I am currently in a creative slump on my bed and am feeling the need to create something. Being unable to work on my current project, Socks the Roadkill Dog, for another few days has driven me to write a short horror story which will be set in WW1. Unfortunately I will NOT be continuing it as do not want to be completely overrun with projects. So I'll just leave this here and hope that you attain as much enjoyment with reading it as I did writing it.
ARMY DOGS
My squadron and I had been assigned to run explosives under enemy vehicles, however most of us were lost to an unholy encounter with mustard gas. Only myself and one other canine remained, his name was Puddle. Not the most appealing of names, but it was hardly in our control of what the white man chose to address us as. They were superior after all. And if it weren't for them, half of the dogs of that time wouldn't have been lost in the senseless feud.
We were driven north by the yellow mist and it lead us straight to the neighbouring pasture which was littered with dead men. It was a grizzly sight indeed and one that I hope I shall never have to endeavour again. Their flesh had been ridden with large, yellowing blisters and their tongues were swollen preventing the jaw from closing completely. Some had no tongues at all, and their mouths were sealed shut by the enlarged and sore-looking interior of their mouth which was also suffering from large blisters. It was obvious the cause of their deaths. Mustard gas. Its musk was still thick in the air, I could smell it. It made my eyes burn and caused my throat to itch with each irritable inhale. Puddle gazed at me, the whites of his eyes now reddening with the same irritation that I was experiencing. He nodded, urging me to press on so that he could follow behind. I did just that, dragging my weight upon the small blisters which formed on the base of my paws.
After about an hour of endless venturing across an empty pasture, Puddle collapsed with exhaustion under the brown sky and allowed himself to slip away from all reality. My greatest fear was not death, but surrendering to it. Because if you simply give up on all hope, then there is no means of survival. Puddle had given up. I tried to help him; I gave him a reassuring whine and even attempted to drag him to his paws forcefully. And so, I too allowed myself to just end it all. I lay aside of the dog, closed my eyes and slept.
I awoke to a burning sensation and the inability to breathe. My eyes were swollen shut and I could only manage to crack them open slightly. I gazed through a thick, yellow smog which had completely consumed Puddle and I. My paws frantically fumbled around for the German Shepherd but I was unable to find him under the mustard blanket. An array of reds, purples and yellows formed in rounded, greasy bumps on my flesh and I could feel the inside of my oesophagus swelling until I was gasping for breath. Puddle was the least of my concerns at this point, I just had to get out of there and fast. All I could do was sprint as fast as my blistered legs would take me until I could finally locate a way out of the gas.
And then there was rain. It was like a gift from The Lord himself. It caused the deadly mist to disperse and it felt like a miracle against my battered body. I trudged a little further before collapsing in a puddle of chilled water, feeling replenished and somewhat relieved. I was found by some men a few days later, but I looked more like a clump of burnt skin than a dog at that point.
My tongue was so swollen that it had to be cut out, I lost my sight, all strength in my limbs was gone, my nasal passage was even slightly damaged by the mustard gas. These physical problems don't bother me as much as the fact that I tried to help myself more than I did my dearest friend. Puddle and I didn't know each other too well, we were simply survivors together... But I would give anything just to see his face one last time.
