BOOM.
A distant blast of noise echoed throughout the mansion. It had been days since the cacophony of horror had begun, and those hidden within the darkness of the manor could no longer distinguish the rumbles of distant thunder from the explosions of the bomb shells around it.
At this point, they no longer cared which was which. They were scared all the same.
Christo held his little Iskra ever closer as she shivered in his arms - whether it be from cold or fear, he did not know. She just continued to hold onto her father in the darkness under the table, her wet, salty tears slowly streaking down her face and dripping onto him as the rumbling reverberated through the building.
Roman sat propped against the overturned table, his hair and back drenched in sweat. His fingers perpetually curled around the rusty knife he held so close, he slowly peeked his head above the roof of the makeshift barricade to look at the window next to the rickety wooden door. As if on cue, a blast of bright light filled the window followed by a louder explosion than before, forcing the former soldier to cower back beneath his wooden shield. The bombs were getting closer.
BOOM. BOOM.
In the basement beneath, two families were cowering. Luka was bawling his eyes out, his sobs only slightly muffled by Ana's tight embrace. Boris's long arms wrapped around them both, desperately trying to grant at least some kind of comfort to them. Lydia and Kalina were held in the arms of Marko and Alina respectively, both parents quietly whispering words of comfort to their terrified daughters. On the opposite side of the room, Bruno and Emilia held their heads beneath the pillows, mostly out of annoyance at the sound of Luka's wailing but harbouring a hidden fear of the bombing behind their identical spectacles, just like the others.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
On the uppermost floor, the simple rainwater collector was filling up as the storm continued to thrash the building. The single window to the face of the building was locked shut, the occasional shelling providing it with a brief light that showcased the dirt and grime that coated the glass. Only three feet away from the window, Anton sat on the only hard wooden chair on the floor, staring out through his binoculars. While he held fear in his heart, he was trying to use his old eyes to spot where the next bomb would hit. Cveta cowered behind him, prepared to quickly pull the old man out of the way if a bomb struck nearby. Pavle leaned against the wall, trying to appear calm and courageous in the face of peril but clearly having a hard time keeping his cool in such a situation. Zlata, in direct contrast, was making no attempt to appear brave, pulling the blue fabric of the sleeping bag over her head as the explosions continued.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Arica clutched the bottle of pills tightly in her bloodstained, dirty quaking hands, holding it close to her vomit-covered shirt as the sick woman sat on the floor of the "bathroom". It could not really be considered a proper bathroom, as that would imply that one could wash themselves in that place. This bathroom, on the other hand, had no running water, and the bath wasn't really a bath – just another bed that was used by one lucky member of this ragtag band to sleep somewhere other than the floor or a sleeping bag. In the bathtub, Irina lay almost motionless, her face white and gleaming with pearls of sweat. Resting her legs, wrapped in bloodied bandages, on the edges of the tub, she was far away, but still listening to the far-off sounds of the explosions of the bombs and the closer, occasional sound of Arica's regurgitation as her empty stomach somehow managed to forceful expel a thin, slimy fluid from her ill body.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Curled up against the still-locked door, Katia and Marin each held one of the last two cups of coffee. The bland, low-quality blend in normal circumstances was enough to instantly calm the duo, but in these circumstances, it was only just enough to keep them from completely freaking out. Marin's matted black hair, unwashed for weeks, was glistening with moisture, but his face was still and stoic. Katia, on the other hand, was much less calm, shaking as she slowly sipped the lukewarm beverage in her hands while the explosions still persisted in their rage outside.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Outside in the treehouse that had been converted into a makeshift watchtower, the bombs were visibly drawing closer to the wooden prison. As another blast shook the land, Misha flinched and clamped his hands over his ears to try and block out at least some of the devastating noise. Henrik's arm was wrapped tightly around Ivano's quaking shoulders as he tried his hardest to make him aware that he was not alone in this nightmare. Sergei, completely unopposed, sat near the entrance of the airborne shack, cautiously watching the planes above as they attacked the neighbourhood. He was different from the others. He was not scared by the shells that fell.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Silence. Beautiful silence.
The unnatural beauty of the silence had tossed its blanket of comfort over the manor. All that could be heard now was the soft pitter-patter of rain and the whistling of the wind as it blew past the holes that had been blown through the battered building long before the bombing of the night.
Slow as a tortoise, Christo poked his head from out from under the table. With the deadly silence still filling the air, he began to crawl from under the furniture's shelter, starting to get to his feet. Iskra followed, a little more cautious and uneasy than her father. Soon after they were both standing again after what seemed like hours of torture, footsteps began to plod themselves across the hallway. Turning to the left, they saw that it was Roman, still holding his knife, but this time with a more relaxed language to his movements, a kind of bittersweet relief to his walk.
"I think the shelling's stopped." He spoke, his already deep voice scratchy and horse from hours of parchment. Iskra gave Christo a worried glance, and all he could do was offer a helpless shrug in reply.
Helpless. That's all he had felt these last several days, and it was the worst feeling in the world.
As if on cue, a sudden, quieter booming sound shook the air. Iskra yelped and grabbed Christo's hand as Roman turned to face the door.
"It's okay, that was just the thunder!" Anton's voice shouted from above. This declaration was quickly followed by the familiar scraping sound of the hatch on the floor slowly clicking open. The rusty, dirty hinges of the trapdoor scraped as it opened, and Boris's head popped out from the basement.
"Is it over?" He questioned in his slow, loud voice.
"For now." Christo sighed back.
"Th-th-thank g-g-god." Boris stammered as he began to climb out from the underground. As he finally stood up again, Ana began to make her way upstairs. Luka, still stricken with tears but much calmer than before, followed, and soon Marko, Alina, Bruno, Emilia, Lydia and Kalina started coming up. On the opposite side of the foyer, Irina limped her way down the ramshackle stairs, followed by Arica, who gripped the side of the banister-less wall, and then by Anton, then Cveta, then Zlata, then Katia, then Marin, and finally Pavle, who kept his hands in his pockets for the whole trip downstairs with a stoic expression on his face. From the backdoor on the other side of the hall, Henrik, Ivano, Misha and Sergei finally re-entered the mansion, Misha briefly stopping to shut the door behind him. This unusual team were regrouped in the foyer, and now they were safe. For a while, at least.
"Is everyone alright?" Anton broke the silence, the old man once more taking the position of group leader and the responsibility that came with it.
"No." Arica weakly groaned as she clasped onto Emilia. Emilia briefly flinched in disgust before settling back into the situation and becoming once again indifferent as the sick burglar held onto her. Once more, quiet had entered the mansion, and this gang was simply standing around in the room, staring at one another or their feet. Finally, the silence was broken.
"I still can't believe that the war is finally happening." Zlata mused, her eyes focused on the floor.
"This war's been going on for months." Marko responded. "It was bound to hit us sometime soon."
"But why? Why here? Why us?" Iskra suppressed a sob. "It's not our fault. We didn't do anything."
"The rebels don't care." Emilia, gritting her teeth. "To them, we all might as well be their mortal enemies. Their nemesis. Their…" She trailed off again. Her eyes drifted away to the distant window.
"We might as well be… Anyway, we can't just stand around talking all day. We need to get to work. I think there should still be some supplies in the building if we can reach them."
"Emilia is right." Anton stated. "There should still be some things in this dump we can use." He began turning to the others and making commands. "Marko, Pavle, Bruno, Boris, you four see if you can finally get that door unstuck. Marin, go check around the outer rooms and see if you can spot any damage the building has taken. Roman, Katia, Cveta, you and me are gonna watch for anything else coming. Ana, Luka, Emilia, Zlata, you guys go check on how the herbs are growing. Alina, Lydia, Kalina, you three see if you can clear that rubble from the second basement floor. Henrik, Ivano, Misha, Sergei, do you think you can check just outside and see if you can salvage any shrapnel from the neighbourhood?"
"Can do." Sergei shrugged.
"Excellent. Arica, Irina, you two go back to bed. You need to rest."
Nodding slightly, Irina began her weak stagger back upstairs to the bed. Arica followed, and before long, they had all taken off, abandoning the hall to pursue their assigned roles.
Fourteen days it had been since the first siren blasted across the previously quiet town. Twelve days it had been since nearly everyone was left either homeless or dead when the first shelling began. Seven days it had been since our heroes had all holed up in the old, abandoned mansion. Death was all around them. None of them had any explanation as to how they had been able to keep everyone alive other than a sheer, gigantic stroke of luck. But how long would that luck last for?
AUTHOR'S NOTES
Thank you for taking the time to read the first chapter of my very first story on the site. If you can't guess, it's a loose novelisation of This War Of Mine.
Please note that this story will feature moderate usage of artistic license throughout (such as Lydia and Kalina being Marko's children and Boris's family still being alive). More will develop as the story progresses.
Thank you again for reading. I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you stick around for future chapters.