A/N: Hello there, I'm not too sure how I'll tackle this story, but it's a pastime to write and think about. This story is mainly inspired by War of the Worlds by UN Peacekeeper. I love their stories and how they mold the world around the stories. Also inspired is The Will to Live by Obsidian Productions.

Description: Through an unforeseeable chain of events, Humanity faces the risk of extinction for the first time since their time as simple creatures without culture. Now, Corporal Michael Ellis has just woken up on a distant world ruled by nightmares. With few allies and dwindling resources, it will take everything he has to survive and adapt to the world at large.

Tags: Gore, memory problems, mature, blood, survival, military, the real world.

FORSAKING PT.1

do you hear the bells?

There's water.

Mud and the water were slipping into his gaping mouth. But his head is stuck in the black earth mud; wet and cold. His throat is seizing and his lungs are heavy, where is he? What's happening? He can see the sky cold and numb, where the slice stretched all around him. Too silent.

His bones and tenons throb, aching and pulsing through the thick muscles and skin. Is that normal? He can smell something else too; a hissing sense that struck on top of his mouth. The smell of smoke and the rotting death of burning flesh.

His face is damp and his face feels somewhat warm. But everything just aches. His muscles creaked and croaked with the slightest touch. That's where the cold started to sweep in. Like cold fingers, it dug into his bones, wary and demanding. He now knew that he was trembling.

Odd.

But his mind was far from over because this wasn't normal, right? He shouldn't. . . he should be somewhere. But where? His name is. . . the knowledge didn't correct itself and the veil of false security left, leaving him gasping with a cold realization.

Who was he?

On instinct he dragged his body from the edge, the motion bringing sickness as he looked down on himself. He was in some dark clothes, covered with the soil around him. He tried to stand but the foulness and the blood (blood, where did he get blood?) He could only bring a desperate breathe before his side was left in the mud again. He groans from the light hitting his eyes, bribing his heavy arms to attempt to block the light.

He didn't know what to expect but looking through the cold, he recovered and with that made an account of what the hell was happening.

One: He had little, to absolutely no idea where he, who he is, what happened- No, that's a lie, he can remember vaguely shouting of names and codes through static and the burning sensation of flames as they were thrown out of somewhere. He was panicking, somewhere in his subconscious, he knew logically that panic would not solve anything.

But on the much brighter part of number two is that he is alive, teeth grinding pain and bleeding but mercifully alive.

That in itself should count on a blessing.

On the third, and most glaringly obvious were his injuries. From the bloody boots with caked mud (that on that he concluded that he walked here?) chipped fingernails on one hand, and one gloved hand, with dirt and grime underneath. And the deep and dark bruising from his hands to the throbbing of his cheeks. His shaking fingers brushing against a swollen bump in his skull flinching when it touched.

Oh- he looks at his back and sees the giant black bag on his back. That explains why the was tilting side to side, trying to find the center of gravity. A gun sat next to him, the metal twisted and contoured in an unnatural way.

Four, he had a literal fucking knife in his thigh. Which of course would explain his searing pain, and the blood mixing through the water. Like fine silk or grey smoke on a cold day- wait he's being distracted.

Probably due to the high loss of blood. Yeah, he would blame it on the blood.

On the positive note, that was the fifth and final note, he was covered in thick, black armor. With so many pouches and hooks, he wonders what the hell he's supposed to do with them.

But there was something wrong with his arms, or neck. Both really. His fingers were reluctantly moving and stretching if he couldn't really control them. The gun sat useless, and cold at the touch. Okay, he's been here for some time then.

Stretching his luck, his eyes wandered to the foul stench, where the bulking figure was at the edge of the water if daring to touch it. Had he been attacked? But the bruising burning neck and the sticky hair on his head would tell another tale.

So the despair point was this; he didn't know his name, where he is, or any fundamental information, he was alone with nothing but a knife that is still lodged in his thigh. He was going to die from blood loss, or from hypothermia. Whichever one gets him first.

But it is getting dark, and like hell, he'll just roll over and die. Enforced with the confidence needed he to sit up- the burning agony and the distribution of his lungs, he's wheezing, and oh he's going to throw up- it's too late.

The foul stench burned through his nose, and mouth, and oh gods it hurts to even move or think or- but the rhymic throbbing of pain in his thigh tie and ground him. He'll pass out any minute now, but the cold that hangs in his body, crawling through is a constant reminder that it's getting dark and something deep is screaming at him to move. He knew that and needed to do that.

But by God, everything just hurts.

His lower intestines are looping like in an abstract painting, rubber tubing circling each other and it's suffocating to no end or beginning. And his bones are cracking in their housings of muscle roped too tight into his skeleton.

So first, before he tries anything, he needs some direction on what to do and where to go. Right now that means getting a knife out of your own flesh. Sounded better than actually doing it. Which is okay. So not blinking, or stopping for any reasoning, he launched and ripped the knife out, but stopping half-way there, by the screams that burned his throat. The white seeing pain, is too much, far too much, he is already half-dead why is the world doing this?-

He doesn't even realize of his own shivering and crying. He hisses one last time before pulling out completely, and by Mary, Jesus, and Joseph, he really wants to die now. His back is back at the starting point, his own back subconsciously curl upwards if that would help the wound stop hurting to damn much. Soon his wheezing and the hissing subdue, and he's left gasping and panting.

Okay, part one is complete. Next, not dying from blood loss. Good thing there was water next to him, and he had some resemblance of luck. He shifted again, hissing and groaning as he sat up. Looking at himself, the gaping wound and the blood rushing out of it was a trance that memorialized him. Pulling himself, painfully slow mind you, he carefully wrapped the wound.

Oh it wasn't perfect, and it will most likely open up again, but it'll hold for now. The charter land, a wide channel, and on each side were the rocky and bold trees that stretched out into the heavens. Maybe from his perspective. But his own gaze, curious, wonder to the bulking figure that was the falling slope that hinted out where it fell from. Too late that he also realizes that the corner of his vision is frizzling and blurred, shaking and unfocused like a cheap bought camera.

With all the pain and beating his own body took, he amounted to something as he crawled slowly on all fours to the dead animal. (Animal? It's too small of an animal, what is that?) The static on his right ear grew heavier as he focuses on it. It was like having your own static station right in there.

The animal was not what he was expecting. Because it's not an animal. It's a man.

A man curled into his side, it's head, with blood flowing still, took a hit by the looks of it. And on its middle is a gaping wound with the deep brown and reds of intestines and organs in plain view. The realization hit him hard, almost causing him to fall back into the mud, this was a man. His friend maybe? Its brown hair was flowing and cluster by the mud.

It's body armor, black and ripped in areas, there's a white bold letter: A. Cribbs.

Instinctively, he jerks his head to the left of his breast shoulder, finds the name, M. Phillips. He grabbed his head, throbbing, and high pitch noise as he recalled someone with blonde hair, standing shoulder to shoulder with men and women as they stand with straight postures in front of crowds and flashing cameras.

His name is Corporal Michael Elli Phillips, member of an elite group of scouts to report and set information hubs to gather information on this new, dangerous world.

His is hyperventilating because he knows this man. Remember how the man would sneak his jolly ranchers in his pounces, and absolutely loathes potatoes, of any kind, and would stubbornly dig his own heels in no matter the teasing he received from his team. Knows the man in front of him with his lower jaw missing, teeth crocked and torn, and the meat of his tongue hanging in the air.

His knees were already bloody and weak. But the wanting of knowing, outweighs the burning of his muscles and back. Unclipping the bag, his arms quiver, and he hisses as he carries the bag to his side. His own sheer power is leaving him more drain and confused but he pushes the corpse of his comrade.

There, half-buried was the dog tags. Caked with blood, and fluids, caged and guarded by the upper jaw and tongue. He somehow locks eyes with the dead man, the dilated pupils somehow are sharper than he imagined, the pigment of his eyes drained and left behind the milky mess of the eyes of a dead man.

He looks into his palm as he takes the dog tags, engraved were:

Cribbs, Aaron

1266-7904-1124

A Pos.

No preference.

They words loop around one another, with letters and codes he sees, but hurts to comprehend. He shoved it into one of his pockets. He turns, his jelly legs carrying for a few meters before collapsing once more. He shoved his heavy bag to the side, thankful to not have the extra weight in his shoulder, before ransacking the bag. Things necessary for survival scattered and few in between, enough for a few days at most. But not enough for the long run.

But sufficient enough to somewhat guarantee he won't fall to hyperthermia. As the sun was falling, he hooked them to his sides, arms locked until they wouldn't fall.

Unless.

He looks at Aaron, he just notices his broken legs with his fibula breaking the skin and heavy cloth armor. He clears his throat, and carefully turns the body on its front. He's missing his gear equipment, and most of his things, but his one handgun is safety put in its hoster. He sends a thank you and prays for forgiveness as he takes it.

As he stood, shakily and almost falling, he looked down on Aaron, with his torn and his corpse, and a surge of regret and sadness hit him, he was. . . hesitant to leave him behind (a mantra no man left behind is whispering in his ear ) but now he does not have the luxury to choose.

Dark was falling and the sounds of the forest were becoming alive. Something was lurking in the shadows, deep and dangerous.

So he stood and limped, and for now, that was all he could do.