The Pale Bridge
The mud sucked at my boots with a wet, tearing sound, a visceral pull that felt less like earth and more like the hand of a dying man. I was knee-deep in the treeline, the air thick with the metallic taste of iron and the low, humming vibration of artillery in the distance. My rifle was heavy, a slab of cold oak and steel that I held not as a weapon of war, but as an anchor to my own sanity....
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews