln. "The church, the church," Lincoln could imagine him saying. Lincoln aimed at his head and fired. He didn't fall for some reason. Hell, he wasn't even hit.
"Shit," Lincoln cursed.
Pull and push. Just like that, another bullet was ready. He aimed at the same man and fired carelessly. The man grabbed his side and fell. Looked like he had a stomach ache, but no, he just got shot. One of his Nazi friends came and grabbed him. He dragged him into the side of an apartment building, most likely where his other allies are at.
Lincoln pulled and pushed. A ding rang in the air and the cartridge popped from the rifle. He needed more bullets. He reached into one of the pockets of his jacket, but before he can pull out more rounds, a creak came from the ladder.
He looked behind him and a black figure emerged up from the hatch. He was at arm's length. The sharp man got up and turned around. Lincoln could see his Swastika armband. The Nazi noticed Lincoln on the ground.
"Du kleiner Bastard." The man mumbled as he reached for his side and pulled out his Luger pistol. There was no time for shock. Lincoln spun around and laid on his back. He kicked at the pistol and a shot rang out.
The Nazi winced and dropped the gun. Lincoln kicked to gun and it fell down the open hatch. The Nazi grabbed his hand and gently rubbed it. He looked at his hand, then at Lincoln. His face scrunched in anger. He growled and reached for something else. The Nazi pulled out a steel, shiny knife. Sharp and dangerous.
The man lunged at Lincoln. The Nazi got on top of Lincoln and sat on his chest. He raised the knife hight with both hands and then brought the blade down, aiming at Lincoln's chest. With a sudden stroke of luck, Lincoln managed to grab the man's wrist, the blade inches from his skin.
Lincoln thrashed and wiggled his legs, but the man was persistent. Lincoln was scared, his face full of worry and fear. The man above him was angry and savage. His nose was scrunched up and his pupils were tiny. His lips were pulled and his teeth were sharp.
The man had the upper hand and before Lincoln knew it, the blade was slithering closer to his chest. The tip of the blade touched his jacket and sank into his skin. A cold sensation ran over his chest: Pure fear.
Lincoln's heart jumped. A sudden burst of adrenaline pumped through his body. He tightened his grip on the man's hand and pushed it up. He noticed a trickle of blood on the knife. Lincoln's eyes widened. He pushed the man's arms to the side and his weight followed.
The Nazi rolled off of Lincoln. The man laid on the floor, still recovering. Lincoln got up quickly and reached for his side. Lincoln grabbed his pistol, but the man was up before he knew it.
The Nazi reached out and grabbed Lincoln's arm. Both were wrestling for the gun. The gun pointed into the open air, but both were trying to point it at the other. Lincoln's finger slipped and the gun fired. The shot echoed in his ear.
Another two shots fired into nowhere. Lincoln pointed the gun to the ground and lead the man. The Nazi hunched over and that's when Lincoln thrust his strong knee into the man's soft stomach.
The man fell but still had a firm hold on the pistol. The gun slid on the wooden platform and slipped off the roof, falling far below. The Nazi's weight shook the wooden platform beneath Lincoln's feet.
The Nazi got up, grabbing his stomach in pain. The man looked at Lincoln with fiery hate and murder. The man took a step closer. Lincoln gasped and pulled up his fists, ready to fight. But the man was lightning fast. The man's strong fist buried itself into the side of Lincoln's cheek.
Lincoln could have sworn that his neck snapped at that moment, but he only fell with a loud thud. His vision was blurry and he could hear the heavy breathing of the Nazi behind him. Lincoln groaned in pain.
He tried to focus, blinking like an idiot and shutting his eyes. When his eyes readjusted, he noticed the familiar blade in front of him.
Lincoln's eyes grew wide and he gasped. He reached for the knife and grabbed the handle.
Lincoln spun around and randomly slashed. The Nazi was reaching for Lincoln but the cold steel sliced the man's palm. The Nazi yelped and jumped back. Lincoln pushed himself up and looked at the Nazi with anger. An animalistic rage washed over Lincoln.
Lincoln yelled and charged at the Nazi. The man's eyes grew wide and he quickly threw his hands in the way again. The man grabbed Lincoln's arm but Lincoln managed to push the Nazi back.
The Nazi's back crashed into the bronze bell. The bell rang once, but it was muffled. Lincoln jerked the knife closer to the man's chest. The man tried to push the knife to the side, but Lincoln lead the knife back to the man's heart.
The Nazi tried to slip away, but his foot landed on nothing. The open hatch was beneath him and he began to fall. The man quickly grabbed onto Lincoln's shoulder.
Both fell into the darkness. The light from above grew fainter and fainter. The ladder zipped on by and the breeze pushed up against Lincoln's face. He tried to open his eyes, but he crashed into the wooden platform from the first hatch. He heard the Nazi grunt and Lincoln felt something warm in his hands.
The wooden platform creaked, then cracked under both of their weight. Lincoln and the Nazi fell again, this time onto the hard tiles of the Church.
Wood chips and grey dust kicked up into the air. As the platform collapsed, the dust fell on Lincoln's face. He coughed and wheezed. Lincoln grunted. His head spun and his eyes felt heavy. The light above was blurry, but at the corner of his eyes, he caught the Nazi. Lincoln turned his head to the side.
The Nazi was face up, like Lincoln, but he wasn't moving. His limbs were spread out like a star. The man's head and eyes were rolled back and his mouth was agape. The knife was buried in the man's chest at a weird angle.
Under the man was a pool of dark, red blood. Lincoln noticed this and giggled. You little bastard, Lincoln thought, That's what you get.
Lincoln took in a deep breath and tried to push himself up. A sharp, electric pain ran through his stomach. Lincoln lifted his head and looked. His eyes grew wide and his heart jumped.
A sharp, wooden stake pierced through the middle of his stomach. Lincoln's eyes ran up the length of the wood and noticed a trickle of his blood at the tip. He huffed and puffed, but only under his bodies natural command. In actuality, Lincoln couldn't feel any pain. Just the cold.
Lincoln let his head fall back, the back of his head meeting the cold floor. A warm liquid touched his fingertips. He brought his hands up to his face and noticed his blood.
The pool of blood beneath him was stretching out and flooding. Lincoln was bleeding out, he was sure of it.
His lids grew heavy, the bags under his eyes pulled on his face, but Lincoln refused to close his eyes. He kept his focus on the sunshine seeping through the roof. The ray of light touched somewhere behind him, the dust particles dancing and playing.
He could hear it. Lincoln could hear the laughter of children, his sisters, his parents. His family, all laughing, but not with mockery. Instead, there was a joyous intent.
Lincoln's heart grew old and began slowing down. In the light, Lincoln could see them perfectly. Their smooth faces, their soft hair, and warm eyes.
As a final gift, Lincoln saw all of them together, like a photo from the light. Lincoln whined. He messed up, he finally knew that. A stray tear ran down his cheeks.
As Lincoln's eyes came to a close and his heart slowly faded, he could hear a faint shouting in the distance. A firm voice was muffled by Lincoln's dying life. The ground shook and vibrated. Lincoln knew what it was. Tanks came rolling by, bombers zipped in the air and men shouted.
As Lincoln's eyes finally shut and his final thought was that of his family, Lincoln could only hope for his crew that it was friendly reinforcements.
Lincoln mumbled a prayer under his breath. One that was left unfinished, as his head fell to the side and his heart wept.
A cold wind ran through the Church. The divine light lingered behind and reached past the altar. The holy glow touched the cross that firmly stood behind Lincoln.