Christmas in Ruins

On December 25, Franco Danowitz woke up to the news that didn’t quite feel real.

The announcement crackled through his beat-up radio, clear despite the static: the war was over. A treaty had been signed late last night, putting an end to a war that had gone on far too long.

Franco sat up slowly, still clutching the rifle he’d slept with. He wasn’t in a bed, of course—just a corner of what used to be a hotel, half its walls blown apart by artillery. The other half was rubble, offering little protection from the cold but just enough cover to hide from enemy patrols.

For weeks, he’d been alone in this ghost town. Neither side could claim it anymore—it was a gutted shell of a place, fought over until neither side had much left. Franco avoided the few enemy soldiers he suspected were still around, turning the last few days into a grim game of hide-and-seek. He didn’t expect it to end.

Yet here it was, peace.

A tear welled in his eye before he could stop it. He wasn’t sentimental, but the thought of home—of stepping outside without worrying about sniper fire—nearly broke him.

Still, old habits died hard. His hand hovered over his two-way radio, the one he’d pieced together and barely used since It wasn’t secure. Every transmission felt like an invitation to be hunted. But today was different. If command had sent word, maybe the other side had, too.

He pressed the button. “This is Danowitz, requesting extraction.”

The response came after a pause, a mix of static and clipped voices. After a quick exchange of coordinates and questions, they gave him the details he needed. Unfortunately, he’d have to wait till the end of the day.

Ten hours. A long time to survive in a town full of ghosts—and, potentially, enemies who hadn’t gotten the memo.

Franco leaned back against the crumbling wall and sighed. “Merry Christmas to me.”

Franco left the hotel behind, stepping cautiously into the open streets. The silence pressed in around him, broken only by the crunch of his boots on debris and the occasional wind rustling through shattered windows.

He’d done this walk before—once a week, give or take. Scavenging for food had been a grim routine, keeping him alive but painfully aware of his solitude. Today, though, there was a strange sense of finality to it.

The extraction zone wasn’t far. Within minutes, he reached the park. Or what was left of it. The playground was a mangled wreck of metal, the grass long gone, replaced by patches of scorched earth and stray bullet casings. It was a perfect place to be spotted—ideal for extraction but also danger.

Franco scanned the area. Nothing.

He made his way to a large tree, one of the few still standing, its roots clutching the broken ground. Sliding down against the trunk, he relaxed for the first time in weeks. His rifle rested across his lap, but his fingers didn’t twitch like they used to. He could almost feel the weight lifting.

Almost.

The sensation hit him all at once—subtle but unmistakable. The weight of eyes on his back.

Franco froze, his hand tightening around his rifle. Slowly, he turned his head, just enough to confirm what his gut already knew.

A dozen yards away stood an older man in a tattered enemy uniform. His rifle was in his hands, not raised but not entirely at rest, either. The two men locked eyes, the space between them heavy with unspoken questions.

Franco swallowed hard, his mind racing.

The man muttered something under his breath, but Franco didn’t understand the language. A moment later, he spoke again—this time in words of another language, not Franco’s native language but one he recognized.

“Merry Christmas,” the man said softly.

Franco hesitated, his throat dry. He wondered if those would be the last words he ever heard. Taking a deep breath, he replied in the same language. “Merry Christmas.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “You speak this language?”

Franco nodded.

The man exhaled, his shoulders loosening slightly. He stepped closer, and Franco instinctively tensed.

“How many?” the man asked.

“How many what?” Franco replied cautiously.

“How many of my friends did you kill?”

Franco looked down at his boots, shame pooling in his stomach. He forced the words out. “I don’t know. But it’s not zero.”

The man nodded grimly. “Yeah, not something you keep count of.” He paused, his voice softening. “I’m probably responsible for a few dozen of your friends not being here, too.”

The silence between them stretched, heavy with shared guilt.

“Are you all that’s left?” the man asked.

Franco nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“Same here,” the man admitted, his voice tinged with weariness. “I’ve been alone for almost two months now.”

Franco frowned. “That can’t be right. A month ago, there was a big battle on Main Street—midnight. It wiped us out.”

The man let out a bitter laugh. “That wasn’t a battle. That was just dumb luck for me and bad luck for you and yours.”

Franco blinked. “What?”

The man sighed, shaking his head. “During your attack, I made it sound like I had an army. I used nearly all my supplies to do so. I figured it’d scare you off. Maybe buy me some time. But rather than running, you or your team chose to rush into a building I rigged with explosives a few weeks prior, and… well, you saw what happened.”

Franco let out a sad, incredulous laugh. “All that… and it was just you?”

“Just me,” the man said with a grim smile.

Franco’s grip on his rifle tightened. “So… are you going to kill me?”

The man shook his head. “Didn’t you hear? The war’s over.”

“I heard,” Franco said, glancing at the ground. “But…”

“But nothing,” the man interrupted. “It’s over.”

Franco studied him, searching for any sign of a trick. “You’re just going to let me go? Just like that?”

“Listen, kid,” the man said, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “It’s just you and me. I killed a lot of people you probably called friends, and you did the same to me. I’m not proud of it, and I know you aren’t either. This war was pointless from the start. Now, as far as I’m concerned, we’re just two men sitting in the ruins of a city, waiting to go home.”

Franco relaxed, loosening his grip on the rifle. He decided to trust the man—if he’d wanted him dead, he would’ve pulled the trigger by now. To show his intentions, Franco pointed his weapon at the ground and squeezed the trigger.

“Click. Click. Click.”

The rifle was empty.

The old man smirked, raised his own gun to the side, and pulled the trigger. The same hollow clicks echoed in response, signaling that he, too, was out of ammo.

For a moment, the absurdity of it all hung between them. Then, without warning, both men burst into laughter—the kind of deep, uncontrollable laughter neither had felt in months. It echoed off the ruined walls, cutting through the tension like a knife.

“So,” Franco said, catching his breath, “your extraction is here too?”

The old man nodded. “Yep. They told me to be here. Extraction’s scheduled for 1700 hours.”

Franco blinked, surprised. “Same time as mine.”

The man grinned. “Well, it seems like I won’t be spending Christmas alone.”

The war might have been over, but the battle to reconcile what they’d done was just beginning. Yet, in that strange, quiet moment, the two men—enemies an hour ago—found an unexpected camaraderie.

“You hungry?” the older man finally asked, breaking the silence.

Franco blinked, startled by the question, then let out a short laugh. “Starving.”

The city lay in ruins, but for the first time, Franco and the older man walked its broken streets with smiles on their faces and excitement in their hearts.

As they strolled through the hollowed-out remains of buildings, they exchanged names, and Franco learned that the older man’s name was Drake Stone.

They’d search the city for food and items they could use to throw themselves a Christmas feast, just as if they were back home.

“How old are you, Franco?” Drake asked, glancing at him. “You barely look twenty.”

“I just turned twenty-one two months ago,” Franco said, a flicker of pride in his voice.

“Still just a baby.”

Franco shot him a curious look. “How old are you?”

“I’ll be fifty-five next month.”

Franco raised an eyebrow. “No offense, but aren’t you a little old to still be in active fighting duty?”

Drake chuckled. “I should be. I was supposed to retire but decided to do one or two more years first. Then this war broke out. They sent me here thinking it’d be a quiet post to maintain. It turns out your country had the same idea, and this city became the most active battleground in the whole damn war.”

“Well, I joined the military for the perks,” Franco admitted. “Free job training, school, health care. But I’ve gotta say, after just a short time, the risks far outweigh the benefits.” He laughed, shaking his head.

“Well, I can promise you this,” Drake said. “The first thing I’m doing when I get home is putting in my paperwork for retirement. After that, I’m getting a job at a local tackle shop in my hometown and selling bait to fishermen.”

“Fishing, huh? Never been. Seems kind of boring.”

“Nonsense!” Drake exclaimed. “It’s full of excitement. The anticipation of something striking your line at any moment. The fight to reel it in, and the surprise of discovering what’s on the other end.”

“But don’t people spend all day fishing and still catch nothing?” Franco asked, skeptical.

“Sure, sometimes,” Drake admitted. “But there’s still that hope and the anticipation keeps you coming back.”

Soon, they entered an old store and began scouring its dusty aisles for canned food. Splitting up, they each searched half of the store. After about twenty minutes, they reconvened at the front with their findings.

“Check it out, kid,” Drake said, holding up a box with a grin. “I found us dessert!”

Franco eyed the box warily. “What is that? And is it even edible? It’s been here for over a year.”

Drake opened the box, pulling out one of the golden treats with a flourish. “This, my friend, is a Twinkie. I had one as a kid when I visited the States. Don’t usually see them here, but this store’s got some.”

Franco frowned. “But it’s old.”

“They say these things last forever,” Drake said, tearing open the plastic wrapper.

“Food that lasts forever doesn’t sound healthy,” Franco muttered.

Drake smirked as he tossed Franco a pack. “You’re worried about healthy eating now? After a year of dodging bullets and eating anything edible, you can find?”

Franco caught it, hesitated, but opened it. Taking a tentative bite, he paused as his brain processed the flavor. Then his eyes went wide with delight, and in seconds, the Twinkie was gone.

“That was amazing!” Franco exclaimed.

“I know,” Drake said with a grin. “And get this—there are Americans who deep-fry them first.”

“Deep-fried Twinkies? I know what I want for Christmas,” Franco said with a laugh.

Later, a table and chairs were dragged out from one of the half-destroyed buildings and set up under the park’s tree. A small fire crackled nearby as Drake and Franco began cooking their Christmas dinner.

Drake told Franco he needed to grab something and would be right back. Nearly an hour passed before he returned, holding up a scraggly tree like a trophy.

"Sorry it took so long," Drake said, catching his breath. "Turns out my boot knife is a lot duller than I thought—it took me almost an hour to cut this thing down. I feel a little guilty chopping it down when there are so few left,” he said, brushing dirt from his hands. “But another part of me thinks this sacrifice is worth it.”

“You think so?” Franco asked.

“Christmas is my favorite holiday. It’s a time to think about the people who’ve made our lives better—who’ve brought joy to them in one way or another. And I know this is not the best Christmas, but we can still make it memorable.

“I can only speak for myself but I assure you that I will not forget this Christmas.”

“Yes, I don’t think either of us will, but I still want to make it a good one.”

Franco smiled. “Drake, my friend, you didn’t try to kill me earlier, and you introduced me to Twinkies. This Christmas is already amazing.”

“And we can still make it better.”

The tree, lopsided but standing proudly in a bucket, was soon adorned with colorful shards of plastic scavenged from the ruins. It wasn’t much, but in the flickering firelight, it almost looked festive. Their canned feast required little preparation—just a quick warming over the fire—leaving them time to sit back, relax, and let the strange peace of the day settle over them.

They sat at the table, plates filled with their improvised meal.

“What would you be doing now if you were back home?” Drake asked, taking a bite of tuna.

“Watching Christmas movies with my mom,” Franco said. “She loves those holiday movies. Right now we would be on the third or fourth movie. Snacking on fresh baked goods that she had spent the night before making. What about you?”

Drake smiled warmly. “I’d be with my daughter and grandkids. Right about now, we’d be pulling the turkey out of the oven. The kids would still play with their toys, and my daughter would ask me to make the stuffing or gravy. She pretends she doesn’t know how, just to make me feel useful, but we both know she’s got it covered.”

“That sounds really nice,” Franco said.

“Yeah… It is.”

Franco reached into his pocket, pulling out a small wooden chess piece. “Here,” he said, tossing it to Drake.

Drake examined a small knight carved with surprising skill. “What’s this?”

“I’ve been whittling chess pieces to pass the time,” Franco said. “It’s not much, but I wanted to give you something to say thanks. Today has felt like a dream, especially after the last year.”

Drake smiled, slipping the knight into his pocket. “Thank you, kid. I’ll treasure this.”

Before he could say more, the distant sound of helicopters filled the air. The two men exchanged a look, their laughter fading into silence.

Four helicopters touched down less than a minute later, kicking up dust and debris. The helicopters belonged to neither man’s country but instead to the country they were currently in. Relief workers spilled out, rushing to the two men.

Their Christmas together was over.

Each man was met by a representative from their country who escorted them to a separate chopper. As the helicopters began to lift off and drift apart, Franco and Drake exchanged a warm smile and a friendly salute—a silent farewell between two unlikely friends.

Late that night, two families received Christmas gifts they would never forget: a mother got her son back, and a daughter welcomed her father home.

One Year Later

“You did a horrible job wrapping that,” Donna said.

“It’s the thought that counts, not my ability to suffocate something in paper.”

A knock at the door interrupted their banter.

“Finally, they’re here,” Drake said, grabbing the lumpy, poorly wrapped gift and heading for the door.

The door swung open.

“Drake!”

“Franco!”

The two men embraced warmly, laughing as if no time had passed since they’d last seen each other.

“Franco, this is my daughter, Donna,” Drake said with a grin. “Her kids, Matt and Perry, are running around somewhere causing trouble, I’m sure.”

“Hi, Donna,” Franco said warmly. Then he turned to the woman beside him. “Drake, this is my mother, Marie.”

Drake nodded. “Marie, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Drake glanced around but shrugged off the absence of his grandkids and handed Franco the gift.

“This is for you,” Drake said.

Franco took it, already grinning as he tore into the wrapping. He knew what it was but still felt a flicker of excitement as the paper fell away.

“That’s a perfect fishing pole for beginners,” Drake said proudly.

Franco laughed. “I can’t wait to try it out.”

“Well, there’s a lake right behind the house if you’re up for it,” Drake offered, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Absolutely,” Franco said, his grin widening.