jewliesparks:
Giving their neighbors their rations claiming that the government fucked up that week because they noticed that they’re going without trying to feed their kids.
Signing up for the draft cuz, “Fuck it. We can’t die by their weapons anyway. I’ll fight for the country I’ve lived in for the past century.”
Vampire nurses who know when the blood’s gone bad or what type of blood you need (because blood typing was fairly new during WWII).
The baby faced forever 18 vampire siting with the older soldiers cuz he’s seen the same shit they’ve seen, even though he can’t tell them. They’re all watching the young “I’m going to be a hero” boys, sadly waiting for the ball to drop.
The vampire that has to explain how he was the only survivor in the ambush and why the enemy is torn to shreds.
The vampire solider, holding his best mate since his childhood begging and crying, “Please, let me do this.” But his mate won’t let him because he’s more afraid of living forever and watching the world move on without him.
Then, 70 years later, they come to the memorial, to commemorate everyone that fought, everyone that fell, and an old man looks at him strangely and says, “You look just like your Grandfather.”
Bullets flew overhead and explosions rocked the horizon as
two young men darted across the once-green plains, now stained grey and red
with the dust and blood of an occupied France battlefield. The corporal, lanky
and gaunt with jet-black hair spilling out from under his helmet, slumped into
a ditch, the mud splashing up against his pale skin as his comrade leapt down
next to him. Shifting his tin hat over his copper dusting of a haircut, the
private held his rifle close to his chest, closing his eyes and taking a few
deep breaths, attempting to drain away his anxiety against the deafening sounds
of war. The corporal placed a hand on his shoulder, catching his attention.
“We’re almost there. Once we’re back behind our lines we’ll be alright.” His
west-coast drawl dripped with unnatural charisma, soothing the quaking Welsh
teen. The boy slowly nodded his head, getting a better grip on his gun and
letting out a light chuckle.
“I’m never going to get used to you doing that!” He bellowed over the
battlefield’s overwhelming noise.
“What can I say, it’s a talent!”
“That’s one way of putting it!”
The two laughed for a moment before pushing their banter aside, sitting up and
readying their guns. “You first, mister bulletproof!” The private called out,
nudging his dark-eyed friend. The corporal chuckled, pushing the stock of his
rifle into his shoulder. “Any chance we can rock-paper-scissors?” He replied,
poking his head out over the ditch edge and yanking it back down with a smile
on his face as a bullet whizzed past.
“Oh, piss off!” The Welshman smirks and went first, scampering up onto the edge
of the ditch and standing. Before the American could follow, the boy let out a
sudden yelp, barely audible over the sound of bombs and gunfire; a thin red
mist flared out into the air above them, and a splatter of light gore splashed
across the ditch and mixed into the mud as he fall back into it. The corporal’s
face fell into an open gasp, his eyes widening as he scampered to his friend’s
side. The teenager grimaced, holding his hands over the slowly growing patch of
red in his uniform. The older man grabbed onto his friend’s wrist, steeling
himself against the sight of the blood and pushing aside any primal instincts.
“Should’ve seen that coming, shouldn’t I?” The private chuckled, before letting
out a hacking cough. He was already noticeably paler, the bullet wound sitting
right across from his heart. The corporal flew into an analytical frenzy; it
would’ve pierced his lung, and there was most certainly an exit wound leaking
blood on the other side of his body. A medic wouldn’t be able to patch this up,
especially not out here, and not during a full retreat. A pulsing vein in the boy’s
neck caught his attention, and he ran his tongue along the points of his teeth as
he made a split second decision, snatching his combat knife from his belt and
running it along the palm of his own hand. Ignoring the pain, he moved to hold
the cut up near his wounded friend’s mouth. His hand was stopped, however, the
private snatching at his superior officer’s wrist and holding it away as he
shook his head.
“Drink. Please. I can’t get you home any other way.” The gaunt soldier pleaded,
not fighting against the boy’s grip for fear of hurting him. The private took
his other hand away from his wound and yanked something from around his neck,
holding it in a closed fist.
“I’ve listened to all your stories. I don’t quite like the idea of taking the
long way around. I’d be awful at the whole immortal thing, anyways.” He opened
his hand, revealing a small silver cross-shaped necklace, before tucking it
into the corporal’s breast pocket. “Hold on to this for me. One day, when they
finally bump you off, I’ll see you up at God’s house.” His soft Welsh trill
fell shallow and gasping by the end, as he leant his head back and closed his
eyes. The corporal didn’t say a word, simply letting his young friend’s grip
loosen and fall away from his blood-leaking hand.
He let out a light, unnerving chuckle. Then another, and
another, escalating until he was bellowing with unhinged laughter, eyes wide
and tears streaming down his muddy cheeks. He violently grabbed at the tufts of
copper hair sticking out from under the corpse’s helmet, yanking it aside and
burying his face and teeth into the still-warm neck. He slurped and gulped and drained
the private of what little blood he had left, the vampire’s body filled with
renewed vigour at the satisfaction of a hunger he’d been resisting for a
decade. He yanked his head back, not even bothering to open his jaw, and tore
half of the dead boy’s throat out. His fingers reached for his rifle and closed
around its handle, but the blood-fuelled immortal simply crushed the polished
wood into splinters under his newfound, supernatural grip. Standing, he placed
a foot onto the edge of the ditch, the bullets slamming into him barely making
him flinch as his eyes grew wide and red, and his blood-splattered mouth grew
into a vicious, scarlet grin.
When the allied forces cancelled their retreat and stormed
the enemy lines the next morning, they faced little resistance. The axis forces
that remained laid scattered and terrified amongst the bloodbath, responding to
the sudden presence of British and American soldiers with either desperate
violence or incoherent fear. From the babbling of those they took prisoner,
they assumed the allies assumed they had been assaulted by a pack of wolves, or
another animal of some sort. When the Nazi captives insisted that they had watched
not an animal, but a man tear apart and devour their comrades, the Western
soldiers laughed in denial.
No one man could have done something so violent.
