"I missed the end of the world."
The man spoke aloud, though
there was no one to hear his words. He had only stepped a few yards from
where his small plane had touched down, a remarkably smooth landing.
The red and white plane was painted with pink and orange by the rising
sun. There was still a chill in the air, and the young pilot's breath
was colored white. His back was to the sunrise, and his face lay in
shadow.
He stood in the smoking ruins of a once great city. The
runway was clear until the very end, where aircraft of various sizes lay
in blackened heaps. The tower had fallen, the terminal had collapsed,
the remains of its glass roof sparkled in the waxing light of dawn. But
over both of these he could see his entire city devastated. The proud
skyline was rent and torn, buildings bent and fallen, like the teeth of
an old, broken man. A bluish smoke curled up here and there, and dust
obscured the streets.
He had flown over it on his way in, he needed to see no more. There was nothing left.
He
pulled out a cigarette, and cupped one gloved hand around it as his
match flared. For a moment it revealed the numb, cold look on the mans
face, then he shook it out and carefully put in his his shirt pocket.
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