“Shit, I’m sick of this,” he said, shivering by the campfire. His ship lay moored on the small harbour in a dead village with no one in sight; with burned down buildings and probably some dead bodies too somewhere. It was warmer on the ship, of course, but the voice of his comrade’s shrieks drove him crazy so he opted to stay on land.

He tossed the butt of his last cigarette into the fire, it went up in flames with a pleasant smell, or so he imagined. He crumpled the empty package and tossed it in too, The plastic burnt first, then the cardboard. He looked at his friends, who were also shivering.

They shook their heads. “I’m out,” his friends said.

The mist was heavy but the fog was eaten by their campfire and they could see each other, and the ground around them, clearly. It felt safe that way. The light from the fire gave a murky, sort of sickly glow to the air, mostly green and yellow but there were also other colors.

A wounded cry echoed from the ship, sounding like a broken trumpet coming out from the doorway. “Who left the door open?” he said, patting his rifle by his side. It felt safer that way.

His friends shrugged. All of this was of course tolerable if they just had some more cigarettes to smoke.