The rain was the wrath of an angered god. It fell in thick, freezing droves, descending from a sky so black and starless he might've been convinced the end of days was nigh upon them. And perhaps it was, with the world thrown into chaos, drowned in the depths of a long and bloody war. But, nevertheless, it seemed the raging divine had some sympathy yet, for he was still alive. A miracle, to be sure, for he remembered little but his plane spiraling downwards, magnetized towards the earth, a ruin of smoke and unrelenting flame. He'd managed a leap of faith from the burning skeleton of his P-51 Mustang, throwing himself into the open sky and reaching desperately for the cords of his parachute. Dangling there like a helpless marionette, a German FW-190 had swept in to finish him off, only to be itself annihilated by the fire of a comrade.
His feet had touched soil in a forested clearing, and from there he'd blearily begun his journey onward, nursing the smallest hope that he wouldn't be discovered. Time seemed to pass in a crawl, and only when he'd seen the lights of a small town did that same hope, having begun to fade like a dying ember, reignite with vigor. The lashing downpour had commenced shortly after, soaking him to the bone and prompting fits of uncontrollable shivering. Blinking frigid drops from exhausted hazel eyes, Dale forced his aching legs forward, met by a labyrinth of slick, empty streets, gleaming like mirrors in the watery assault.
Idealism was going to be the death of him. He'd signed his name for the US Army Air Corps soon as he came of age, and becoming a flight officer had been the proudest moment of his young, reckless life. Before, man could only look up and dream of commanding the world above. Give it some years, and they'd finally done it. Culling the enemy had been his sole purpose, a patriotic duty engraved into the forefront of his mind. A singular goal for a focused will. He'd been so close to making ace, celebrating every victory delivered into his hands...until that fateful moment. His Sweet Sally gone, a twisted and smoldering wreck. Barely twenty-three, he still had his whole life ahead of him, but would lay it down in a heartbeat for the sake of the nation. It was only by heaven's grace that he'd made it this far. And with its continued blessing, he'd find some way out of here.
It was funny, but all he wanted right now was a cigarette. Not that the rain would allow it.
He squinted, several violent coughs wracking his chest as he wheezed, gulping a lungful of chilly air and noting how absolutely dry his mouth was in spite of the downpour. Something had moved in the far distance, slinking into a narrow street. He didn't know if the fatigue had made him delirious, but he was pretty damned sure that something wasn't quite human. Rather, it seemed a grotesque creature with a broken back, its movements stunted. It walked with an awkward lope, and though he knew better of himself, the pilot's curiosity was immediately piqued. What in the hell... He forced his blistered feet to hasty action, trailing the malformed oddity as silently as he could. The sound of the rain served to overpower any smaller noises, so that in itself was a tiny relief.
The creature halted outside the back door of a small house, banging furiously on said door with a disturbing sense of urgency. So loud was the cacophony that it triggered an unpleasant churning at the pit of Dale's empty stomach, the youth having found a suitable hiding spot around the nearest wall. He was holding his breath, his chest tight and his fingers digging into mottled brick. At this distance, he knew his eyes weren't deceiving him. Whatever it was, he'd seen nothing like it.
Good God.
The door swung open, light spilling through from the other side. Dale edged slightly closer, concentrating such that he was able to discern some kind of conversation. French. Not German. He didn't know who he could trust, but if he didn't get any food or water soon, he was like to collapse. There were times that one just had to take chances.
