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The compound

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The crisp cold air protected the freshly fallen snow. The crimson red stains on the cement, briefly covered by a hint of white. The winding coils of barbed wire wrapped on around the fence for miles. Nowadays there isn’t much to look at. The infected used to roam the streets, but now they mostly stick closer to the feeding hole. See, if a convict has been in county for more than ten years, the papers get signed pronouncing them legally deceased. Their bodies are knocked out cold, tied down, and loaded up in the middle of the night. From there on, there transported first class up to a small town up by Parsons Lake in northern Canada, then their taken to the compound. The men are awake at this point. Most pray, but some scream. There cords are cut, and then their pushed down a dark tunnel, only to be greeted by what I can only think to be the hands of their eternal damning. Some have hope, you know; they hit the ground running and such. I’ve learned to not stay around, all you can hear are their screams. My four years of transporting are over. As I look down at all of us, I can only think back to the first few weeks. “No last names.” They had told us when we signed up. Now here we are, cuffed and kneeled against the wall of the compound. Most of these men look content, almost relived, but after all the stuff they have seen, I’m not one to blame ‘em. The popping sound of gunfire slowly gets closer. One by one they fall, their faces lying in the snow. I feel the cross clenched tight to my palms, now slippery with sweat. I open my eyes with enough time to stare the devil down. Then the flash. The snow fell down, for hours upon hours, until the bodies faded into oblivion





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