Fiction: Group 3
Survivors of the War
Elsa High School, Zamek, Rachamim - 13, Fiction: Group 3
veryone has different story about surviving the war. Every day, one of those survivors dies and their
stories of death, hardship, and hope are lost. I have collected so many stories, and I intend to hear as
many as possible before they all fade like a light summer’s day disappearing into the thick fog of
night. My thoughts trailed off into the stories I have collected so far until someone woke me from a dream.
I woke with a start, my dog nipping at my heels to get me up. It was then that I realized that the boat had
stopped. I looked out the circular window to see the desolation the war had caused. Here, every building
that had stood proudly was now nothing but rubble. The captain of the ship ran down the rusted metal stairs
with a clank, clank, clank of his mechanical foot, the ship spewing steam every three seconds. “Well we’re
here,” he gasped in a raspy voice that was just as full of steam.
He walked with me up the stairs to the exit. “Goodbye. Thank you for the ride, how many MGB’s do I
have to pay you?” I asked as I pulled out a small box barley full of little bullets each engraved with the letters
MGB. “On the house for my nephew,” he whispered with concern. “But a word of warning kid, America
was a level three disaster zone. Hong Kong and the Pearl River Delta, level seven. There are no rules here.”
I spun the loading cylinder of my revolver with a click click. “I think I can take care of myself. Thank you
uncle.” He replied simply with a smile that stretched with admiration and concern across his face.
I stayed at the dock watching the old steam ship claw for speed through the harbour. Two men were sitting
at the dock speaking in harsh tones about outlanders. Next to one of them was a shotgun. My dog growled
at the sight of their soot-covered faces. I walked up to one of them. He barked, “WHAT ARE YOU
DOING HERE OUTLANDER!” My eyes darting from the man to the dock, I asked “I am a collector of
stories and I am looking for a survivor of the war by the name of Michael Bennet.”
“MICHAEL AINT NO SURIVOR. HE DIED IN THE WAR.” a new voice yelled back at me.
“Ah don’t listen to them old buggers.” another new, but faceless voice yelled back. “They know nothing.”
I saw the figure out of the corner of my eye. He was gesturing for me to approach. I walked over to him
asking, “And you are?” “I am no one, but those men are the guards you might say,” He replied, while
petting my dog. “They would say anything to make you turn around and leave.” “So why help me?” I
asked. “Ah my boy, it is because you are a most interesting fellow. No one comes here unless they are
searching for something, and what you are searching for is very special,” he answered. “Now, you’re
looking for, someone by the name of Michael Bennet, yes?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Well it will take a day to get there on foot but you can catch one of the only modes of
transportation in Hong Kong. “Just take the tram to Shau Kei Wan, then find a bar by the name of This
War Of Mine.” he said. “When is the next tram?” I asked. “Well now,” he said happily. I heard the sound
of metal on metal, the sparking of wires, and the puffing smoke of steam. I ran after the tram, a long thin
double-decker piece of machinery with open door ways at either end. I saw a hand stretch out to mine and
pull me onto the tram. I looked around to see who helped me but nobody was there. I felt a sudden sharp
pain of memory, letters made of fire blazed across my forearm. The pain was so bad I could not scream. The
fire died and all that was left were the scars of the flame marking:
Child
Of
The
War
My skin felt cool to the touch I kept touching it cautiously reminding myself that the fire was long gone.
During the entire tram ride I kept seeing shadowy figures out of the corner of my eye. They looked so
familiar, like memories, but they also felt cold and alien, like Hong Kong. When I finally arrived it did not
take me long to find the bar and to find you, Michael.
E
