Waiting for the Day and Hour

When the winter of my last year came to pass, I could not help but wonder when they would show up. Every night since the first morning of snow, my mind was never at ease enough to send me into the embrace of sleep. Snow used to be a comforting thing to me, transforming my usually desolate plain I lived on into a beautiful sea of white. Now all it brings me is fear, sending a physical chill up my spine, and a mental one that makes me shiver more than I already have been in my small little cabin.

The day was colder than usual and something inside told me that today would be the one where they would come for me. Dressing for the cold, I put on almost three layers of clothing, most of them second rate, so they seemed to just hang on my shoulders. Yet they shielded me from the harsh wind and the freezing snow that crunched softly beneath my feet. Walking to a small shed that I had built in the summer, I reached inside and pulled out my dad’s old double barrel, grabbing only two shells off a small table through the window.

A whole hour went by, as I seemed to shuffle through the trees and knee high snow. I wore no hood so my long hair that was usually a shade of blackish blue, was speckled and almost covered by snow by the end of this long, long hour. My fingers started to numb while holding the shotgun, making it hard to aim it properly.

Then I saw them, waiting for me at the edge of the forest, a huge frozen lake lay dormant behind them. All of them wore the same dull clothing, hiking boots, a buttoned up black overcoat, and a black hood that obscured their features from me. They wanted me for the same reason why I wanted to stay away from any other person, because before someone dies, I see how it happens.

Three people were about to die, and I knew how and why, before they even saw me lift the barrel to my gun. The loud BOOM that exploded out of the gun sent one of the men flying towards the lake, landing in a puddle of blood on the ice. The second died in a similar fashion, only when he hit the lake, he broke through the ice, digging himself a dark, icy grave.

How many times did they shoot me with their handguns, I lost count. Dropping the shotgun and falling onto my back in a shower of blood and pain, I reached into my coat pocket, waiting for them to come closer. Once they were I held up a card which had the text, 36b, written on it. One of them shrugged and plugged me in the head. Only three men died that day.


Special news report!

A flight jet with the flight number of 36b left for Florida today, only to crash somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, no word of survivors has reached us yet, more of this story as it develops…





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