Since I’ve returned to writing full time I’ve wanted to get back into the mix by reconnecting with friends I’ve met on Facebook and Twitter. One of those is the paranormal romance author Siobahn Muir. Every Thursday Siobahn hosts the #ThursThreads challenge, and this week I was able to submit an entry. I thought my 250 word entry was strong, but I didn’t think it would win over the 17 other talented entries. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve done flash fiction so imagine my surprise to find that I had won.
I’d like to thank George Varhalmi for judging, and for Siobahn for hosting the weekly challenge. Below is the story that was submitted. Please forgive me but I feel Rod Serling trying to break through for an intro.
Submitted for your approval, a company of Russian soldiers, men and women dedicated to keeping the peace in the midst of a rebel uprising. But one can’t summarily dismiss the enemy combatants as mere rebels. Especially when the remote outpost borders the Twilight Zone.
“What the hell is he up to?” said Mikhail, watching Sergei walk his post along the perimeter fence. Sergei paused to tug on a section of wire fence. “Stupid’s been doing that for two hours. He walks his post, pauses, and pulls at that section before continuing on.”
“Maybe that’s his escape route.” Lipa peered at Sergei with her scoped AK74. “Perhaps I should do something about it.” She trusted the new transfer as much as Mikhail. “Maybe he’s a rebel sapper.”
Mikhail’s reply was cut off by explosions and gunfire from the base’s west end. “Contact, western sector,” cried their radios. “Rebels armed with RPGs and… Shi-”
Mikhail and Lipa watched their sector. Sergei stood watching them, smiling. A Russian military truck plowed through the fence. Figures leapt from the truck, opening fire as they landed.
“He’s a rebel,” cried Lipa. She fired and Sergei fell. “And that was that,” she spat. She looked to Mikhail, but he was dead.
Lipa sprinted and was almost to her position when something landed on her, knocking her unconscious.
It was nighttime when she awoke. She’d been tied naked, and spread eagle to the ground, illuminated by a spotlight.
“Don’t struggle,” said a voice beyond the light.
“You won’t be raped,” said Sergei, stepping into the light.
“I killed you.”
“Bullets are now ineffective.” His mouth, hands, and uniform were bloody.
“What are you, monster?”
“Dear, clichéd Lipa. You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
And that was that.
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