"Sir! You have to come out here!"
Private William Cyrus ran in to the General's tent. He held a thick, rolled-up piece of parchment in one hand, and he held a bloody sword in the other. The General, puzzled, peered over his reading glasses to get a look at the man. The Private was battle-scarred, tattered, and shell-shocked. He panted heavily, as a constant dripping of crimson blood fell from his lips.
"What is the matter?" inquired the General, standing from his maps and ink to face the soldier. His blade rattled in its scabbard. The Private did nothing but walk back out of the tent, his eyes wide. The General adjusted his war uniform and proceeded to the opening in the fabric shelter. He poised himself and stepped outside.
Bodies. Bodies, everywhere. Stabbed. Wounded. Infected. But they were all doing one thing: floating. Literally, they were floating in the air, their eyes wide and lifeless, their legs hanging a few feet above the ground, and their arms where held out wide like the wings of a falcon. But the worst thing of all, a small smile was across their lips, spread thin like butter on bread. Tiny smirks, not blatant, but just enough to be noticeable.
General George Washington of Virginia stood stone-still. The Private sunk to his knees. All of the events at Valley Forge, the weather, the cold, the small pox, were of absolutely no comparison to the eeriness of what floated motionlessly in the air before Washington. For a moment, the General forgot about everything regarding the British and their war. No King of England could keep the terror that was about to befall him and his militia from happening.
Washington glanced over at the Private, who sat motionless in the mud. But his face; that smirk that was on the bodies, that smile that watches you but does not falter, that grin that just taunts; that was what was on his lips.
All the General could do was cough.
c. Taylor ward 2012. All rights reserved.
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