INTERLUDE

The country burned. Raiding parties gathered, running door to door through the suburbs and cities, pulling people from their homes and murdering anyone who did not submit. The once quaint and homely neighborhoods of the north side of Chicago are no exception.

“Get away from the windows!”

Outside, the streets were ravaged. The darkness of the night was glowing with the flames of crumbling houses. Gunfire echoed ceremoniously of an extermination.

“What are they doing dad?”

“Get away from the windows, honey!” John said, grabbing his son and bringing him to safety. Through the glass pane, across his back yard, he saw his neighbors house succumb invasion. He watched in horror, as they rushed in with bombs and torches. One man stood by the door, guarding their entry. John watched him intently, caught in a trance of shock, unable to look away. The man noticed him in the window, making eye contact from across the street.

John jumped, quickly pulling the drapes over the window and returning to his family.

“Maria!” he called for his wife.

“Get up here!” she responded. “You need to hear this!”

“Come with me, Collin,” he said to his son, cowering in fear on the floor. He shook his head, tears streaming down his face, too scared to move.

“Come with me, daddy will keep you safe,” he insisted. He picked up his son, holding him tight to himself as he rushed upstairs to his wife.

She was huddled by a radio, carefully listening, trying to tune out the destruction outside.

“Here! Here, listen.”

John knelt down by the radio, listening to the emergency broadcast.

Attention, this is an emergency. I am Colonel Bryan Rite with the 327th battalion. We are not responding to President Hall’s orders, and are taking refugees in St. Grad in Los Angeles. We are accepting all who come, but have limited capacity. If you need shelter, please make it here as fast as you can. Avoid major roads and cities. The Survivors main forces are on the East Coast, and they are marching West. We have other battalions that are rebelling, and they will be joining us soon to mount an offensive. That does not mean trust the military. There are still some who are following the command. Don’t trust anyone you see. Keep yourself armed. Again, we are taking refugees at the secure fortress of St. Grad in Los Angeles. All civilians who are rebelling against President Rayshe and in need of safety are welcome. May God help us all. This message will now repeat.

”We can’t make it all the way to California,” John pointed out.

“Where else do we go?” Maria rebutted.

“I don’t know honey. Somewhere closer will open up.“

“We can’t stay here John!”

“We can hide,” he insisted.

Suddenly, shouting boomed from outside. They rushed to the window, looking down at the neighbors house that was just intruded moments earlier. Resistance caught up to them, as a group of rebels, armed with weapons stormed them, easily taking out the one standing guard with a few gunshots.

“There, there!” John pointed. “We have resistance here. They’re fighting back.”

“This is the perfect time to escape,” Maria said.

“No, no, let’s wait. Maybe they’ll clear the neighborhood.”

The squad of rebels success was short lived. The Survivors from inside responded, firing back and killing all of them, their bodies falling in the street. Collin cried into his father's shoulder.

“No! Fuck!”

“John we need to go!” Maria said shaking.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Fuck! Okay let’s go. Fuck!” John said, rushing downstairs and out the front door.

The uninhibited symphony of chaos took him by surprise. Supersonic cracks, burning homes, sirens. Total mayhem.

“Give him to me,” Maria said sternly. “Get the car started, I’ll get him into his seat.”

John complied, handing off his son as he climbed into the driver’s seat. With a hum, the car came to life. Maria joined him in the passenger seat soon after.

“Are you okay?” he looked back at Collin, strapped into his child seat. He responded with a weak nod. John slammed on the gas, speeding out of the driveway.

The neighborhood rushed by. They witnessed the full extent to the wreckage. Survivors took note of their passing, pointing and yelling as they sped by.

“Go faster!” Maria said frantically.

“I can’t crash, Maria!”

“You can go faster than- No, left!”

“I have to get to the highway!”

“We have to avoid the major roads John!”

“How else are we supposed to get to California?”

“Turn here!”

“No! I’m-“

Their car was smashed in on its side, t-boned by a heavy truck. The whiplash thrashed him about inside the vehicle, straining his seat belt as they tumbled through the air, finally coming to a halt upside down.

His ears rang. His head spun. The engine caught on fire, quickly heating up the inside.

“Maria…” he groaned, unable to identify his surroundings through his blurry vision. He felt the vibrations of a herd of footsteps approaching his overturned car. He fumbled around his seat belt, unlatching it and falling down on his head, cutting himself on the shattered glass.

“Maria…” he groaned again. She lay dazed out the window on the asphalt. John reached out to her, trying to regain his strength. Before he had a chance to move, she was dragged away.

“No…!” he slurred, he himself getting pulled away as well. Collin was still left in the car.

“No… my son…”

“He’ll be coming with us,” a muffled voice spoke above him. “You’d be best to worry about yourself right now.”

John squirmed, dragging along the asphalt. The streetlights above him beamed into his eyes, over sensitive from head trauma. They pulled him into the middle of an intersection, forming a circle around him.

“Get him up!”

Hands grabbed John by his arms, forcefully pulling him to his feet. He wanted to immediately collapse again, but was held up against his will.

Before him, his wife, along with a few other innocents, were held captive, on their knees and guns to their heads.

“Now,” a voice said from behind him, coming around and putting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s your name, son?” he asked, despite being much younger than him. He didn’t answer.

“I’ll call you John, since you don’t seem to be in the mood to, you know, be normal,” the man rambled. “Answer a simple fucking question that’s asked of you. Unless you forgot. Wouldn’t put it past the likes of you.”

Another person started reaching into his pockets, taking his wallet and other valuables from him.

“John, here’s what’s gonna happen,” the leader said. Laughter erupted from the other behind him.

“What?”

“Look,” he said, handing him his ID. The leader joined in the arrogant laughter.

“Your name is actually John,” he cackled. “Would you look at that.” The leader tossed the ID and pulled a gun from his waistband.

“Now,” he said, approaching him slowly, holding the grip of the handgun to him. “John. Are you a Survivor?” he asked. John didn’t answer, trembling with pain and fear.

“Yes? No? Maybe so? You like surviving, right?”

“Leave her alone,” John spoke in regards to his wife.

“Sure! Sure! You can survive. She can survive. But you have to prove to us that you are a Survivor. Not one of those terrorists.” He finished his statement by pushing the weapon in his chest.

“All those people right there, are terrorists,” the leader clarified. “Kill them. And you and your wife can be safe with us. And the kid too.”

John grabbed the handgun, holding it against his chest. He stared at the prisoners, how they cowered, helpless and desperate.

“That’s a lot to ask of you I know,” the leader said. “How about just one. Just one of them here, the deal will stand.”

“Just do it John, please!” Maria cried out.

“Hush now,” the leader silenced. “He needs to make this decision on his own.”

John stood motionless, too afraid to act.

“Every minute you wait,” the leader said. “We’ll kill one. And then the next. And if you stand there all night like a bitch, we’ll work our way down the line to little Mrs. John over here. You don’t want that now, I know.”

John took hold of the weapon, his actions slow, and fearful.

“Mikey,” the leader signaled. “Kill one.”

A young man stepped up, holding a weapon of his own. He made eye contact with John, his face full of sorrow and regret. He wasn’t one of them. He was forced into it. They were taking advantage of his desire to live, like they were doing with John. He stood before the first prisoner, but didn’t raise his handgun to them.

“Go on now,” the leader insisted. The kid instead dropped his gun and took off running into the night.

“Fucking idiot dropped his gun,” the leader remarked. “No matter. He was never a true Survivor then. It was only a matter of time. He'll get what's coming to him. You can take his place John.”

John make stern eye contact with the leader, emboldened by a sudden burst of courage. His demeanor angered him. His callousness, barbaric, and disgusting attitude. Laughing in the face of killing and torturing people.

“Woah now, Johnny,” the leader said, noticing his composure shift. “Don’t get any bright ideas now.”

John didn’t care. He made up his mind now. He wouldn’t be forced into this. He wouldn't carry this on his conscience. Death was a preferable alternative. God will be the judge of him now.

His arms snapped out straight, aiming his handgun with direction and firing a hail of bullets at his captor. They struck him true, quickly ending his life. His wife screamed, aware of what happens next. Not a second later, retaliation followed. Bullets riddled John’s body, the first few riveting him with pain, but the following turning numb and dark as he crumpled to the pavement. All noise drained away. The streetlights grew unbearable bright. His consciousness faded. His life drained.