The sun was beginning to set. The sky was already littered with stray stars that spilled over the mountains and out of sight. The little light the sun still gave draped over the rooftops of the town, lazily climbing as the sun sank behind the horizon.

Then, a cry rings out.

With a pained scream and a colossal shifting, the pile of corpses tipped and tumbled out across the street. From among them, the young woman crawls out to lay sprawled out across the few remaining cobblestones in the street. Blood leaks from her dress, staining the white cotton and dribbling over the road. She rolls onto her side with a wet gurgle and spits, though more blood, spit, and grit, seem to shoot from the hole in her right cheek than from her lips. She’s left gasping at the sharp sting that lit every nerve in her face on fire.

She clutches at the wound, vocalizing desperately as she tries to find words for the pain she’s in, the damage she can feel with acute awareness. It had been a dull throb as she wavered between life and death. Now that she had chosen to fight on, the pain had chosen to fight her back to the grave.

A stray dog approaches, snuffling curiously at a hand too weak to shoo it off. It took an experimental nibble, then darted away as she gave another wet, gasping breath. She watches it take off down the street, turning a corner with the leg of someone she likely knew.

Through the haze of pain, the image of a church she had seen as they were marched to this spot flashes through her mind. A touch of hope stirs in her and she rolls onto her stomach with a grunt. She tries to rise but only manages to tread on the hem of her dress, the few times her legs were strong enough to get that far.

Slowly, painfully, methodically, the girl crawls on her belly, scooting herself slowly through the street like a beached turtle. Every movement illicites a cry or grunt, every foot earned through sweat and screams. At the corner, she manages to brace herself to the wall, pushing herself nearly upright, though the twisting of metal in her gut keeps her doubled in pain.

From there, she scoots with her shoulder down the next block. At the next corner, though, she tries to push off and stumble to the other side of the road. However, she only manages to take a tumble, leaving her winded for several long minutes. She considers giving up, but finally rolls herself across and eventually, upright once more.

The church looms only two blocks further, the tall white steps leading to a pair of massive doors, the cross vanishing into the sky as the tower on which it rests seems to stretch impossibly high. She puts a hand out, barely catching herself as her vision swims out of focus and back again. Before she can even realize, she’s traveled another block.

By the time she arrives at the bottom of the steps, she’s entirely breathless. No grunt or scream comes forth, only labored breathing and a soft whine. She tries to climb the steps, only to slip down the smooth marble on skates of her own blood.

She’s tired.

She’s so tired.

She relaxes there on the steps. Her arms and legs begin to feel warm, as though submerged warm summer waters. The water creeps higher as her breath slows and she lets out a parting cry of frustration that barely echoes before being silenced.