Fallen leader

It is a spontaneous story. most likley riduled with grammar mistakes. Criticism please? :)

He stands in what is left of the town square. After centuries of warfare and destruction, the enemy has won. The capital city, his city, was the centre of culture, technology and power, but after an overnight aerial assault, all that is left is memories and rubble. He remembers looking at his office window as the bombs showered from the clouds. He remembers the screams, and cheers of his people at his people at the speech nights before.

His voice roared and dominated the stadium, the one built in his name. On his stand he led the crowd into patriotic chanting. They looked like an endless wave of swaying fist and bodies. Behind him hung a giant painted canvas of his portrait, which stretched from the floor to ceiling. Lights from the rafters shot beams on his person illuminating his suit and many medals on his suit. But now, among the ruins of his mansion, his custom suit is torn and dusty, his medals lost in the rubble. Except for one, his medal of office, which he holds tightly in his fist.

A fog a few hours on, rolls from the mountains into the city. He breathes silently as the fog surrounds him, the panic of isolation sets in. He is alone, perhaps the only survivor of his own actions. He decides to explore into the streets, because deep down he doesn't believe he is the last survivor, he will find someone else, and perhaps he will lead them.

Their is more rubble on the streets than on his square. The ruins of shops and houses spill out across the pavements and slightly into the road, leaving him just a small path to walk by. Dead citizens lie motionless among the rubble, their various limbs and bodies slump out like giant weeds on an untended grave. Them who were lucky enough to have faces hold twisted fear and piercing looks that screw painfully into the leaders sockets. He continues walking, and finds a familiar face blocking his narrow path. He was one the first row at the stadium during his speech. The once joyless tone in his face was stripped from him when he attempted to escape the havoc and a chimney fell onto his legs. From the pool of blood centred round his left arm, the leader notices that the fan had slit his wrist with the "support the leader badge" pin to quicken his death.

                                   The stench of decay in the thick fog, was the next shock, it grew stronger and thicker with each step. His tears sting his dry face. He coughs and sighs as the fogs passes. He grows weak, and he can’t control his breathing. He is having a panic attack, his heart beats out of his chest, he tries to hold it in but his limbs crumple. He falls to ground and then out of consciousness.

                                             He can feel his breathing, coming low and quiet; he can hear a distant thumping in the background, his heartbeat. Then a voice echo round his head. It begins as a whisper, and then grows as other voices join in. The voices turn to footsteps, and they begin to pace around him. His senses begin to return in his feet when the voices grab his feet and drag him. The floor scratches on his face.

             He loses track of time, as they continue to drag him. The number of voices grows in size and he can even identify some cheers. Momentarily he blacks out as he is lifted of the ground.

             He is sharply awoken from a bucket of water to his face. His eyes are burned by the sudden light of day. He can only make out blurred figures closet to him, and soon enough his sight adjust to an immense crowd in front of him. He raises his head and they cheer.

                            They are the survivors of his apocalypse. They stand beaten and bruised in row after row in front of him. Their resentful gaze tore his hopes to shreds. Even worse he is suspended above them on a crucifix made from wooden shards. His limbs are bound in place by the wire taken from his party badges. His clothes have been ripped from him and he is left bare amongst the crowd.

          They resemble the crowd from his speech. They same energy and the same amount of Euphoria, and he was also the attention of them all. Five people then came from the crowd, five of them with petrol cans, and began to the circle him and spray his lower body with petrol. During this the one without the petrol (the leader) began to mock him to spur the crowd into louder chanting. When the petrol cans had emptied, he felt the fumes affect his senses. He grew tired once more. The smoke and crackling engulfed him within seconds. Before he slips into darkness, he spots someone in the crowd. The dead supporter who he stepped over before, the one crushed by the rumble, watched him patiently, playing with a box of matches in his hands.