By Stephen Herfst
Copyright Stephen Herfst 2012
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living, dead or undead is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the expressed permission of the author.
To my family, my friends and all those that supported me.
The gun barrel points at me; no mention of surrender accompanies it.
Well that is just dandy.
He does not intend on taking me prisoner and who can blame him? I have given them many reasons for mercy to be an afterthought. It seems only fitting that I would be shown the same level of empathy.
I attempt to find peace as the barrel stares down at me. I feel like I have every right to exist, even if my existence contradicts their traditional view of life. It is funny that the gun also contradicts: from its meticulous clinical creation to its final purpose to mindlessly destroy. The gun involuntarily triggers flashbacks of earlier days ...
I remember the first time I was almost killed:
The buckshot pierces my shoulder, although the brunt of the shot hits my brother. He flies backwards with most of his face missing. I am unfazed by the loss - I have many brothers left to fill the void. I shrug off the shot and turn back to the bloods that look tired and vulnerable although their guns still have bite.