Paul Jackson could feel the blood pounding in his head as his eyes slowly flickered open, his vision faded and blurry. He could hear the wind rushing past the shattered remains of the AC-130 helicopter that was his resting place, and the grave of several others. The air shakily rushed in and out of his chest, his breath hitching a little as pain flared from his arm and his leg in particular, however his entire body felt leaden.
Paul blinked slowly, trying to bring himself out of his stupor. He looked out of the still-gaping entrance of the helicopter out at the street. Dark red smoke clouded the sky, colouring the entire view crimson, and large sheets of debris and rubble flew past at amazing speeds. The buildings were decimated.
Slowly, agonisingly, he began to pull himself forward, dragging himself towards the opening at the other end of the copter. He hissed lowly as he felt his right arm throb, and he looked down to see that he was leaving a smeared blood trail as he moved. Finding the sight morbid, he looked forward again, his fingers desperately digging into the warped metal as he continued to pull forwards.
He bit his lip as he pulled himself out, looking around, but the huge piles of rubble and the few remaining buildings were blocking his view. On the brighter side, the sky had turned to an ashy yellow, leaving the area lighter and making it easier to see.
He continued to drag himself, unaware how high up the edge of the ramp was, letting out a yelp as he fell the few feet to the ground. He let out a gasping cry of pain as he landed sharply on his right side, his arm and leg pounding with pain as his vision blurred.
Paul fought weakly against the haze of black threatening to cloud his vision, wheezing for air as he struggled to prop himself up onto his left elbow, his right arm awkwardly cradled against his chest. He looked down, biting back a curse as he saw the wound on his arm still streaming blood.
Leaning heavily on the side of the copter, Paul shakily pulled himself to his feet, hissing as he tried to put weight on his right leg. Mind still fuzzy, he ignores that his leg is probably broken and, clutching at his arm, starts desperately limping away from the smouldering ruins of the once mighty vehicle.
Looking around, there were no signs of life, and he needed to be careful not to get shredded shrapnel blown in his eyes. Eventually, he just lowered his gaze to the charred ground that he shuffled over. As he staggered, his breathing became laboured, and he was having to fight harder and harder to maintain consciousness.
Even through his pain fazed mind, some slow, dull thoughts are able to sluggishly move around his head. But they were mostly questions. Why did this happen...? Where is everyone else...? What's going to happen to me...?
Finally, the strain was too much, and Paul's legs buckled under his own weight, sending him crashing to the ground with a weak groan of pain. He could feel himself growing faint, and his vision was gradually starting to blur as he felt the cold creeping through him. He knew then that he was going to die. There was no one to help him. They were all dead too.
So this...is how it ends... He manages to think through his blank mind, slowly looking up at the giant plume of smoke and dust that, even several minutes after it had gone off, still managed to retain its distinctive mushroom shape. This was the last thing he ever saw, before his vision went white, and his head thumped to the ground, the stream of blood from his arm slowing to a trickle as his heart stopped.
