Prologue
John gripped the broken pipe, his body trembling, knuckles white, the rusted steel digging into the palms of his hands. I got this, I got this. Come on John! Alright, here I go, I'm going to do this. I have to do this! AHHHH! Why's it so damn hard to kill someone!? They have no problem slaughtering us like cattle! Come on John, be like them! Be the enemy John! Okay, okay, one... two... three...
Despite the inky blackness of night, and the bone chilling arctic winds cutting through her protective clothing, Stacy was glowing. Warmed from the overwhelming rush of emotion from these tiny, glossy pictures. She can't even begin to count how often she fishes them from her pocket, the small booklet torn and weathered. The angelic faces of her pride and joy, smiling up at her give her reason to keep fighting, to push forward.
Tonight, was different, tonight was special. Stacy had finally been promoted to patrol duty. She could finally go home, and her smile would be real, she wouldn't have to lie to her daughters anymore. They would all be fine from here on out. No more skipping meals, they could eat as a family again. As of tonight, she was making just enough money for all three of them to eat. Even in this terrible, messed up world, with the constant threat of rebel invasion trying to tear away the last vestiges of civilization, they would make it. They were almost there, with only a few remaining isolated groups of rebels, Stacy could already imagine the excited cries of her angels now, and the thought never fails to put an ear-to-ear smile on her face. Stacy folded the booklet shut, lifting her rifle away from her pocket, SNAP!
Like the sound of thunder, for it might as well have been, a twig snapped a couple of feet directly behind her. The rush of adrenaline pumping out any and all thoughts of the cold or dinner. Stacey spun on her heel, kicking up snow into the darkness, still half a smile on her face, Squelch!
The smile and color draining from her face, simultaneously replaced with shock, she felt a dull thud in her abdomen. She was face to face with a tall husky man, wearing a ski mask, and decked out in full, pale gray, camouflaged clothing. A rebel? She thought, confused. I have to report this now! Why can't I move? I can't feel my arms or legs! The man was mumbling apologies under his breath and almost sobbing. The words were muffled and came through like a distant echo to Stacey. Is he apologizing, why? she thought. Stacey looked down confused, her body was trembling, and she felt weak in her knees. What's wrong with me? The man's hands were wrapped around a bar or pipe, covered and dripping blood. Stacey's hands went to the pipe seemingly on their own accord, she felt hot tears burning down her cheeks. She already subconsciously knew, she thought it oddly silly they were both crying. Her thoughts felt jumbled, her weak, shaking hands warmed from her life essence covering them. She kept trying to get her eyes to focus one more time, not on her bloody hands, not on her weirdly remorseful soon to be killer, but there, on the rapidly approaching blanket of snow, almost beautifully spotted with her life blood. She didn't feel the impact, nor gravity removing her from the pipe, her eyes were locked onto the small open booklet inches from her face, she smiled a real smile to her angels as her eyes slowly lost focus, her hand almost to the booklet, darkness rapidly closing in, her last thought was, almost there.
