Monthly Archives: March 2012

Fire in the Mountain (2)

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Set against the backdrop of an erupting volcano  in New Zealand’s North Island, Lana wrestles with her recent grief, for survival on the mountain and her future with a man whose past she was once a part of.  Woven through her narrative is Alfred’s story and the theft of war medals, and which Lana finds herself enmeshed in, further threatening her life.  Follow Lana as she tries to extricate herself from not only the mountain but her past.

Welcome to the second snippet of Fire in the Mountain

Alfred stumbled backwards with the dead weight of Harold.  Blood poured out of the stump and Alfred felt it seep hot onto his body.  Harold moaned as Alfred lurched out of the shelter of the hole and stumbled down the slope.  Slippery under foot, Alfred took more care than he would otherwise have taken, slowing their retreat.  His adolescent frame struggled.  Not that Harold had gained any fat during his time in the army but his muscles had developed considerably, as had Alfred’s.

He located a dugout about one hundred and fifty feet from where they’d been holed up.  He lowered Harold gently across a shape on the ground.  It was Jack; he thought it was Jack.  His head lay cocked to one side, his helmet askew and half of his head was missing.  Alfred thanked God for the poor light.  He was already sick to his stomach.  He noticed that Jack’s pack was not with him.  His foxhole buddy would have made his escape with it along with Jack’s rifle.

 

Fire in the Mountain

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Set against the backdrop of an erupting volcano on New Zealand’s North Island, Lana wrestles with her recent grief, for survival on the mountain and her future with a man whose past she was once part of.  Woven through her narrative is Alfred’s story and the theft of war medals, and which Lana finds herself enmeshed in, further threatening her life.  Follow Lana as she tries to extricate herself from not only the mountain but her past.

 

Welcome to the first snippet of Fire in the Mountain

Alfred winced as he cowered in the sodden grey mud of the foxhole.  The B-17 flying fortress had again missed its target of the monastery on the hill and the purple cold of the night sky lit up with the red and orange incandescence of the explosions.  Alfred watched the rain flash light and dark sparkling wet against the glow of the fires.

Everything around him seemed to be happening in slow motion making him an observer, not a participant.  Harold lay writhing in pain next to him with one leg bent at a hideous angle, the other blasted off at the knee.  His blood was at one minute black and the next red.  There was so much of it.  He could smell it and worse, taste it in his mouth.  Harold panicked and grasped his stump, screaming.  The piercing sounds of falling bombs and the thunderous boom of explosions stayed outside Alfred’s consciousness until Harold’s gurgled screams brought him back.  He wriggled to Harold through the bloody urine soaked mud keeping well below the top of the dugout.