John Doe: A Short Story

The wind whispered through the decrepit building like a thousand ghostly voices. It carried the scent of sulfur, and the nauseating smell of gunpowder; with the slight, damp dusting of rain from above. The sky peeked through small holes in the ceiling; piercing with its gray veil of death, though John Doe was at ease with the crackling of his fire. He poked the coals tenderly and supplied what must have been a chair leg, with intricate carvings and beautiful polished wood. John got up swiftly, ruffling his dark brown hair with callused hands. He flicked his eyes towards the door with a cat-like annoyance and approached it slowly as to not make a sound; stopping almost a foot away from it. A knock sounded through the hollow wooden door breaking the silence now that the fire had ran out of fuel. John clutched his left hip as he flung open the door ready to flee or fight. The wind voiced his thoughts with its sudden silence. When he looked outside, it was as if all color had been taken from the world, and all that was left were drab shades of black and gray. White dust crowded the narrow streets and everything else in between; small spots turned a deeper color as rain
He turned his head instinctively and saw two men emerge from around the houses corner. Their lips moved but no sound came out, and they raised their rifles in unison. John Doe dove to the left; death getting all too close. He ran, for what seemed like hours but might have only been seconds. Wind whipped past his hair and into mouth filling his world with sensory deprivation. He could only hear ringing; he could only taste gunpowder; and he could only see gray. He felt like a rabid wolf; he was hunted and hungry; his ribs poking through his chest all too much. He only noticed it now but it seemed as if all his teeth were