He slept fitfully, the way soldiers always sleep on rock mattresses against the surviving wall of a burnt out building. Spotlights of the searchers couldn't reach this flopspot and the walls were stable. There was a name for this war, Rattenkrieg; an old name from a century before when soldiers used lead bullets and not energy guns. Rat war named for one city not a world. Sniper, a man who shot real enemies not the faceless searchers that fell from the skies.
He slept in this burnt out rubble because it was away from his sniper lairs. He slept here because the rats fed elsewhere. Not that the rats mattered anymore. Rats liked fresh meat. He was no longer fresh or living. No one lived in these ruins. They died here but never lived. Like all snipers, he became one with the stone and the dirt, one with the scurrying rodents. Every few minutes, his eyes opened not awake but looking past the red glare of burning buildings and the ruins.
He dreamed of dancing and laughing to music in three-quarters time, a rainbow of colored skirts swirling to the elegant sweep of violins and cellos.
But the only music was the whining of mosquitoes and the dripping of the fetid water that pooled by his sleeping body and soaked through his clothes.
He slept like this, in this shithole, not through choice, but because he'd believed the propaganda, he'd ignored his better judgment and he'd gone to fucking priceline.com.
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Anon.