The Dead Towns Of Kola

Gently stepping upon the gravel of the old roads, the old wind roared from the sea, bringing punishing gusts of fine sand and gravel from the beaches far away. Grass lands surround what was a thriving town full of life, now dead with not a soul around, the land reclaimed by nature, and scared by the permanent skeletons of ancient buildings without a purpose.
The old base is still there, with high walls and concrete bunkers laughing menacingly in the face of nature, its large guns frozen in rust, still facing out to sea, waiting to defend against those who never arrived in the ever relentless, raging wind.
A shadow moves rapidly in the distance, a small hare speeding through the grass, poking its nose up and sniffing the air, checking the salty breeze for dangers. Startled by a small bird over head, it darts off running against the furious winds, past the old buildings, along the deserted streets. The signs of the old shops glare down onto the street their windows ravaged by cracks and diseased by time, standing in linear patterns like a gallery of despair, long tender branches thudding against them in the ever relentless, raging wind.

Gently floating down, a fleck of paint lands on the table inside the abandoned farm house, this large structure once home to the generations of family who lived here, now occupied by the generations of animals left behind. Another gust blows in violently and viciously shaking the antique structure, forcing dust from the beams in the roof, a single shingle stolen from the roof by the ever relentless, raging wind.
Walking towards the naval bases of the beach, the sights amaze, the bodies of ships scattered upon the sands, steadily dying in the dismantling salt waves. The boats of the industry left to rot amongst the rocks and the ever relentless, raging wind.
Viciously rattling the chains on the gates the wind stops for a while, just enough time for the loud crash of a fishing crane to fall from its boat and fill the air with its resonating boom, this is quickly replaced with the sounds of the ever relentless, raging wind.
The great white sands on the beach contrast with the blood red grass of the dunes, their usual green blades poisoned by the red rust of the dying ships in the bay. A small pair of pointed ears pops up protruding from the poisoned plants. The hare has come back this time grazing upon the rust red plants away from the tiny town and the ever relentless, raging wind.
Standing tall with the harsh grey fortress, a single flag still flies amongst the torn shreds of others, its blood red colours standing battered from its 20 years of isolation, guarding over its fortress with its single red star, its hammer, its sickle, honouring the united nation that forgot it, still bearing its insignia. Further into the base through the fallen chain gates lies a grounded submarine, half sunken into the asphalt ground, a memorial to those lost in a war forgotten, reclaimed by natures penetrating grass, and tree’s blowing with the ancient flag, in the ever relentless raging wind.