Richard’s wound gushed blood as he tried to hide from the falling debris that exploded above him as bombs went off all over the field. His shoulder was marked with scars from the battle the night before, and his army jacket with the symbolic red, white, and blue, began to look more like a towel filled with soot. But his eyes burned with revenge and he fought with purpose as he tried his best to kill off the terrible people who had harmed his family. His younger sister, Sarah, was never going to be the same after this. Her face burned by the heat of the ashes as they fell down upon her from the fire on their roof. The site had been horrible, but it hadn’t been as bad as the sound of the screams; the horrid sound of the screams. So many families crushed beneath their homes or burned up inside them. This kind of cruelty had to stop. The government had to learn sooner or later that this was not how you treated the ones you were suppose to be taking care of.

See, the country used to be one of peace and beauty, but after the African break out of the Marcolikeen disease, al the civilized countries began to panic and laws became punishments while guidance became ruling. No one was safe anymore. And the worst of it was that there was nowhere left to go to get away from this tragedy. All the countries in the world had resorted to a government system that was a lot like slavery, and for some reason the fears all the politicians kept seem to make them blind to the wrongness of their ways. But that’s how it always went, wasn’t it? As soon as someone freaks out they have no more control over their values and are somewhat forced in their mind to take control, because they are afraid of any other outcome.

Unfortunately, this time, nothing the people could do could help to make any of it better. So they fought, for their lives, for their families, but mostly just to keep moving. If you chose not to fight you were a goner, because the lines had been crossed way too soon and no one was ever able to go back. It didn’t matter what your intentions, or what you believed in, or what it was you cared about or wanted to do with your life, because now, all you could do was fight. Fight and eat, and maybe sometimes sleep, and then fight some more. People were always on the road, always on the run, always moving, always fighting, always chasing the power, because they felt if they got right up behind it they wouldn’t have the problem of being kicked in the ass or stabbed in the back. Most people ignored all the rest, so there wasn’t much talking, and for the most part people would fight along side their brothers and some other men and women who may have been against your whole system of being, but it didn’t matter now; none of it did. People fought for themselves, and possibly their families, but most were on their own and no one was ever very willing to lend a helping hand, so if you did get stuck in a sticky situation or you got hurt, there was no hope for you.

This was just about where Richard was left, for he had many gun shot wounds and stab wounds and ash scars and such, but no one to tend to them, no one to mend him and bring him back to his former health. He had to keep running, keep fighting, even though his wounds almost disabled him from doing so. He had lost his family at some point too, maybe back near the farms, but it was too late now to go and find them. With any luck, he’d meet up with them in the next town. That is, unless they had already been killed.

He took a deep breath, prayed for their safety, and bolted out from behind the trees to make a run for the small house on the hill that was next to a tiny creek. He thought if he could make it to the house he might have a chance at saving his left arm from having to be cut off. And with the semi-fresh water that was running passed the deck, he thought he might be able to rinse his wounds clean. Running like a madman, he darted from tree to tree, stopping to catch his breath only once.