The Annexation

A Image Literary prompt

Through the fog of war, a lone figure charged forth. Darting between burnout husks of vehicles, both military and civilian, he pushed up the war-torn streets. Lagging, his squad moved cautiously, weary of snipers hiding, waiting for an unsuspecting target. But the lone soldier had no time for that. The enemy was close. And he was going to meet them head-on.

Rounding an intersection, he was confronted by the sight that sank his heart. A makeshift barricade of destruction. Burnt-out armoured vehicles created a break wall, holding back a tide of refugees. Carts and wagons filled with whatever they could carry flooded the street. The sounds of explosions and gunfire echoed in the distance. A pungent smell that was carried by a grey smoke assaulted his senses.

He took cover behind a disabled tank. He was soon joined by his squad. A short stocky man with the rank sergeant and a lanky corporal took up position next to him.

“Goddamn it, what do we do now Lieutenant?” the sergeant asked.

The lieutenant took off his helmet, rubbed his chiselled jawline, and then wiped the sweat from his forehead before his helmet was back on.

“We got to get these civilians to safety.”

“But lieutenant our orders were to-” the corporal interjected.

The lieutenant struck him with an open hand. “To hell with our orders! We didn’t come this far, fight this hard, to let these people die! If we do, we’re no better than the enemy! Besides we made a promise to…”

The lieutenant stared off into the distance, “Line.”

“Cut! Cut, goddamn it!” The director's voice boomed from above, and all activity on the set came to a halt. The actors froze in their positions, crew members and makeup artists rushed onto the set, and the extras scrambled back to their starting positions. The director's urgent tone had everyone on edge, wondering what had gone wrong.

He made his way quickly to the group of actors, his eyes scanning their faces for any signs of distress. When he reached them, he looked at each of them in turn, searching for the source of the problem. Finally, he turned his attention to David, his star actor, and asked, David. Sweetheart. Baby. What’s the issue here?”

David looked up at the director, his eyes wide with panic. The rest of the cast and crew waited with bated breath to hear what had happened.

“It’s just a lot of lines. I’m running, I got smoke in my eyes. I have to look at these extras. I mean look at them. Do you want to look at them?”

“They’re refugees, they’re meant to look like that.”

“I know but, can you add them in post?”

“Sure we can, but for now, let’s run it one more time,”

“Actually, I’m not feeling well,”

The director turned to the crew “Take five everyone! A solid five!”

The cast shuffled off the set. David’s assistant run up with a bottle of water and handed it to him.

“The top is on,”

The assistant tore the lid off before handing it over again. David took a sip and tossed it back, and waved away the assistant. The director shouted out a few instructions to some lingering crew members.

“I have to get rid of that assistant.”

“Is that what’s troubling you? I’ll get security,” The director turned to face an empty set. “Security!”

“No, no. I’ll take care of it.”

“Are you sure? What did they do? We’re over budget by three million a day, if it means you have to fire your assistant so we can finish-“

David let out a sigh. “I sort of hit a dog with my car the other night, and my assistant didn’t get all the blood off, and now people are asking questions,”

“Oh my, that’s terrible. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, but my Porsche isn’t,”

“How big of a dog was it?”

David took a deep breath and his eyes drifted into the distance, fixated with as much intensity as he could muster. “Oh, human-sized. A human-sized dog, person. Homeless person-dog, maybe. I don’t know, I didn’t stop.”

The director took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“But the point is,” David continued, “my assistant did a lousy job.”

The director nodded slowly, “Well we can’t have that. Look this is the last big set piece, we wrap this up, take a few days off, relax. Get your car fixed, get your mind right. Can you do that for me?” The director slapped David on the back.

David nodded, “Yeah, I can do that. Let’s just finish this scene, get it in the can, and then we’ll take a break.”

The director smiled, “That’s the spirit! Let’s get back to work, people!”

The cast and crew returned to their positions, and the scene was reset. David ran through his lines with renewed energy, and the cameras started rolling once again. The war-torn street was brought back to life, and the refugees poured into the frame once more. The scene played out again. David took up his position next to the disabled tank and read the lines off a piece of paper that was taped to the ground, out of shot. As the other actors recited their lines David’s attention was drawn to his assistant, who was talking to a man in a trench coat. As the scene came to an end, the director called a wrap. The cast and crew applauded as they made their way off-set. David took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling the weight of the day lift off his shoulders. The director approached him.

"Good work, sweetheart,” the director said with a smile. "You really pulled it off."

“You really think so?”

“Of course, you’re a star!”

“I might even get nominated.”

“Well, you’ll definitely make headlines soon,”

David leaned in “How’s that guy over there?”

The director’s eyes drifted over to where David's assistant was talking to the man in the trench coat. The man nodded up and down, the assistant shook her head, and the man nodded yes again. The assistant started to cry, then nodded up and down. The man wrote something down on a notepad and started to make his way over to David and the director.

“Is he looking for the set of Columbo or something? Can you deal with this?"

The director mumbled something about dailies, then pretended to hear his name being called before running over to yell at crew members milling around. The man in the trench coat flashed a badge at David.

“Wow, props to the prop department, a little cliched, but passable.”

“It’s not a prop. David Monroe, can we have a word?”

“Sure, I always have time for a fan.”