Let me know what you think. Background: Wrote this story while bored in highschool, came across it, and fixed it up a bit The city smelled predominantly of burnt hair and flesh. Everywhere was black, not with darkness, but with ash. The heat was overwhelming, so much so that he could feel hsi sweat evaporate before he sweated it. All he could hear was the crying of babies, screaming of people in sever agony, and the weak barking of the neighboring dogs. A woman consumed by flame went barreling down the street. Everyone shot out of the street and took cover on the sidewalk. No one offered to help. Not even himself. They all watched as she fell to the ground echoing softer and softer "help." Soon she did nothing, nothing but burn. They all continued wondering aimlessly down the street taking cover under burning awnings and behind cars. Every so often someone would fall to the ground, unmoving. A wave of heat flooded the street. It hit so hard tires poped and he protected his face and took a step back. If he had thought he was dehydrated before, that was nothing compared to now. He remembered the water being too hot to drink before he left for the streets. The shuddering of the earth brought him out of his flashback. A roaring sound started and grew louder. He reached the edge of the block and looked around the corner. He froze in place, mouth agape. He barely dove out of the way before the giant tidal wave of flame ripped down the street. The buildings shook and the few reaming windows broke, showering the street with glass. "Shit," he says as the class cuts his forearm. A few people ran by, and he covered his arm. They paid him no attention. When his hand came up the only traces of the wound were the blood on his arm and his sleeve. He looked back around the corner. The street had been decimated. Cars were flipped over and metled to the ground. The tar was still bubbling and he felt the soles of his shoes melting. He looked farther up the street. He was seen. They make eye contact. He runs.