The Cold Lake - A Short Story

The knife is slick in his grip.
His breath, ragged.
His body, trembling from exhaustion.

Blood—his, theirs—coats his arms, drips from his fingers, stains the earth beneath him.
Cuts and bruises mark his skin, each a testament to the battle fought.
His heart hammers against his ribs, wild and desperate, but none of it matters.

The war is over.
The city is lost.
The mission is finished.

And yet, here he stands.
Because she isn’t here.
And he isn’t done.

The lake stretches before him, dark and endless, swallowing the sky’s last dying light.
The wind stirs the water, whispering across the surface like a voice from the past.
His cheeks are stiff with dried tears, his eyes glassy, hollow.

He could go back. To the base. To the remnants of what once was.
But the thought is empty, meaningless.

Because Thea is gone.

His fingers tighten around the knife.
He steps forward—
—And dives into the cold lake.

The World Spins

---

(Scene Change)

“This is the last time,” Thea says, adjusting the straps on her vest.

That look in her eyes—the one that meant she’d already decided, that no words could change her mind now.

He sighs, pulling back the slide on his pistol.
“Yeah, yeah. Where have I heard that before?”

“You’re just mad I’m always right.”

“You’re not always right.”

She smirks, nodding and eyeing toward his left shoulder.
“Who told you not to take that turn on Patrol Six?”

He grunts. “You did.”

“And who warned you about the rations that smelled weird?”

“…That was also you.”

“And who—”

“Alright, fine,” he groans. “You have an obnoxiously good track record. But that doesn’t mean we should walk back into a city full of people who want us dead.”

“They don’t want us dead,” she said. “They just don’t want us leaving with something that could burn them to the ground.”

“That’s worse.”

She grins, patting his chest. “Then we just have to move fast.”

His lips curl into a smile. “Fast. Right.”

He loved her for this. The boldness. The fire. The way she never hesitated when she believed in something.

They move like ghosts through the ruins, boots silent on shattered pavement.
The city looms around them, a skeleton of what it once was.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks—feral, surviving. Just like them.

The air still carries the scent of smoke.
He could still taste the gunpowder on his tongue.
The war had left its scars, and this place would never heal.

Thea is a shadow ahead of him, rifle steady, breath controlled.
She has always been like this—sharp, methodical, seeing everything five steps ahead.
He is the better fighter, but she?

She is the reason they are still alive.

“Building up ahead,” she murmurs. “Should be just past that intersection.”

“You sure about this?” he asks. “Intel’s been sitting here for how long? Feels like bait.”

She shoots him a look. “Of course it’s bait. But if we don’t take it, someone else will.”

That is the thing about Thea.
She doesn’t just see missions—she saw responsibilities.
She has to know the truth, has to stop the bastards who started this war.

He should have argued. Should have told her they could just walk away.

But instead, he follows.

They were halfway across the intersection when Thea shoves him sideways—

A gunshot splits the air.
A bullet whizzes past him, punching into the pavement behind him.

They roll, take cover behind the rusted-out shell of a car.

“Sniper,” she hisses. “Second story, blue building.”

“I owe you one,” he smiles and winks at her.

“You owe me a hundred,” she shoots back, grinning—just for a second.
Then, quick as ever, she presses a kiss to his cheek.

Gunfire erupts, rattling the car as bullets slam into rusted metal.

He risks a glance. Shadows shifting between the buildings.
“At least five. Maybe more.”

Thea exhales sharply. “We’re pinned.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

More bullets. Too close.
They aren’t just cutting them off—they are herding them.

Thea's jaw tightens. “We need a way out.”

“We could go right.”

“Open ground.”

“Left?”

“Dead end.”

His fingers flex around his rifle. “Then we fight.”

She smiles, just a little. “Good answer.”

He pulls out a flashbang. “Ready?”

She nods. “Ready.”

“I love you,” he says.

She smirks. “Not more than I do.”

He throws the grenade.

The world erupts in white light.

Then they move.

Gunfire. Shouts.

He drops one, then another.
His body moves on instinct, knife flashing, boots slamming against pavement.
A third enemy tries to raise his weapon—too slow.
The blade sinks into his throat.

Thea is ahead of him, landing clean, calculated shots.
She doesn’t waste bullets.
She never did.

His body is a weapon, moving on instinct.
A blade through flesh.
Boots on pavement.
Thea is beside him, every shot clean, precise—until—

The second sniper.

A shot rings out. Different angle.

He turns just in time to see Thea's body jerk backward.

“NOOO....”
His eyes track the shot, his instinct finds the sniper’s cover.

She staggers, hand flying to her side, blood spilling between her fingers.

“.....OOOoo...”
He turns his rifle toward the sniper’s hideout.

But the sniper fires again before he could fire back.

A second impact.
Her legs buckle.

He lunges for her, catches her, arms locking around her shoulders as she crumples against him.

Her breaths come sharp and uneven, her body trembling.

“No, no, no,” he whispers.
He presses his hands to the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but it was bad.
Too much blood. Too deep.

She grabs his wrist, squeezing. Hard.
“Keep… moving,” she forces out.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he says, voice shaking. “We’re getting out of here.”

She tries to smile, but it is weak.
“You always lie when you’re scared.”

More gunfire.
They are closing in.
He pulls her closer, his breath against her temple.
“Just hold on, okay?”

“I love you.”
She exhales. Soft. Almost peaceful.
Her grip loosens.

Then—nothing.

The world tilts.
His pulse roars in his ears.
His stomach twists in agony.
Hot tears cloud his eyes.
His hands shake, but not with fear.
With rage.

The gunfire stops.
The screaming starts.

What came next was not war.
It was Wrath.

He doesn’t remember how long it took.
How many he killed.
He only remembers the blood, the sound of bones breaking.
The way they ran when they realized—

He wasn’t a soldier anymore.
He was something else.

The sniper ran last.
The coward.

He shot the sniper’s leg.
The man stumbled, tried to limp away.
He shot the other leg.
The man collapsed, screaming.

He walked forward, slow, measured.

The sniper raised a shaking, bloodied hand. “Kill me.”

He dropped his rifle, letting it clatter to the ground without a second thought.
The knife came free from its sheath with a slow, deliberate hiss—an unspoken promise of what was to come.

The sniper’s prayers stuttered from his lips, breaking into choked sobs as he scrambled backward, legs useless, hands slick with his own blood.

He stepped forward, calm. Measured.

Without a word, he knelt beside the man.
Gripped his trembling hand.
Then, with surgical cruelty, he drove the blade straight into the shoulder and pulled—tearing downward, splitting flesh from sinew, unzipping the hand like paper.

Arteries burst.
Veins curled open like shredded threads.
The white of bone peeked through the ruin.
The sniper screamed—a high, raw, animal sound.

He stood.

The first cut took the right arm.
A clean, precise slash through muscle and joint, the limb dropping with a wet thud.

Then the left.
Flesh folded in on itself.
The stump pumped blood in desperate, twitching bursts.

Then the legs.
One by one.
Severed at the thigh.
Nerve endings sparked in the open air.
The body writhed, jerking violently in a pool of its own heat.

Blood was everywhere.
So much that it steamed against the cold ground.

The sniper shook.
Wailed.
His pants darkened—he pissed himself, terror leaking from every pore

And still, he lived.

Just like he wished.

Because death was mercy—and mercy was something this man didn’t deserve.
Not after Thea.
Not after everything.

No, he wanted him to suffer.
To feel it.
To drown in it.
To rot alive in the final moments that would stretch into eternity.

He found a broken slab of stone nearby and sat, elbows resting on his knees, bloodied fingers loose around the handle of the blade.
He watched.

Watched as the sniper writhed—pathetically, pointlessly.

The man’s torso convulsed, trying to shift, to crawl, to do anything—but with all limbs into shreds, all he could manage was a twitch, a roll, a bloody drag across the earth.

Every movement smeared more of his life across the dirt.

His breath grew ragged—wet, gasping wheezes, lungs desperate for air that came slower with every panicked inhale.
His face was ghost-pale, streaked with tears, dirt, and sweat.
The veins in his neck stood out as he strained to breathe, every inch of his body screaming for relief.

But relief wouldn’t come.

He rose and knelt beside him again, the dying man's eyes rolling to meet his.
There was nothing left in them but primal fear—not even hatred, not even pleading.
Just raw, agonizing terror.

Perfect.

He raised the knife, holding it above the man’s chest, the point steady—hovering right above the heart.
The sniper trembled, staring up at the blade.
He knew what was coming.
He hoped it was coming.

But he waited.
Let it hang there.
Let that terror build and swell and crush the man from the inside out.

Then, when the sniper thought it would finally end—

He slammed his palm down on the hilt.

The blade punched into the chest with a sickening crack of sternum splitting, then sank deep into the heart in one brutal thrust.
The sniper’s back arched, a final scream tearing loose from his throat—shrill, strangled, and broken.

Agony. Just for a heartbeat.
The most pain he could give.

Then nothing.

Just silence. Just a body.

He pulled the blade free slowly, and the sound it made—wet, final—was the last whisper of the man who’d stolen everything.

And still, the world didn’t feel any lighter.

And suddenly—
There is nothing left to fight.
Nothing left at all.

He sways.
His vision blurs.
He turns—and some steps ahead, there’s a lake.
He walks toward it.

He sees his reflection in the lake—
A ghost. A monster. A man drowned in blood.

The knife is slick in his grip.
His breath, ragged.
His body, trembling.

The war is over.
The city is lost.
The mission is finished.

And yet, here he stands.
Because she isn’t here.
And he isn’t done.

He knows this moment.
The weight in his chest.
The burn in his muscles.
The way his body remembers before his mind catches up.

He’s been here before but has no idea how many times.

The lake calls to him.

He whispers to himself,
“She would have done the same.”

—And he dives into the cold lake.
The World Spins Again

Somewhere, sometime…
The fight begins again.

 

Short Story written by

- Sarwesh

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