Chapter 1

I wonder what it would be like to live in a place with color. Somewhere with forests and

seas and mountains. Somewhere I can look out my window and see more than an impenetrable

gray mass stretching out in all directions.

It is a dull world that greets my sleep-filled eyes. I lazily lean forward to rest my head

against the window pane, observing it. My gaze moves with the swirling dust that bridge the gap

where the monotony of the earth meets the monochromatic horizon. Even the sunlight cannot

pierce through the veil of clouds, not today.

It’s a shame. Our crops are doing poorly enough as it is. Already, the corn stalks appear

yellow and sickly, the wheat sparse, and the vegetable garden unyielding. It’s a miracle my aunt

and uncle have managed to scrape together a living here for so long, first with only their own

mouths to feed, then mine and my brother’s as well.

I can still remember the day we first arrived here. I need only tilt my head slightly downward

to see the paint chipped door I was lead through. I would say we, but Thomas was so weak, he

had to be carried in. I could barely walk, I didn’t want to walk, I wanted to lie down and not get

up, but I had to. I had to for my brother. We’d made it together that far, I knew I had to hold on

just a little longer. I was seven and I was sobbing.

With a shake of my head to clear my thoughts, I turn away from the glass. The sight of

Thomas snoring peacefully would have been a stark relief to my memories, but it seemed today

was one of the rare occasions where he rose before I did. Yes, now that I am listening more

closely, I can hear three distinct voices drifting up through the floorboards. Stretching, I climb

down the ladder and enter directly into the room that served as our dining, cooking, and living

space.

With a single glance, the distinction between my brother and I is easily spotted. He is as fair

as I am dark. Everything about him – his ashy blonde locks, his blue eyes, his pale and freckled

skin – is light. At twelve, he more closely resembles a boy than a man. My tanned complexion

contrasts his flaxen looks. Working through those rare times the sun shines has darkened me. It

would be nice to call my hair chestnut, or auburn, or even raven, but that would be a lie. My hair

is brown, simple as that, and could be described at best as resembling the coffee Uncle Henry

drinks on Sunday mornings when we can afford it. Although the differences are far more

numerous than the similarities, we do share a few physical traits, namely our long, thin noses and

poorly cut hair. Aunt Em's arthritis and a rusty pair of scissors are responsible for the latter.

“Thomas Gale, for the last time, you simply cannot today!”. Aunt Em’s voice interrupts my

thoughts. Her graying hair pokes out of her usually tight bun at odd angles, an outward sign of

her growing stress. That, coupled with her exasperated expression and posture, seem to firmly

say that Thomas is not going to get whatever it is he wants.

“But Lyman is only going to be here a little longer before he has to return home!”. I roll my

eyes, my brother’s intentions dawning on me. A few weeks ago, he befriended a boy in town

who was visiting family in the countryside.

“He’s not leaving tomorrow, is he? Then I’m sorry, dear, but we need you to stay home and

help us. You know how important it is for us to take care of this harvest. Besides, look at

Dorothy. She’s not asking to go out every day, is she?”. I have to stifle a laugh as I begin to fix

my breakfast.

“Uncle Henry!”, Thomas turns to look at the bespectacled man beside me. At such a close

angle, I can see Uncle Henry wincing. He is soft on us, but does not like to contradict , his wife.

“I’m sorry, son. Your friend is just going to have to wait a little while longer”, he answered,

hiding partially behind his newspaper.

“But I promised I’d-“.

“No, Thomas, that is my final word! You’ve already had your breakfast, so go on ahead

outside and check on the chickens for us.”, her words ring out, ending all discussion on the

matter.

I see him grumble as our aunt turns away from him. Regardless, he goes to do as she

asks, moving towards the door. He stops just short of entering the gloomy weather before

glancing at me. Did he just wink? What was he up to? Before I could inquire, subtly or not, he

slips outside. Aunt Em picks up her broomstick and begins to hastily coax out all dirt from the

room’s corners and into her pan. She always sets about a new task swiftly after chiding or

punishing us. I suppose that takes her mind off it, as she clearly does not enjoy being strict with

either Thomas or me. I return to my plate.

I already know how the rest of the day will go. It will be just as it always is six days of

the week, the seventh being the Lord’s day and a reprieve from work. Soon, Uncle Henry will go

out to work with the crops along with the farmhand. Aunt Em will cook our meals, care for the

house, and look after the livestock. My brother and I do a handful of odd jobs ourselves:

collecting eggs, tending to the vegetable garden, milking the goat, cleaning the house, and

anything else we can do to help. The only mystery was what Thomas was planning.

As I lift my hand to retrieve a spoon, my wrist knocks against the milk jug. I leap up from

my seat. Too late. My right arm and hip is completely drenched. I clean up my mess and dry off

as best as I can. My side should be alright, even wet, but my arm poses a problem. I can’t work

properly with a sopping sleeve.

Sighing, I begin to roll the fabric up to my elbow. I keep my gaze down. Even if I had

looked up, I know neither my aunt nor uncle would have met my eye. I think Aunt Em would

have scolded me for my clumsiness if not for the matter of the soaked sleeve. A pale circle on the

outside of my lower arm seems to glow in contrast with the rest of my skin. The scar, nearly an

inch in diameter, was burned into my flesh long ago. It will never heal.

It is why I never roll my sleeves up, even on the hottest of days. I despise looking at it.

But my loathing is for more than just the mark. The room always gets too quiet whenever anyone

sees it. My brother’s face always falls. He doesn’t know the whole story behind it, but he knows

enough to have an idea where it came from. Sometimes the children at school would ask about it.

I’d tell them to mind their own. I hate curiosity about it. I hate the pity it brings me even more. I

don’t need pity nor ever have, as it does no one any good.

“May I be excused?”.

“Of course, sweetheart”, Uncle Henry answers. My swift footsteps and the creaking of

the rusty door hinges are all that break the silence. I leave that, too, behind as I exit the house.

The barn looms out of the dreary world around it, but it is not my destination. My path

takes me around the building. As I pass by, I can’t help noticing the strange behavior of the

animals. The goat and sheep huddle together in one corner of their pin, a cluster of bleating wool.

Betty, our old mare who is usually as lively as a sack of potatoes, whinnies and paws the soil

anxiously.

“Hey girl, hey”. She nuzzles her nose against my outstretched hand. I lean in, my fingers

running all along her neck to soothe her. If it weren’t for the unbearable quiet I knew still

lingered in the house, I would return to inform Aunt Em of the livestock’s odd behavior. She’s

good with animals and would understand what’s wrong. Instead, I leave the shed behind and

continue on until I reach the base of the only tree for miles.

I clasp the familiar branch and haul myself onto the trunk, climbing until I reach solid

ground in the form of three wooden planks nailed into place. The platform perches as high as one

can get in the Kansas plains. Once, the surrounding foliage had been trimmed so as to provide a

clear view over the surrounding land. But now, I have to maneuver the limbs to see anything at

all. Thomas and I were always proud to be the only children with a treehouse.

Why I chose to return here was a mystery, even to me. It just felt natural. After all, I

doubt anyone would look for me here, and privacy is a rare luxury of mine. I refuse to even

glance at my arm, unable to endure the white scar leering at me. It reminds me of that which was

best forgotten. I turn my attention to the landscape instead, preferring to focus on anything but

my skin.

The sky has grown dark. Leaves rustle at the prompting of the breeze. As the wind grows

in strength, it sends ripples through the long, yellow grass. Raindrops would come as no surprise

to me, but the only wetness I feel is that of my arm. Even with the obvious change of weather,

the scenery hardly alters. The only distinction in the gray mass before me is that of a tiny,

moving black spot along the road. Wait!

I nearly fall from the tree in my surprise. Even though the shape is unrecognizable from

such a distance, I know what it must be.

I’m going to kill Thomas for running off to see his stupid friend. What was he thinking?!

There’s no way Aunt Em would overlook his absence for so long! She will be furious! My eyes

widen as the entire tree sway during a powerful gust. All thoughts of Aunt Em’s punishments

vanish to be replaced with a much worse realization.

Thomas is absolutely terrified of storms. He’s been afraid of them since he was three

years old. One bolt of thunder and he freezes.

I slide down the trunk before the next breeze can rock my seating. As soon as my feet

touch the ground, I run as fast as I can. Past the cornfield, past the mail box, past the peeling

picket fence and on down the road. I have to get to my brother and get him home. Nothing else

matters. The further I go, the more my legs feel as if they are on fire, but I cannot stop. Thomas

already has far too much of a head start.

If the heaving grass was an ocean before, it is a tempest now. The wind howls like an

angry beast. The dust swirls everyone, forcing me to blink fast in order to see. The clouds roll in

impossibly fast. I don’t stop. I don’t look behind me. Has Thomas noticed the squall? He must

have. How could he be so blind as to miss it? Then again, he’d been stupid enough to run off in

the first place!

How long do I run? Five minutes? Ten? Twenty? My lungs ache for proper air, my body

begs to rest. I cry out in relief when I finally see the silhouette of Thomas just a little farther

ahead of me. A sprint and a moment later, my shaking arms encircle him.

“Thomas! Thomas, how could you-“. I’m too relieved to be angry. “Nevermind. It’s

alright. Aunt Em and Uncle Henry will just be glad to have us home. Come on, we have to go!”.

My brother is as stiff as a board. He doesn’t flinch, not even a muscle, petrified. How

long has he stood frozen in terror like this? His arms remain at his sides despite my embrace. His

eyes are as wide as saucers and fixed on the dark horizon.

“Thomas! Thomas, it’s going to be alright. It’s okay. I’m here. It’s just a little storm.

We’re going to be fine”. No response. I can hear the ‘little storm’ swelling into a gale around us.

“THOMAS!”, I scream, still trying to rouse him. I can’t drag him back. That will take too

long. I’m left with no other choice. I squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to watch. My arms

leave him. I feel my hand reel back and slam into contact with his right cheek. I open my eyes to

see his gaze meeting mine, tears welling up in them.

“Thomas, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry”. I knew it would wake him. It was barbaric, but time

was running out. Maybe it wouldn’t have meant so much if another sister had slapped her

brother, or vice versa. But for us, there was all the difference in the world. But now is not the

time to dwell on that. “I had to snap you out of it. Now come on, we need to go.”. The hand that

hurt him locks fingers with his. I turn, ready to lead him to safety. I stop dead in my tracks.

I look up to see the monstrous form of a tornado bearing down on us.

“RUN!”, I scream, pulling him away from the oncoming storm. The whirlwind stood

directly in between us and home. There is no way we can skirt around it. We have to keep

running along the road in hope of finding shelter. I can only hope Aunt Em and Uncle Henry are

okay. For now, I have to worry about Thomas and myself.

Pure adrenaline races through me, replacing my former weariness. If I stop, we will

definitely die. If I continue running, there’s a slight chance we might not die. But how far can we

get before it hunts us down? We can’t outrun it forever. We’ll be lucky if we get five minutes.

Glancing behind us, I see the tornado is more fearsome than I could have ever imagined. If

Thomas looked frightened before, he appeared absolutely horrified now. I knew such terror must

have reflected off my own face.

Can’t stop. Can’t stop. Can’t stop.

“THERE!”. Thomas has to scream in my ear to be overheard over the raging winds that

blow us about the road. His free hand trembles as he points out an abandoned house on the side

of the road. If I didn’t have a twister bearing down on me, I might have wondered where that

structure had come from. I’d travelled down this road a hundred times and never noticed it

before. But I didn’t have time to speculate over or be choosy. Shelter was shelter…and the

tornado was practically on top of us.

The door, already teetering on one hinge as it was, was battered about by the gusts. My

right arm outstretches, blocking the frame from ramming into Thomas as I shove him inside. The

walls are so brittle and the approaching tornado so strong, we will only be protected for a mere

moment or two. The screaming winds fill my ears.

I don’t have to explain to Thomas what to search for. He already knows. We spread out

to both ends of the house, crawling on the floor, feeling for the indication of a storm cellar.

Seconds later, my brother is waving his arms furiously. He’s found it. It takes both of our

strength to lift up the heavy door, exposing a dark hole in the ground that we need trust for our

survival. Again, I see the fear in my brother’s expression, and I know he is remembering the

same day as I.

“It’s going to be okay, Thomas. I promise you, we will both be okay.”. I hear myself

speak more than feel my lips move. This is not the first time I have uttered these words. This is

not the first time a storm threatened out lives. We’d get through it, just like last time. “We’re safe

now”.

I help him down into the shelter, finally giving him a little shove. The worse he’d suffer

was a sprained ankle. At least he’d be alive. I peer down into the vault to see Thomas looking up

at me. I smile, preparing to follow after him. It really is okay. We’re going to be okay. We’re

safe.

The storm cellar door slams shut and I am on the wrong side of it.

“NO!”, I scream. My hands grip the handle, pulling with all my strength. I can hear

Thomas pushing on it underneath me. I can almost pry it open! The front door flying from it’s

hinges and out into the sky catches my attention. It’s too late. The tornado is here, and if I open

that door, Thomas will be in danger. I cannot open that door, no matter what. I have to keep him

safe. “I love you, little brother”, I whisper, my voice lost in the gale.

I leap to my feet and dive underneath a rickety table. The chances of me surviving with

only the desk for protection are next to nothing, but it’s better than sitting out in the middle of the

floor. The sound is so loud, I scream in the pain it causes my ears. My hands clutch at them. But

something happens that makes me forget all about them. I’m being lifted up…no, the entire

house is being lifted up!

My eyes fall on the entrance to the storm cellar only to realize it’s gone. In it’s place is a

gaping hole. Peering through it, I can see the shack is already several feet in the air. I’m able to

get one glimpse of the ground below, brief, but just long enough for me to see the cellar’s door

remains in the ground. The vault had stood and Thomas was safe inside. I open my mouth to sob

in relief, but it turns into a scream as I am brought back to my own predicament. The house must

be fifty feet in the air by now, and it’s spinning so fast, I’m certain I’m about to break my neck.

All I can do is back away from the open gap and clutch the table leg as I feel myself being pulled

into the tornado.

Suddenly, a rusty frying pan from the opposite side of the wall is sent flying in my

direction. I only have long enough to turn my head, a futile attempt at escaping the oncoming

blow. Deep pain resonates through my skull for a brief second. Soon the ache fades, along with

everything else, into total darkness.

Chapter 2

I’m dead. Surrounded by darkness with my last memory that of being swept about by a

violent storm, what else could I possibly be?

I wait to see the shadows roll back and the light of heaven to appear. I remain, alone, in

the dusk. It feels as if several moments have passed, but does time exist in death? Where are the

pearly gates and the golden streets? A new thought fills me with dread. Is this Hell? No, it cannot

be. I don’t feel the tongues of fire lapping at my heels, as the preacher often described. I feel

nothing. I see nothing. Perhaps nothing is all that remains after life. I feel as if anything would be

better than to spend all eternity in this emptiness.

I take a deep breath. Wait. A spirit cannot breathe. It has no need to do so. Why, then,

have I begun to feel my chest rising and falling? As if I am slowly leaving the nothing to return

to something, I begin to feel life in the limbs I thought I had long since lost. The thrum of pain

against the side of my head is enough to rouse me from the black completely. With a groan, I

blink open my eyes.

The ceiling above me is almost entirely shredded. Through it, I can see the clear blue sky.

The sun shines directly above me, too much, too hot. My throat is too dry to even swallow. I hear

a great creaking noise up and to the right of me. One glance reveals a huge wooden beam

hanging by mere splinters. SNAP! I roll away before the plank can crash down on my already

battered body. Even so, it lands mere inches from me, covering the space my side had occupied

not seconds before. If I had not returned to consciousness when I did, I would have been crushed.

I lay where I was for as long as I dared. I could not risk what little remained of the ruined

house to flatten me. How had the house survived? More importantly, how had I survived? The

tornado should have drawn me into it, pulverized me or sent me flying to smash into the solid

ground. I should be dead.

Eventually, I find the strength to push myself up into a sitting position. My arms shake

and my head spins, but I manage it. I can’t stay here. I have to get help for any injuries I might

have suffered and get home. I have to find out if Thomas is okay.

Tears spring to my eyes. Thomas. Is he alright? Had he escaped the twister’s destruction?

What had he thought, when the cellar door slammed shut with his sister on the other side? He has

to be okay. He has to. I can’t take it if he isn’t. I can’t. Besides, if I survived going inside the

tornado itself, surely he survived in the safety of the underground? I force myself to crawl to the

ruins of a wall, find something to latch onto, and rise to my feet.

I fall. Of course I fall. It was a miracle every bone wasn’t crushed! I try again and again

until I am finally able to stand, albeit shakily and with bruised knees. First, I need to figure out

how badly I am hurt. A mirror would be a great help for observing my face and head. I can make

do without, having to discover my injuries by running my hands all along me.

My hair is covered in a sticky substance on one side. Blood. By now, it has dried, leaving

my scalp crusty. Pain shoots through my skull as I touch the point of collision. I immediately

retract my hand, my fingertips stained with dark crimson residue. I brush it off on my tattered

checkered dress and continue my self-examination.

Amazingly, the only other damage I seem to have suffered is a wide scope of bruises, all

in varying hues of green, purple, and yellow. I practice walking about the wreck of a room. I

stumble often, but can manage well enough. I’ll likely need to walk for some time to reach

anyone who can help me. Who knew how far away I had been dropped?

I rifle through the ruins, searching for anything that could help me. Everything has been

dashed to bits. I groan in frustration and pain. My head is pounding. Every step I take hurts. I’m

so, so thirsty. Then, I remember the last sight of my brother, how frightened he was, and the

memory gives me strength. There is nothing left to do now but find a way back to him.

I move towards the former doorway. Rubble has blocked the entrance, but with some

effort, I am able to make an opening just big enough for me to crawl through. I squeeze my eyes

shut to prevent debris falling into them. My torso has barely entered the hole when the most

horrid smell fills my nostrils. The scent is a mixture of rust and metal, sickly sweetness, and

animals. It reminds me of something, yet I cannot remember what. I continue crawling, even as I

feel my body drag through a pool of warm liquid. Finally, I am on the other side. Rising to my

feet, I open my eyes and shriek.

I look around me and all I see is red. Lifeless forms drenched or leaking red, abandoned

weapons with red handprints around them, red soaking the front of my dress. This is not the sight

of a battle. This is the sight of a massacre. Suddenly, I recall that which the stench brought to

find. It was the day Uncle Henry needed my help in butchering our pig. Only the bodies that lie

encircle me are not those of swine, but of men. I keel over, clinging to the ruined shack behind

me for support as I lose the contents of my stomach. The smell and taste of bile does nothing to

diminish the horror that assaults my senses.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, shaking all over. Only when I am certain I

have nothing left in me to vomit do I finally return my gaze to the surrounding carnage. Corpses

litter the ground like broken dolls, twisted and abandoned. Some have necks bent at odd angles,

others stab wounds in the limbs or torsos, but most appear to have been brought down by a

barrage of bullets. Both men and women are among the fallen. By the weapons at their sides, I

assume they were soldiers. By the way a majority of the dead look the same, I assume it was an

ambush against them.

Part of me urges to search the bodies for any survivors. Another side suggests searching

the deceased for any supplies that might help me on the way home. I am too frightened to do one

and too disgusted to even try the other. Besides, the puddle of blood I had crawled through on

my way out of the shack was warm. The battle had ended not long ago, which meant that

whoever had done this can’t be far away. I don’t want to be anywhere near here if the attackers

double back. I urge my feet to move, but remain frozen in fear.

Move! Move! Move!

I cannot. It would be as easy for me to lift the house behind me with one hand as it would

for me to run. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is stare, petrified, at the horrors of war.

A great and terrible screeching pierces the deadly silence, chilling me to the bone. My

eyes turn towards heaven only to discover a pair of demons. Their talons and fangs seemed to

gleam in the sunlight, their leathery wings spanning twice the length of their bodies, and their red

eyes contrasting against the blackness of their fur. They resembled an animal I once saw at a

travelling circus, a small monkey that had performed tricks in exchange for treats. Only these

creatures looked far more rabid and far more likely to tear a head off than to jump through a

hoop.

Another blood-curdling scream. The monsters dive towards me, claws extended. Without

another thought, I turn on my heels and flee. My feet catch on body after body, stumbling over

severed limbs or battered torsos. My heart pounds. I’ve forgotten all about the pain in my head

and the trembling of my body. Adrenaline has made me, for I know that if I stop, I will be dead

in seconds. If I continue running, I might only be dead in minutes. That is, if the sound of raging

beasts stops drawing closer and closer.

If I could get my hands on one of the fallen weapons, I might have a chance. A gun

would be preferable. Uncle Henry taught me how to fire his old shotgun. He wanted me to know

how to defend our family if trouble ever came. I doubted he could ever have imagined the

trouble I was in now. It doesn’t matter, since it would take far too long to stop, find a loaded

rifle, and take aim at the creatures. Besides, who knew if bullets would even work against them?

They hadn’t done any of the dead soldiers much good. The fact remains that I have to do

something, or else I will join the dozens of carcasses. I notice the ground to my right descending,

eventually resulting in a steady slope.

Air surges around me as the beating wings of the beasts draw near. The release of another

battle cry nearly deafens me. I can all but feel talons grasping my back. I’ve run out of time. I

throw myself down the drop, rolling down the decline for several yards, only coming to a halt

when my body collides into a sapling. I’m at the edge of a forest. Good. Perhaps I can lose my

pursuers among the trees. A sturdy looking branch lies nearby. My fingers wrap around the shaft,

seizing it and rising to my unsteady feet. Feeling slightly better with a weapon and some

resemblance of a plan, I race for the woods.

The deeper I go, the closer the trunks become. The dense canopies only allow the

sunlight to filter down in brief spaces. Perhaps if I can avoid such spots, no doubt a fine vantage

point for any flying beasts searching for me from above, then I will be safe. Or maybe they will

have given up the chase in preference for easier prey. Perhaps such brutes like a challenge. Or

maybe I’m not so hard to find as I think. After all, I once heard that certain animals could smell

fear. If that is true, then I must be presenting a clear path for anything hunting me.

After putting a fair distance between myself and where I had last seen the demonic

monkeys, I transition from running to walking to stopping completely. Perhaps silence is my best

chance of escape now. Cautious, I crouch down, my back to a tall tree trunk. I wait.

Eyes dart back and forth, peering into the shadows and suspicious of bright spots. Ears

strain for danger, but can hardly hear over ragged breathing. Balance shifts on the balls of my

feet, ready to sprint should the need arise. Knuckles whiten from their grip on the rough branch.

When I recall the gleam of fangs, it seems a pathetic means of defense, but it is all I have and I

do not intend on letting it go any time soon. The forest is still. Warm air blows from behind,

tickling the hairs on the back of my neck. No, not quite from behind. From behind and above.

Breezes don’t begin in the center of trees.

I spring up from the ground, but am forced back by the arrival of the second creature. I

reverse until I can go no further. The sturdy trunk behind me makes certain of that. Glancing up

reveals a pair of bloodshot, feral eyes glaring down at me, the source of what I had originally

mistaken for wind and now understood to be hot breaths. My gaze returns to the monster

cornering me, or more specifically, to the left and right of it. As if sensing I meant to escape, it

spreads its bat-like wings, cutting off possible escape route.

They are larger than I originally thought, with bodies nearly as big as a man even without

the addition of wings. It is inches away when the brute shrieks again, leaving my ears throbbing

in agony. When it had opened its mouth to release the howl, I got a glimpse of teeth stained by

blood and other nasty bits. Pure, absolute terror courses through me as I realize I am about to be

reduced to one of those unidentifiable specks of gore.

Click. BANG! Howling fills the air, but it is not an aggressive cry. It is one of pain. Air

surges around me as the beast above me takes flight, blood dripping over me. Seconds later, it

crashes to the ground. Still alive, but wounded.

I take my chances and swing the tree branch with all my strength, the limb slamming into

the second. The attack, along with the injury of its partner, is enough to catch the creature off

guard. The moment it recoils, wings drawing up in defense, I dive for the ground. I’m fast, but

not quite fast enough. Agony, fierce and ruthless, stabs my left shoulder as the beast rakes its

claws across and into my skin. Now, it is my turn to scream.

I fall to the ground and roll onto my stomach, my right hand clutching at the wound. I can

see my blood running down to mix with the red of others already splattered across me. Barbs of

pain shoot through my entire body. My pitiful excuse for a weapon lay abandoned beside me,

dropped in my haste to tend to my wound. The monster, sensing my weakness, pins me to the

forest floor. Snarling, the enraged animal surges forward to clamp its jaws on my throat and

finish the job. BOOM!

Red eyes roll back into a furry skull. The body slumps forward, nearly crushing me. I cry

out in agony and my call is answered. Two pairs of hands grip the carcass and haul it up. Even

though I am free to stand, I remain down. My heart feels as if it will explode at any moment and

my shoulder is burning. My eyes close as more shots fire, no doubt at the remaining creature. I

feel more than hear the thud of the fallen animal.

When I finally look up again, it is to see a stern face leering down at me.