Family Feud

This story is by Tom Pleasant and was part of our 2023 Fall Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

With a scream of jubilation, an artillery shell tears through the smoke-filled skies, crashing into a skeletal office block and releasing its fiery soul deep within. The building’s steel bones collapse inwards sending a cloud of concrete dust billowing out into the already devastated city square. The echoes of destruction fade as the dust drifts down.

The once vibrant square grows still again, strewn with the bodies of soldiers and civilians. Shop windows of glamorous boutiques glitter with shattered glass that cover mannequins entangled with the bodies of those who sought shelter inside. A school lies in ruin; its rubble a cairn to the children crushed beneath. Bullet holes mark every wall of every building, pockmarked with shrapnel, scorched by shellfire.

Tanks and explosions have churned to mud the lush lawns of the park, once brimming with life, at the square’s heart, their trees now aflame and casting ash into the already smoke-thick sky, eclipsing the sun.

A sinewy woman peers from a side alley and surveys the square hunting for movement. She steps out, assault rifle ready, and makes for a fountain in the park, weaving around the wrecks of cars and military vehicles. Her battle gear is a jumble—jeans, a barista’s black T-shirt, and boots under body armor, helmet, and rifle. Every part of her is bloodied or cloaked with dust, yet she is miraculously unscathed.

Almost in tandem, from the opposite end, a gangly man appears wearing suit trousers, dress shoes, collared shirt, and loose tie, which once must have cost thousands, along with flak jacket, helmet and rifle, all marred by blood, grime and sweat, but he also is unharmed. His long-legged steps trace a path through ruins and regret.

Unseen, their courses bring them closer to the cracked fountain until a shard of glass crunches under foot. They spin, raising their rifles, cheeks to stocks, their eyes meeting down barrels, their fingers tightened on triggers.

Water trickles down the outside of the fountain’s shattered bowl.

Cutting the heavy silence, the woman asks: “All your people dead?”

“Yeah. And yours?”

She nods, and keeps her weapon trained on him, an ethereal energy around her rifle growing in strength; his the same.

Their silence is broken by the escalating shriek of another artillery shell. Their eyes flick upwards then back to each other.

“Seems a shame for us both to go out by the same shell,” he says with a smile. “Shall we…?”

The shriek grows louder. The woman hesitates, then gives a brief nod.

They lower their rifles, the mounting energy dissipates, then turn to raise their hands upwards, in supplication or maybe command.

A vast ghostly falcon made of flames and crowned with light emanates behind her.

Behind him a spectral sea serpent, its body shifting ocean currents, crowned with seaweed as if drifting in water.

The energy returns, now shimmering around their hands. The shriek stops. Down from the sky falls a shower of rock salt.

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Traditional,” she says with a shrug, dropping her arms.

The ethereal falcon and serpent fade.

His stomach growls in hunger. He shrugs, apologetic.

Her own stomach growls in return. “Me too, apparently,” she says.

On unspoken command, they walk to the fountain and sit on still dry steps, removing their helmets, rubbing their sweaty hair, resting their rifles beside them.

She rummages in her pockets and comes up short. Triumphant, he fishes two protein bars from a pouch, pauses, then hands one over with a smile.

“Thanks.” She opens her canteen, fills it from the water trickling beside her, takes a pull and hands it to him “Price of assuming human form.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not all bad. You tried that ice cream they have now?”

She considers. “Prefer cold beer. So cold it frosts the glass. Never used to get that back in the day. Warm,” she adds with a grimace.

They chew their bars in undisturbed silence.

“Who’d you say won this time?” she asks, trying to sound casual, but the question hangs heavy in the air.

His gaze falls on the war-ravaged ruins and he sighs, “It’s anyone’s game, I reckon.”

Quiet returns, but for the water whispering behind them. Reluctant to get back to his feet, he idly picks up his rifle to brush some ash from it.

She glances at it, “Beats a musket any day.”

“Which beat swords,” he says, “but I have to say, I really miss their…” His words trail off.

“Grace?” she suggests. He nods, puts the rifle back down.

They eat, drink.

“Ever wondered if one of us could pull off a final win?” she asks. “Back in that jungle—in the 1770s—thought I had it. Thought I had you. But, here we are.” She looks at the palms of her hands, unblemished, unscarred, rubs at some dried blood with a thumb.

“Huh. No kidding,” he says. He looks into the distance and frowns. “Maybe neither of us is supposed to win…this.” He waves a hand at the destroyed city around them: “Maybe the fight’s just…bigger than us.”

She leans back against the fountain’s basin and closes her eyes. “Tired.”

He glances at her, looks up at the smoke-filled sky. “Yeah, me too.”

She remembers a mudbrick village on fire at night, her bloodied sword and arm raised over a father as he clutched his sobbing child while her bronze-armored soldiers slaughtered every living thing they found. His pleas, the child’s sobs, both silenced. They and hundreds of thousands like them returned to her more these days, their cries growing louder with her every incarnation.

She leans forward suddenly, her stare intense: “Our fighting. Has it ever done any good?”

She hesitates before continuing, fixes her gaze on the dead around them, and ploughs on. “They all died, the ones we fought for, ages past. Their lands, the map lines redrawn again and again until they’re meaningless. Doubt many today who could even name ‘em.”

He nods, “And their surviving bloodlines too, if that even means anything anymore. They’ve intermingled just as much as their borders. They definitely weren’t these poor souls.”

The smoke rises in silence, the wind whispers, and the fountain trickles.

He opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, closes it, and tries again. “I…I have a question,” he says.

She cocks an eyebrow.

He takes a breath, then rushes it out: “Can you remember my name?”

Her lips part to speak, but she falters and gives a slight shake of her head instead. “Thought I knew, but no.”

“See,” he continues, “I know this body’s name,” his hand pats his chest. “Waking up in it I had some memories, some powers, but mainly just that urgency to find and kill you. Now I come to think about it, though, I can honestly say I can’t remember my own name. How weird is that? I don’t know yours either.”

She looks at him, then away, shakes her head. Her neither.

Quiet sits with them again.

“Honesty begets honesty,” she offers. “Don’t even know why we fight.”

His gaze lifts in thought. “Wasn’t it the recent election? Your lot didn’t like losing to mine?”

“No, why we’ve fought, through the centuries. Always putting on a new skin, using their fights for our own, pulling their strings to make what would have been a slap to the face, a knife in the gut instead.”

“Ah,” he says. He ponders. “Wasn’t it about a cosmic egg?”

A soft grunt of laughter, “Wrong mythology. That was the Zoroastrians…or maybe Hindus.” She thinks. “Didn’t you try to eat our children or something?”

“No, you’re thinking of someone else,” he says.

“Oh.”

More silence.

“What’s next?” he asks, sweeping a hand around them at the ruins. “Have to say, more fights seem…”

“Pointless?” she suggests.

He nods, “Just like us.”

Eyes meet, then slip away. He sees a dead woman and her child lying in the mud, their hands now forever out of reach.

“Could we just…stop?” he asks.

Her lips purse, contemplating.

“I mean, who could stop us?” he adds.

Her eyebrows lift in realization, then a nod of agreement.

He looks around with new curiosity, then up at the clouds of smoke above and grins: “You know what I never did, all these years, during all these fights?”

“What?”

“Never saw the Northern Lights.”

“Really?”

“Really. I think it’s time. Time to leave this. To see the Lights.”

Rising, he dusts off his trousers. Eyes meet hers, “Would you care to join me?”

Surprise gives way to thoughtfulness before a smile brightens her face. “Sure.”

They both turn when a piercing light blooms on the horizon, throwing the square’s tableau of death into shadow.

“What…?” she begins.

Later news coverage disagreed about which side detonated the bomb that consumed the broken city in atomic fire, but all agreed it was a comprehensive defeat for someone. They just couldn’t agree for whom.