Turner sat on a stripped chair, the cushion one of many piled in the corner near the fireplace.

The sound of the television blared into the room as fuzz of white static covered the noise of the battle outside. He needed a few minutes for himself, a few minutes of grace from what was to come. He needed the time to prepare for death.

The soldiers would come soon, and they had to die. It was better for the soldiers than the aliens; if the aliens arrived, he would live long enough to regret the decision to stay in the house and protect the flight of the actors.

How many people had come to the house? He did not know while suspecting there had been more than a few dozen people involved in the action.

It was their deaths he had to avenge, be the recipient of either the soldiers or the aliens. Both possibilities had a part in the horror of this night, yet none of them were as guilty as he was. Turner knew the truth instinctively; it was an arrow driven to the bone, a shaft of pain in his mind that he could not ignore.

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Maybe at one time he would never have considered the results of his actions and decisions, but that was another time, a different man. He smiled at the thought; it was like he had grown a soul.

He had to kill the soldiers and delay the detection of the escaping actors.

A simple enough goal for a man who knew he was going to die, yet Turner did not want to die. He deserved the punishment well and true, but it was a bitter irony he would die when he saw the real life he could lead.

The image of Carol’s face seemed to float across the television.

She was reason enough to stay in the house.

Painfully, Turner climbed from the chair and crossed the room to prepare for the soldiers. The kitchen possessed just what he needed. A little gas.

When the bad guys entered the room, they would walk into a hell of Turner’s making. It was something to be proud of in the last moments of his life.