“Ruhe!”

Floorboards warped from time and dampness creaked loudly. Dust fell from the ceiling in small showers. A small clink of metal against metal. “Jedermann?”

“Möglicherweise! Ruhe!”

Another sound… something metallic falling down the stairs. The soldiers brought their guns up, almost blind from the fading light. “Hm?”

The object rolled to the feet of the leading man. He bent down to look at it curiously, wondering what it could possibly be. His eyes widened. “Durchlauf!”

It was too late. The grenade detonated less than a foot from his head. The men scattered as the explosion rocked the old, abandoned house. A small cheer went up from somewhere upstairs, betraying the location of the hiding men. The Germans yelled in response, the survivors charging up the stairs. As soon as the first foot landed on the floor of the dusty loft, gunfire started. The leading men fell back into others behind him, allowing the other men to jump out of their various hiding places and open fire on the large pile of bodies. It was over in seconds.

Blake sighed, dusting his hands off on his pants. Dust covered him from head to toe; he had had to hide in a small storage area above the landing.

“Nice job, sir!” That was Mitchell O’Brien, or Mitch. A fair young man who joined the army only a month ago. He was supposed to have just turned eighteen and, due to the war overseas, he was accepted. Unfortunately his papers were fake. He had run away from home due to family issues and found a new family in this death-ridden place.

“Thanks,” he replied with a smirk. “It wasn’t all me. Patrick was the one who changed the fuse length… could have blown him up if he wasn’t careful.”

Patrick, another fair man though older, nodded. He never spoke much, and for a good reason too. But not even Blake would find out until later.

“It’s about fifty miles to the border. Only survivors from our entire group…” Blake kicked the banister beside him which immediately snapped and fell to the ground below him.

“We’ll probably all die anyway…” Damien, ever the cynical man. He was powerfully built, his crew cut near perfect and suiting him well. He had his arms crossed and he was leaning against the mold-ridden wall with an air of annoyance. No matter what his exterior proved to be, Damien was a loyal man and a good fighter. The battles he had seen was akin to walking through the gates of hell, and whether he had come back with others or by himself, he had always come back. Almost a legend… Blake grinned. “Yeah, probably,” he replied.

“That’s no way to talk!”

“Quiet, Vance!” snapped Damien, eying the other man. Vance was… strange. A religious fanatic, though possibly a skewed version of one. The killing didn’t phase him at all. Perhaps he belonged to some kind of cult where ‘relishing in the blood of thy enemies’ was a good thing. Or maybe he just viewed the war as a type of crusade. Nevertheless, he still fought valiantly, if hesitantly at times. All other aspects of him was as devoted to his religion as any other priest.

“We shall all be rewarded as the Lord sees fit, Damien. We fight to protect our family and friends. We cannot die.”

“You just say that when there’s a lead slug in your head.” Damien cocked his head, looking to Blake. “Where did Seamus get to?”

“I don’t know… I didn’t see him since we came in.”

Seamus Hart, the last of their crew. He was actually an ex-convict, imprisoned a grand total of twenty-two times. He was a megalomaniac, a thief, and fast on his feet and even faster with his tongue. Unfortunately, his rogue-like nature made him stay mostly out of their way, either scouting ahead or lagging behind. “He’ll turn up,” Blake finished and began to work his way down the stairs. “We’d better go. Pick up what ammunition you can. Grenades, too, we’re almost out.”

He kicked the pile of bodies and shook his head sadly. The others began to follow him down to help, though the last two were Vance and Damien. They were bickering about something or other and it sounded like Damien was winning through sheer determination.

“Have you never read the Bible? The words of the Lord?”

“… No.”

“Do you even believe in God?”

“No.”

“Heaven?”

“No.”

“How can you live like that, thinking there is nothing after death?”

“… By picking up my gun and shooting the poor bugger in front of me, just for wearing the wrong uniform, that’s how. Stop bothering me.”

That put Vance down and he hushed up, turning in on himself to think. Damien was still mumbling to himself, “And if you don’t shoot him, then he’s just going to shoot you first…”

His last word was drowned out from the gun shot. Two, close together. The smoking barrel of a gun lay on the pile of bodies, the shooter now very definitely dead. Blake stood above him with his face set. Everyone was quiet.

“Everyone all right? … Sound off, or whatever it is you want to do.”

Everyone sounded off in their own unique, if quiet, way. Everyone save for two people. Seamus and Mitch. “Mitch? You all right?” He turned to face the short boy behind him, who was standing perfectly still. “Jesus, Mitch! I thought you’d been shot. Sound off!”

Mitch’s mouth worked, moving up and down silently. In whatever light was left, a gleam in his eyes were seen. Tears? With trembling fingers and an arm that moved slower than could ever be imagined, Mitch brought his hand up to his chest. And finally Blake saw it… Mitch fingered the round, still bloodless hole in his chest. As his finger tips brushed the wound, it began to slowly seep blood. Damien grimaced and rushed forwards, knowing exactly what was coming. He caught Mitch as he stumbled and fell backwards, laying him down slowly.

“Mitch…” His voice, hoarse and rough in the quiet of the night, reached the boys ears, though he was unable to reply. “Don’t worry. It’s over know… It’s over. You’ll be all right. No more… of this. Close your eyes.” Mitch’s eyes were slowly closing, his breathing barely heard. “You’re going home…”

The groan Mitch made could only be described as animal. Through his pale lips, he managed a silent, “No…” Damien smiled. “No, you’re right. You’re not going home. You’re going somewhere else… somewhere where you’ll never have to worry about home again. A better place.”

Mitch nodded, a smile gracing his lips. He died with the smile.

Without asking, all the men in the room bowed their head and none spoke for a full minute. Blake broke the silence with a deep breath, looking to Damien. “You’ve been in this situation before?”

Damien nodded, getting to his feet. “More times than I’d like to remember… He has a chance to receive a proper burial.”

It wasn’t a matter of choice, whether to bury him or not. Blake just nodded again, quietly. “All right men… get your shovels. We’ll bury him beneath the first tree we find…”

Mitch was buried under a yellow-leaved Larch tree.

“I was wondering when you would show up.” The voice came from above the troop, somewhere high up. Blake and Damien immediately drew their guns. “Calm down, sheesh. It’s me.”

Seamus leapt down from the tree branch he had been previously laying on, landing perfectly in front of the others. He stood up, rubbing his scruffy and unshaven face and looked at the others. “Where’s the runt? Mitch, I think?”

“He’s dead, Seamus.”

“… Dead? How?”

“Shot by a dead man… Might as well have been. He didn’t die the first time. When he shot Mitch, I shot him… Too late.”

Seamus hung his head but then shook it. “All right. Well what now?”

“We’ve still got fifty miles to go. Through enemy territory. What do you think we’re going to do? Come on… Get in line.”

Seamus scoffed, but stood back to let the others pass and got in line a few paces behind Vance. They marched in the wilderness without meeting anyone. All they had was a compass and the knowledge of a road… somewhere. They were supposed to be traveling parallel to it, but it was almost a mile away and no one could be sure if they really were following it. However, the forest offered relative safety and they had enough food (stolen from farms a while back) to last for a week.

The terrain was hilly and unfamiliar, their packs weighing heavily on them. But it wasn’t as heavy as Mitch’s death. The sun rose high into the sky and they stopped only twice to eat until a thick fog began to descend as the sun sank below the horizon. Another day gone by… According to Patrick they had only traveled eight miles.

Camp was set up and because of Vance’s complaints, a fire was lit. Canvas was set up around the fire to help keep the light from being seeing.

Damien had been nice enough to roll in a few large stones and a log for them all to sit on. He spent his time by the fire and idly sharpening his hunting knife. Vance sat alongside Seamus and Bake alongside Patrick.

Blake watched the sparks from Damien’s knife almost hypnotically. Each even stroke of the whetstone made a shower of light… Dancing amid the brighter flames in the background. His eyes had a faraway, glazed look and he spoke without moving to look at Patrick.

“I could have stopped that… I knew something wasn’t right. I could have saved Mitch.”

Patrick covered his eyes, upset and trying to decide what to say. “No. You didn’t know, none of us did. He died peacefully, and that’s more than anyone could ask for. You did your best, and so did Mitch.”

“And if that bullet had hit you?”

The question caught him completely off guard. He stammered, “I.. I… … don’t know. But at least Mitch went happily… and I hope I do too.”

Blake frowned, his eyes still on the fire. The conversation took a full 180 degree turn as he spoke again. “You’re different.”

If he was caught off guard before, then that statement completely knocked him off his feet. “What? How do you mean?”

“I can’t place it… But you’re different. We’ve been together for a long time and I’ve been watching you lately. What are you hiding?”

Patrick stood up sharply, looking down at Blake. “Nothing. And if you want to insult me like that again…” The sentence was left hanging. He retreated to the corner of the makeshift barriers, leaving Blake with more than a few doubts. He sighed and moved over to Damien.

“I know why you’re here.”

Blake looked up. Damien sighed, “You think most about the events of the day at night, when you no longer have things to distract you. Don’t worry about Mitch…”

“I heard you talking to Vance. You don’t believe in Heaven, so why did you tell him… ?”

“I said he was going to a better place. We’re in the middle of a bloody war, Blake. Thousands die everyday. I’ve even had the chance to see the survivors of those death camps. Is death better than this war? Think carefully on your answer.”

“You are a strange man, Damien. Very, very strange.”

Damien laughed sharply, still sharpening his knife. “No. I’m just a lot less complicated than all of you.”

Perhaps… But you’ve also been through a lot more than us. You’ve seen too many of your friends die. I almost admire you. He shook his head and turned his attention across the fire. Patrick was still sulking and Vance was fast asleep. Seamus had moved away from them all into the farthest corner he could, opposite from Patrick.

“You almost done sharpening that?” Damien nodded. “Good. Put out the fire and help me with these tents…”

The fire was put out and the canvas taken down, made into tents for the group. Blake dreamed of death.

His dreams were both a memory and a premonition. They awoke at dawn to find Seamus already gone. Tents were packed and they were on their way again. By noon Seamus was still not to be seen.

“Blake!”

He turned around to see Vance struggling to get ahead of the others. “Blake! Hasn’t Seamus been gone a while?”

“Yeah… but he’s always gone.”

“But never this long…” Vance replied doubtfully. “I think something might have happened to him.”

“To Seamus? Yeah, right. Look, he’ll be fine. Give it a few more hours at least.”

But hours did pass, and Seamus never arrived.

No real food for days… Beets, onions. Tomatoes too. All mostly vegetables. Who can live on vegetables?! I’m not going to. I hate this war… I hate this army… The only reason I’m here is to get some time taken off my next sentence.

Seamus continued walking through the forest, complaining bitterly to himself. He knew the day was going to be bad ever since he received word that the runt had died. And now he’d been searching for almost six hours for something else to eat, but couldn’t find anything.

He stopped suddenly, listening. Just on the cusp of hearing were voices, but in the middle of a forest? German! The voices were German! Seamus looked around wildly as the voices grew louder. He pulled out his own thinner knife and quickly scaled the nearest tree he could find, disappearing from site.

The first shiny black boot stepped into his line of site. The solders looked almost drunk, laughing and stumbling with their guns were loosely held by their sides. Ah… easy picking, to be sure.

He landed almost silently behind the men. Unfortunately, not silently enough. They turned around in surprise and came face to face with the roguish, scruffy face of Seamus. The first guard opened his mouth to speak, but Seamus cut him off and spoke… in perfect German.

“Good day, men! I’ve been sent out to monitor your patrol.”

“Monitor? … Our patrol?” The leading man, dressed in black, looked at Seamus curiously.

“Yes, monitor. I’m afraid you’re not doing a good job right now. You don’t want to get the boss angry, do you? I’d better shape up.”

Seamus looked down at his clothes and cursed at himself. He looked up anyway and smiled. “I do apologize for that. Just sign these papers and I’ll be on my way.”

The man looked around at his fellow officers, completely unsure of what was happening. “But your uniform! It is not - “

Seamus had already jammed his full pack into the hands of the first man. He dashed forward, his knife slicing the mans throat perfectly. His left arm flew to his side and grabbed the man’s gun, brought it up and fired. The third man tried to shoot him, but he grabbed the body of the first man and literally flung him into the third. To finish it off, he pulled out his own gun and shot two rounds into the man underneath him.

“… Well I screwed that up.” He sheathed the knife and sighed, running his hands through his long hair, purposely left uncut. He carefully searched each body and came up with some money, jewelry, ammunition and some papers. The papers were exactly what he was looking for. So, they both worked at Natzweiler-Struthof? A concentration camp… He didn’t know he was so close to France. Well well well… There was bound to be something at the camp, ripe for the picking. But first he had to take care of something.

“Now you can start to worry.” Blake pulled himself up the small ditch and lowered his hand to Vance. “He’s been gone for too long. Patrick!”

“Yes sir?”

“Go climb that tree.”

“Er… what?”

“Climb the tree. See what you can see. I can keep rhyming if you like, but you’d better go climb that tree.”

Patrick grumbled and obeyed. He was unusually adept at it too, climbing the tree with relative ease as the others climb up the side of the ditch. “Blake! I can see a building to the west!”

“Any idea what it is?”

“It looks… it looks like a concentration camp.”

Damien growled lowly. “We’re not going there, Commander. You don’t want to go there.”

“Seamus is there. You know he’s there.”

“We’re not going there, Blake!”

“He’s one of my men! I’m not leaving him behind, like we’ve all been!”

Damien slammed his fist into a tree next to him. “No!”

Blake narrowed his eyes at Damien. Then he turned around and stormed off. Vance and Patrick glanced between the two, then hesitantly followed Blake.

The newly christened Henrik Beckler entered the gates of Natzweiler-Struthof. The camp was fairly small as far as he knew but just as complex as any other. The town of Natzweiler was close too, but too far out of their way. It was German controlled anyway. First job on his list was to promote himself.

He carefully removed the various badges and buttons from his uniform and pocketed them, sneaking into the shadows. The sun was at its peak and concealment was nigh impossible. If he could get inside then his chances to capture a higher ranking officer would increase greatly. He glanced upwards, thinking to himself. Why would they look up there? He was more than skilled enough to travel on the thief’s highway.

Seamus grasped the wall, his fingers seeking a purchase in the hastily constructed wall. He was an adept thief and found such a handhold easily, scaling the wall to the edge of the roof and hoisting himself up and over. These looked like barracks… Down flat on his stomach and listening intently, he heard no sounds that he had been seen. If he had, then they hadn’t shouted and that was fine for him. He scrambled over the apex of the roof and slid down the other side, reaching the edge and leaping over to the opposite roof.

Ah, not exactly the city and the smell was noxious, but he knew what he was doing up here. By repeating this method, he managed to pass over the entire length of the barracks. At the end though, he hit a snag. Not only had he run out of roofs, but he had been seen.

“Over here! Intruder!”

Bursts of gunfire welcomed Seamus as he rolled down and off of the roof, landing catlike in the shadow of the house. Too late for talking now! He cut across the grounds and dodged into the threshold of an opposite house. The sight inside was almost sickening. The people were skeleton thin, pale and definitely suffering from malnutrition. The sight of those people struck Seamus on a level that even he, with his black rogue heart, could understand. But he couldn’t help them… he couldn’t. And he had to steal from them, too. Fantastic. A blanket was snagged from a bed and hastily wrapped around one side of his body before he made a leap at the window, smashing through just before the first guards came storming in. The ripped blanket was left behind and Seamus ran again, seeking something, anything. Ah. And of course, he remembered.

He grabbed the round, metallic contraption tightly, pulling it from his belt. His distraction. It was thrown at the sign of the first group, bouncing three times before detonating loudly. In the smoke and commotion, Seamus managed to disappear once more, deeper into the camp.

“Nice to see you again.” Blake beamed, his arms crossed and leaning against a large tree. Damien cursed at himself silently and turned to his commander.

“I’m here… Let’s just get this over with. But watch the sky, commander. Watch it closely, and our future will be clear.”

Vance looked to Patrick nervously, who put a comforting hand on his shoulder. The group moved on, walking through the woods and now forced to watch the sky through curiosity as they went. The smell reached them first, the unmistakable smell of roasting flesh. The sky grew steadily darker, thick smoke blotting out the sun. They were entering a world of shadows…

Damien snorted. “Death’s domain. Spread throughout the world, so ready to converge somewhere, anywhere. And now it spreads. Congratulations, Blake…”

For all his leadership and confidence, even Blake was having doubts. The sky was forbidding, boding dark thoughts. This was not the place to b-

“Blake?”

He shook his head and looked back to the timid face of Vance. He was undoubtedly questioning even the power of God in a place that seemed so heavy with His enemy. “Why do people not smell like… cows?”

Blake blinked, rocking slightly from the force of the seeming innocence. “Come again?”

“When you roast cows, it smells good. Why, when you roast men, does it smell bad?”

Blake looked imploringly at Damien, who shrugged. Patrick was even less helpful, looking as if he was trying to keep from thinking too hard on the question. Finally he just scratched his head and shrugged. “No idea. Maybe we can find out some time… Let’s just hurry. And be quiet, we don’t want to be picked up by any patrols. I can already hear the camp.”

What he was hearing, in fact, was the small commotion at the sighting of Seamus. As they approached the ring for forest near the camp, they heard the grenade go off and the even greater commotion. Blake looked to his fellow soldiers and grinned, “So who’s going in?”

There buildings were a joke! They were so bare… It took a special kind of thief to hide in such plain rooms, and another kind to sneak through them. Yet another kind was needed to scale the walls, and Seamus was them all. He knew exactly where he was now and what he had to do, a thick iron pipe clasped firmly in one hand. He had entered the camp for food and now he was going to have some revenge for the people dying here… and then food later, of course. The sounds of foot steps, a man ordering soldiers to leave him alone. Closer… closer… the door opening…

He swung the heavy pipe in a wide arc, catching the man who entered across the forehead with a sharp crack. He let the bar drop, rubbing his arm from the jarring. The man in front of him lay unconscious… unfortunately so. But he wouldn’t kill an unconscious man and he settled for laying him down on his bed and removing his medals, badges and name tag. With his hat pulled down and head bowed, he left. Guards tried to stop him and he shouted hoarsely on what happened to soldiers who defied his orders.

Now with the camp at his fingertips, he wandered its dirt paths for the store room. He couldn’t ask for directions of course, not even to a prisoner. He didn’t need to search long before he found the building he thought was the store house. When Seamus arrived at the door he found it to be made of steel and locked tight. Strange… No key hole either. He knocked once… Twice. A minute passed and a few men a few feet away looked at him suspiciously, though he was trying desperately to stand at attention. He knocked once more, bruising his knuckles, and finally the door swung open.

The man who greeted him was thin, dressed lightly and with his hair slicked back. His eyes rolled to look at Seamus, then rolled back down to his nametag, then back to his face. The moment of truth…

“Aha, Wochner! Magnus Wocher, I greet you and offer you my deepest sympathies! Unfortunately, I cannot… let you in at this time. There seems to be a problem with the-”

Seamus forced his way past, into the dark room beyond. His stomach flipped as the smell greeted him, the smell of blood both fresh and old. He looked around and saw the walls to be padded against sound, even the back of the door! Only now did he realize that the windows were completely closed off. He shook on his feet and swallowed tightly, staring at the man in front of him. He couldn’t let on that he didn’t know his name…

“Come, sir! Follow, aha, me!”

The man rushed forwards, through a pool of blood and opened another door hidden in the padding. Marginally brighter light flooded into the room and Seamus followed through. His stomach flipped again, heaving at the sight that now confronted him. Quickly, Seamus covered his mouth and tore his eyes away from the scene, once again heaving.

“My experiments have that effect. I’m sorry, sir, don’t bother cleaning it up!”

Seamus grimaced, looking to the doctor. “What kind of madness is this?”

The doctor giggled. “Your orders! Yours, all yours. Experiments, you wanted, testing on prisoners. Wanted treatment for diseases!” He giggled again, walking down the row of ‘patients.’

“Stop it! I order you to stop it!”

Men groaned around him and the doctor stopped in front of one man, needles sticking into his eyes. As his eyes moved, so did the needles… Other men were cut up, bleeding freely. Various instruments could be seen crusted in blood and more than evil looking with their numerous dull edges and rusty points. The doctor looked over to Seamus. “Stop? I didn’t think you would mind my little experiments… it’s nothing like Auschwitz.” With the name barely out of his mouth, the doctor gasped and his eyes went wide. “Auschwitz! The screams! The death! All those people, did you see them? Children burning, burned alive! Aha, flames consume them, yes, they do! Did you see their faces? Did you watch them all die? The struggle… !” The mans eyes rolled, his voice now reaching a level of hysteria. “The Angel of Death, he does it! He does it all, I’ve seen him at work, yes I have! I have seen his patients scream, I have seen them asking for mercy, or for death, or even to be burned alive like the children. Watch them, watch them… !”

Seamus backed up from the raving man, knocking a steel table over and letting its tools fall loudly to the ground. Loudly? The walls were sound proof, sound proofed from the screams! He wasn’t blind, nor deaf. He could read the signs. Quarantine… Yellow Fever, Typhus… Inside, he could here the screams and the moans. And this madman in front of him spoke of a place even worse?

The doctor coughed and Seamus looked to him. If the doctor had been foaming at the mouth before, then it was gone now. His eyes were looking at him, boring into his head… like the drills..

“Excuse me, sir? Would you like to look at the other patients?”

“NO! No… ! No, stop it all. Shut it down, now! No more experiments!”

“I can’t do that, Wochner. It’s much too late now… And I begin to question your new orders. You told me to start these experiments, why tell me to stop now?” He took a step forwards towards Seamus who retreated once more. “You aren’t Wochner are you… You aren’t the man who told me to do this. The man… the man… who did this… Yes. He did it. I was a tool, you see? A tool, it wasn’t me! The man die by his hand, upon his land! I was the tool that watched the blood run, he was the one who watched in fun!”

Insane… completely insane… This doctor was driven mad by these experiments he committed. Too far was he pushed, and now he’s passed the barrier of insanity completely.

The doctor pointed to Seamus, his eyes rolling once more. “Intruder! I will kill you, just like I… you… Wochner, just like he has killed them! Yes!”

And the doctor launched himself at Seamus, some kind of surgery tool in his hand. And he used the term ‘surgery’ loosely, for it might as well have been a saw. He brought a steel pan up in time to block the swift swipe, then again to block another.

With the dented pan in one hand, Seamus reached out to grab something, anything. His hand ran across something sharp and blood fell from his hand. He grimaced but caught something, ramming the pan into the doctor and bringing his arm around…

And now the doctor was unconscious. Seamus stood above him, eying him. He’d done this experiments, he deserved death. But was he really the tool he was talking about? Did he really have a choice on what he had to do? And was death really a punishment for him? He flexed his fingers, the doctors weapon now in his hands. No… He couldn’t do it. The rogue grows a conscience… and at the worst possible time.

“You will live to see another day…” Then he grinned. Taking a razor sharp knife from the ground, he held the doctors head straight, and began to carefully carve into his skin… a word that would get his mouth washed out twenty times by his mother. Well… maybe not that big of a conscience.

“I’m not pulling any bloody straws, Blake!”

“I’ve got a short one!” responded Vance, jumping up and down and ignoring Damien. “What’s that mean?”

“Here… I’ll trade you…”

Blake pushed Patrick away and sighed, throwing the straws down. “We’ve been through rock, paper, scissors, tic-tac-toe, and I’ve had you all pick a number. Someone has to go in there!”

“I’ll g-”

“You’re not going, Vance!” Damien fumed, mad at having been brought here and madder still for this argument. “The Lord will pr-”

“You aren’t going.” He covered his face with a hand and sighed. “All right Blake, I guess you’re the only one wanting to go in.”

“What? Alone? I can’t storm a camp by myself!”

“You can’t storm it with four people either, but you want to!”

“You all yell too much…”

Everyone stopped mid-sentence and looked up at the tree they were hiding under. On the branch was Seamus, once again relaxing and with various bags under his arms. “If you wanted to go in after me, I’m already out. But if you want to blow it sky high, be my guest… I think the prisoners would welcome it.”

He jumped down, landing heavily with the bags in hand. “Food. For us. That’s why I went in there. I’ve got a few badges and stuff too… I had to leave the uniforms in there. Any questions?”

All of them were speechless. Blake cocked his head to one side, then spoke slowly. “Nooo… … None at all. You want to storm this place then?”

Seamus growled but shook his head. “No. Just leave it… let’s just leave, and leave fast. I want to get away from here.”

“Amen to that,” agreed Patrick, hauling a bag up on top of his pack. The others followed suit with Damien letting out a sigh of relief. They were leaving…

The rest of the day and the entire night went smoothly. They had walked another ten miles, Seamus the only one unable to forget the camp. He stayed as far away as possible from the group, brooding.

Patrick was currently leading the way, Damien and Blake talking about something or other. Vance was at the back of the main group as always. He lagged behind, letting Seamus catch up to him.

“Seamus… You don’t need to worry. Those who die only go to a better place.”

“… You wouldn’t understand. If only you’d seen them… and seen the doctor… What religion do you belong to, anyway?”

“Christianity, of course.”

“Er… isn’t killing and everything kind of against your religion?”

“No, who told you that?”

Seamus blinked. Then he shook his head and pushed Vance forwards to catch up with the others.

Another ten miles was covered the next day and all remained peaceful. They pitched their tents and, in better spirits, lit a larger than needed fire. The last of Seamus’ stolen food was used up, much to everyone’s disappointment. With the moon high in the sky, everyone began to go to bed until the only sounds that could be heard was Patrick’s light breathing, being untrained in combat and unable to quiet himself, and Vance’s frantic prayers. Prayers? A lot of help that does the Jews…

The explosion rocked the earth under Blake’s feet, sending sharp shards of stone through his tent. Damien was the first to roll out from his tent, a second explosion tearing it from the ground and setting it alight. The others came out too, weapons brandished. The fires had completely destroyed their night vision while outlining their bodies perfectly to anyone surrounding them.

“Don’t fight!” Blake shouted. “Run!”

Don’t have to tell me twice… The thought was on all their minds as they bolted into the forest, gunfire following them through. After only a few feet they scattered, Patrick with Blake, Damien with Vance and Seamus somewhere, as always.

“What happened?!” asked Blake, breathing heavily.

Patrick shook his head, unsure. “Ambush. They must have figured out someone had snuck into Natzweiler-Struthof! Probably did a sweep of the area…” Blake cursed at himself.

Damien was carrying Vance over his shoulder, along with his pack and Vance’s pack. He ran swiftly through the trees, darting between them with the gunfire slowly fading. They were safe…

Seamus was lost in the darkness, disguised among the trees and low lying shrubs, close to the campsite and slowly inching away. He, too, was safe.

But the gunfire didn’t fade for Blake and Patrick. They got louder, bullets being fired at random. Blake pushed Patrick in front of him. “Just don’t get shot… Do what you want, just don’t get shot.”

They were so close now that they could make out the words that were being shouted behind them. Blake busied himself trying to understand the German, letting his feet guide himself… wrongly.

The root caught his foot and sent him sprawling to the ground. He scrambled up to his feet, stumbled, and collapsed again. Patrick turned to look at him and held out a hand, approaching. Blake shouted for him to stop and keep running… not to turn b-

A woman screamed. Blake looked around, wondering where it was from. As soon as his eyes passed over Patrick, he saw him collapse.

“No!” He scrambled over to Patrick, lying on his face. He turned him over and tried to find out where…

“Chest… Can’t breathe…”

There! The wound was bleeding heavily already. Blake fumbled with the buttons on Patrick’s jacket, cursed and took out his knife. He knew he was a lost cause, but maybe he could help. Maybe.

He cut through the jacket and the shirt underneath, pulling them apart. Even with the wound, he had to stop to stare. Slowly he looped up to Patrick, who smiled faintly. In the moonlight, her eyes sparkled, filled with tears.

“… I’m sorry… I lied… commander.” And she smiled. Her voice was now soft, feminine. “Run…”

Blake grabbed his head and screamed in rage. Dead… She was dead! He ran forward again, leaving her. He just had to leave her, didn’t he? He had no choice, it was war. Men, and women, died. He had to.

The cold, icy water felt nice as Damien splashed it across his face. Vance was sitting on a large boulder that was one of many rock that covered one side of the creek. He was praying again for his friends to return. The chances of that happening were slim, so very slim.

“Damien? Do you think… ?”

He scowled. To lie or to speak the truth, which should he do? “Yes. They’ll be back, Vance. I’m sure of it.”

“Do you really think after all that, I’ll really allow myself to be captured by some trailing party?” Seamus laughed and appeared from behind the tree he had been hiding behind. Damien sighed, growling to himself.

“Blake and Patrick showed up yet?”

Damien shook his head and continued to wash his face in the river. Seamus sighed and sat down, waiting and having nothing else to talk about. Some welcome…

It was early morning all ready, the sun rising. In the cold morning air, Blake walked along the bank of the river, deep in thought. Splashing had alerted him to the others and though it was possible they were Nazi’s or German soldiers, he made his way towards them anyway.

When he finally caught up with them, both Seamus and Vance were napping, Damien on the lookout. He greeted him at a distance and jumped aside when the first few rounds were shot in his direction.

“We need to figure out some kind of code for this or something…” Blake poked his head out from behind the tree and waited for Damien to hail him. When he did, he nodded and approached Damien.

“Those two asleep?”

Damien nodded. “Where’s Patrick? I saw him leave with you.”

“She’s… dead.”

“She? Dead? He’s dead?”

“No. She was shot in the chest… I cut through her jacket and shirt to look at it. She snuck into the army, just like the kid.”

“The runt? … Well, I always though there was something about him. Her, rather. You think we should tell the other two?”

“Only that she died. I trust you, Damien, even if you do bug me every waking minute. I didn’t have time to give her a burial, either.”

“I think she understood.”

Blake sighed again, sitting down next to the river. Damien brought a bowl out from his pack and filled it with water, handing it to his friend. “They’ll be back soon, now that they know where we are and where we’re heading. Should we travel north?”

“No,” said Blake, shaking his head. “We’re only, what? Twenty odd miles from the border? If we start now and don’t stop to rest, we could maybe make it by sundown. Wake the others up, we need to get moving.”

Now down to only four men, the group made their way east. The march was brisk and constant. By noon, Vance was forced to hand his pack over to Damien again, who took the extra load without complaint. Vance was definitely an unseasoned soldier, new and untrained. The pace was unable to be kept up though. When even Blake was willing to stop, just for a few minutes, everyone was relieved. The majority of the miles still lay before them though.

The four sat around a bare patch of dirt, each one with a stick. With their only real navigator gone, the map they had drawn was little more than a joke, but sufficient enough. On it were their campsites, Natzweiler-Struthof and the river. Blake was busy drawing circles with Seamus’ input. Different patrol were marked and calculated roughly. After half an hours broke and much arguing, they sat back and relaxed.

“So according to Seamus’ excellent math here,” Blake said, letting Seamus give him a dark look, “It’s going to take them two hours to catch up with us. An hour and a half now.”

Vance laughed. “There’s no way they can catch us now! We might as well be scot-free!”

Seamus beamed to the others. “I don’t know what you guys would do without me.”

Damien wasn’t as convinced, but the others seemed happy enough. He just made sure the coast was clear, keeping a sharp eye out for any danger. They’d lost two of their little squad already, and he wasn’t going to let anymore die.

“All right, troops! To your feet! We’re on the move again!”

Blake was at the front, Vance trailing and Seamus pushed forcefully ahead, Damien bringing up the rear. As previously mentioned, Damien was a veteran soldier. He had been in numerous battles where he alone was the survivor. But now his soldier senses were tingling. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t place it. What was wrong?

Ah… That was it. The little hum he was hearing, off in the distance. “Get down!”

Damien dived at the two men in front, grabbing Seamus and Vance around the neck and pulling the down. Blake fell to the ground and rolled to face behind just as the first motorcycles crested the small hill. Ah! Not good, not good at all…

He brought out his gun and fired a few rounds into the leading cyclists. “Get up! Stay by the trees!”

His troop did so, jumping to the nearest trees and firing at any of the cyclists that drove by. But there were too many… they were outnumbered three to one. Vance was already running over to Blake, and he held out a hand to stop him. But Vance wouldn’t listen… Blake took out two German’s that had targeted Vance.

Seamus could be seen dodging nimbly from tree to tree, sliding around some trunks and firing before disappearing again. Damien was a veritable wall of bullets, firing madly as well as accurately. “Blake!” shouted Seamus, hidden in the forest. “More soldiers coming up! One o’ clock, ten count!”

Another ten?! “We’re… going to have to run again!” Blake shouted in between his shots. The wood behind him was splintered with bullet holes, some dangerously close to his head. He waved towards Vance before bolting, hoping to be at least a decoy. Damien grabbed Vance and ran after Blake, as if somehow they could outrun the motorcycles. If they didn’t do something fast, they’d all be dead. Already, the motorcycles were making wide circles around them.

Seamus jumped down into the clearing, ready to bolt. Unfortunately, the blow to his head sent his vision reeling and he fell to his knees only to receive another blow in the stomach. On his back and with the sky rapidly spinning, he saw above him faces, German faces. They were speaking, but he was too disoriented to even try and work out what they were saying. He groaned and did the first of the three stupidest things in his life. He tried to stand up.

The gun butt caught his scarred face just under the jaw and literally flipped him over, back onto his back. They were talking again, something about what they should do. Capture… torture him? Torture? Seamus put a hand to his eyes to help the rapidly fading world, and a rough hand grabbed him just under the arm and hauled him to a swaying stand.

“Do you understand me?”

Seamus nodded dumbly. Since his childhood days he had been in similar situation, albeit with common thugs wielding nothing more than baseball bats. His wits were coming back already and he noticed at least six men surrounding him in all directions.

“You are… trickery. You hide, you disappear on shadows. You will tell us where your friends are.”

Seamus just closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could let on that he could speak German, but this was probably the last fun he was going to have. Here was his second stupidest mistake of his life: he opened his mouth. “Learn to speak English, bast-”

The crack was audible even to him and his jaw blossomed in newly found pain. He grimaced and spat out two teeth, looking to the ground. The man who had been speaking to him before, spoke again. “You will tell us where your friends are.”

With his mind racing, Seamus hesitantly nodded and tried to put on his best timid face. The hands released him, but all around guns were cocked and pointed towards him. He broke into a long speech using the longest and most difficult English words he knew, until everyone’s face was a mask of confusion. Through it all, his hands were slowly sneaking down to his waist.

The blow that came was far from unexpected, and it offered the much needed distraction for Seamus to put his plan into action. His plan: the third of his three most stupid mistakes. He jumped back from the blow, the man who had thrown it now thrown off balance without having hit his target. Seamus brought his hands up to his mouth, bit down and pulled. He grinned broadly, a grenade between his index and middle finger, another between his ring and little finger, and his left hand a mirror image. In his mouth, clenched between his teeth, were the rings. They weren’t exactly high powered grenades, but the gasoline in the various motorcycles around him would provide the extra firepower.

He grinned broadly at the blank looks on the faces around him.

“Shoot him! Get the gren-”

Blake turned wildly at the explosion behind him. A pillar of flame could be seen off in the distance, reaching up to the canopy of the trees. He knew what had happened, somehow he just knew. Seamus… was gone.

Three motorcycles jumped up into view, about two feet into the air, before landing heavily in front of him. Damien and Vance had already passed and he threw himself to the ground, gunfire overhead. They were too fast to stop and turn around, so they headed towards Damien and Vance instead.

“Damien! Six o’ clock, down!”

He immediately dropped, catching Vance by the feet. Then he turned, a gun in each hand and fired to his sides. The bikes ran straight through the line of fire and continued for some time before throwing its riders. Another few shots took care of them, but there were some other bikes coming up from behind. Blake passed them by, motioning for them to come. But it was too late…

With Vance still mumbling prayers, the bullets ripped through his body as he ran. He took several steps before he fell in a shower of blood. Daemon let out a scream of rage and grabbed the fallen boy, turning around and shooting. Blake joined in hopelessly, still running backwards.

“Blake, stop!”

He did so, stopping abruptly with his running and with his firing. He turned around and almost fell; the ground fell away sharply in front of him. Damien came up behind him, his side covered in blood and Vance over his shoulder.

“There’s still more coming up. And now we’ve got no where else to go…”

Blake shook his head, grinning. He looked down and saw below him the swift running river, more than a hundred feet below.

“We’re going to jump that?!” exclaimed Damien in disbelief. Blake nodded, still grinning. Damien cursed and threw Vance over, hoping to catch him later. “Fine! I’ll tell you Blake, this is the most adventure I’ve ever had in, what? Three, four days?”

“On three! Ready?”

Damien nodded, growling once more.

“One…”

He peered over the edge, wishing fervently that he had wings.

“Two…”

Well, here goes nothing.

“Three!”

Damien leaped from the edge, pushing himself as far as possible over it so that he could land in the deepest part of the river. He looked behind himself to give Blake a grin, then looked above him to yell.

Blake rubbed the back of his head, “Oh man, he really jumped. Sucker. I’m not doing that…” He turned around, ignore the profanities being yelled by Damien just before the loud splash. Blake looked for an alternative way down, a hopefully safer way. Just in front of his feet the ground exploded. Bullets were being fired and Blake jumped, taking a step back. His heel landed on the edge of the cliff which immediately gave way. For a precarious second, Blake’s arms pin wheeled. Then he fell backwards, tumbling head over heels down the side of the cliff.

“Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-” And then he hit a particularly large rock and was thrown down into the center of the river.

“Oooh… my body..” Blake groaned, unable to even roll over. For a moment he mistook the warmth of the receding unconsciousness for a blanket and the ground below him as a bed. A very hard, lumpy bed. He groaned again, suddenly shivering from the cold allowed by his wet body. “Where am I…?”

“Bloody tricked me…” Damien spat, looking at Blake’s wounds. They were on a small shoreline of rocks in-between the two cliff faces, water running below them.

“I feel like I’ve been trampled by… very heavy things.”

“You hit every rock on the way down, commander. And I mean every rock. I’m surprised your not dead.”

Blake groaned and tried to cover his face. Instead he just screamed, sweating profusely. “Damien! Why can’t I feel my arm? Why can’t I move it?!”

“You broke it… sir. You hit a pretty big rock on the way down, musta shattered the arm on contact.”

Blake closed his eyes, sighing. This is what he got for playing tricks. “Well, you’re probably the best navigator we have besides… Patrick. Any ideas on where we are?”

“The river has carried us northeast. It worked in our advantage though, by making us both hard to find and giving us a free mile ride east. We’d best move as soon as possible though. If those Nazi’s are really looking for us that badly, they won’t just stop because we’ve… you’ve fallen off a cliff.” Damien smirked. “I jumped.”

Blake’s arm was left as it was. Whatever supplies that could have possibly helped set his arm was lost now, and anyway, setting an arm that was shattered in more than ten pieces were beyond either of their skill. “What did you do with Vance?”

Damien shrugged, helping Blake to his feet and even going so far as putting the pack on his back, but not so far as actually carrying it. “I buried him in as best a place I could. A little sandy place further down here. You’ve been out for around an hour, so I had plenty of time.”

Blake nodded, taking a few steps forward to test his footing. Able to at least hold himself up, they both began walking again.

The journey was mostly silent, each one thinking on the deaths of the others. All four of them gone, now only the legendary Damien and his leader Blake alive. Not even the knowledge of the border being only ten miles away helped their thoughts. Because of the steep cliffs around them, they had to backtrack a fair way in order to climb a less steep side.

With the handicap of a broken arm, neither made the distance wanted. They were forced to camp once more, breaking into an old abandoned house much like the house they started in. They weren’t taking any chances this time either. Hiding places were found in the basement of the house. Sleep came hurriedly to Blake who suffered from a high fever. For Damien, it came less easy. He was mentally naming names in his mind.

“Blake… Blake, are you awake?”

He grunted in response, opening his eyes to darkness. “Yeah… Barely.”

“I’m thinking… Mitch is dead. And Patrick, Seamus and Vance. And then a hundred other friends I’ve known, all dead. I’m probably the only one left alive that remembers some of them.”

“What… are you getting at?” asked Blake, still staring into the blackness.

“After I die, they’ll be gone forever. How will you ever be remembered if all your friends and family are gone?”

“Build a bloody great big statue or something…” Blake’s eyes closed and within seconds he was asleep again. Damien was left in the dark with only his thoughts for company.

Like the silence before a mind-bending storm, this silence rolled across the landscape, unheard but loud enough to shatter eardrums. Damien was awake instantly. Nowhere in nature could silence such as this exist. He immediately woke Blake and slid from his hiding place. He snuck a peek through two wooden boards that covered the broken window of the basement.

He took a step back in shock. Out there… was an army.

“Blake! Wake up now, we need to move!”

Blake awoke, rubbing his eyes and stumbling from his hiding place. In only a few minutes, someone would attack. After further investigation, they realized an army hadn’t been sent after them, per se. Two small squadrons had met here, on this very field. Trust their luck…

“We’re going to have to go,” said Damien, watching the armies. “In a few seconds this house is going to be in flames.”

“One of those armies are our own men! If you happen to have some third party uniform in that pack of yours, let me know. If not, then we’re going to get shot the minute we walk out there!”

Damien covered his face, thinking. They were five miles from the border. If they were going to leave, it should be soon, while the sun was still down. He made a fist, his entire body shuddering. Finally he shoved his guns into the hands of Blake, who took them grudgingly. “They’re all filled with ammo. Too much for me to carry effectively. As soon as the time comes, you’re going to make a run for it.”

“What? What are you talking about? What are you going to do?”

“Me? I’m going to be a distraction.” He flashed a grin to Blake, loading the guns he had kept. “I’ve lived longer than I deserve and longer than I should have. Death has been trying to get me for twenty years and I’m about to hand myself over to him.”

“But... Look, you don’t have to do this. If we just stay in the basement maybe-”

“No. It won’t work like that. I’ve lived my life to the fullest and I’ve got no regrets. If there really is a heaven, then I’m going to join my friends. If there isn’t, then I’m screwed. But hey, what else do I have to lose?”

“Damien! I command you to stay here!”

“Too late for that… sir. The fight already began.”

The first shots were heard echoing down through the rotten timbers of the house. There were already screams of pain and soon explosions as well, grenades being thrown. Damien waved once, still grinning, and pried the boards from the window and jumped through. Blake ran over to try and stop him but couldn’t even climb through because of his handicap. He could see Damien running across the field, a marvel. He was shooting as he ran and just as skilled as ever. Quickly, Blake made his way up the stairs and to the front door and was met with soldiers, enemy soldiers.

Blake had the advantage though, even with his handicap. A few quick shots took care of them. Now with the fight going on outside, none noticed the absence of the men and Blake took the time to grab extra ammunition. He ran outside just as Damien let loose his main diversion: a blast that rocked the ground. Some type of high-powered explosive, undoubtedly stolen some months ago on another one of his expeditions. It was enough to cause most men on the field to turn and look, and it let Blake bolt from the relative safety of the house.

The Germans had something up their sleeve in this fight. It was a small, insignificant brawl, but they had heavy artillery nearby and it was now arriving. A single Panzer, a tank with unimaginable power. Men sat along it with small artillery guns in hand. The turrets took out all enemy soldiers around them and farther, a shell being loaded and fired across the field and into the knot of soldiers across from them. Charred, burning bodies were thrown sky high. Damien!

He looked around for the small circle of chaos where Damien would undoubtedly be. He spotted it… dangerously close to the Panzer. Did he even care if he lived? Probably not. Probably how he always survived, too.

Another shell was fired, blowing the ground to pieces in front of Damien. Blake’s eyes widened in fear, thinking he had been hit. Damien’s reassuring bulk was seen in the clearing smoke afterwards, a blur of movement. Blake was firing too, but it seemed both he and everyone else on the field were distracted by Damien’s presence.

But them both knew it was a lost cause. Seconds suddenly stretched to become minutes and Blake saw the shell leaving the barrel on the tank, inch by inch. Damien turned to look, a gun in each hand. He fired, blowing holes in the heads of two men who looked to catch him off guard. With the shell approaching, he turned his guns towards it to try and blow it up before it reached him. The bullets proved ineffective, and in one last ditch effort his guns were dropped and his hands held out…

The sleek, metal surface of the shell grazed his finger tips and his muscles tensed, fighting against the force behind it. There isn’t a man alive who could catch it though, not even Damien with all his legends backing him up. His grasp did remain on the shell as time snapped back into place, the shell covering the last foot in milliseconds. It threw Damien down into the ground and his head bounced once before the shell detonated.

Blake took a step back, gob smacked. Damien… Damien had died too?

A bullet grazed his leg and he fell to his knees screaming. Another bullet went straight through the center of his calf and he fell forwards, trying to catch himself with his broken arm. The pain was enough to knock him unconscious, marked dead to the world around him.

Deep, ragged breaths filled his ears. Sunlight filtered down through the trees above him, birds singing songs that were merely a façade, disguising the battle that took place all those years ago. It may as well have been years.

His eyes opened. Or were they ever really closed? The sun was beating down on the dirt road in front of him. Perhaps he had always been walking this path, always stumbling along with only his breath to be heard and the voices of dead men in his ears.

Behind him was a trail of blood, marking his progress. Blake was walking with his left hand clamped over his right shoulder, his entire right arm now useless. His leg was left useless, dragging behind him as he walked. With every breath the world spun, with every step the pain increased. And forever were the voices, voices of dead men… dead men… gone.

“Ruhe!”

Blake awoke to the sound of a gunshot. He was covered in sweat and breathing heavily. His head fell back onto the soft pillow and he stared at the ceiling above him.

“Had the dream again?”

Blake looked up to see the man known only as Jackson in front of him, illuminated by the red light of his alarm clock. Blake’s eyes looked over to it. 7:00, eh? They’d allowed him to sleep in late.

Jackson was a tall African American, his physique somewhere between Blake’s and Damien’s. He sat down on Blake’s bed and sighed. “I don’t know what to say to you.”

With his right arm, now fully healed, Blake took out a picture of his old troop. His finger ran across each face and he spoke them silently. Now he knew what Damien felt like all the time… “He was fifteen, Jackson. And this one, a woman. And Vance, he believed that God would protect him… and maybe he was right. I wouldn’t want him to live in this war torn world. Seamus… ha. The little thief. And then Damien. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

Jackson hung his head. He’d been through this a lot. “Come on. We’re part of the strike team today…”

Blake got up and dressed at his own speed. Jackson left calmly. They were on an aircraft carrier and he and Jackson as well as some other ‘buddies’ were going to be piloting a few Spitfire Mk. II’s.

Breakfast passed in a blur, just as the months since his incident had. One minute he was eating soggy cornflakes, the next he was sitting in the pilot seat of his plane. He waited in line until it was his time to take off, which he did nearly perfectly.

It was in his cockpit that Blake felt really secure. He may be miles above the ground, but he was also alone. Through his helmet he could hear the others talking about speeds, distance and formation. Blake didn’t even both to listen to anything but the formation, picking everything else up on the way.

The nightmares had plagued his mind ever since that day. Every time his eyes closed, he saw something, someone’s death. And every waking moment he heard them screaming or even worse, the death rattles of their last moments alive. He could feel himself slowly cracking. He never sought help, he never wanted help. But last night the dreams were too sharp… too realistic. He had seen every one of their deaths, he had realized what he could have done differently to let them all survive. Why had they died?

The thought that had been growing slowly in the back of his mind was now pushing to the front. He was the last of his troop and he didn’t deserve to live. And neither did the people that did it to him. He was in a plane… Filled with fuel and live ammunition. He’d die on impact, no suffering at all. And the people below him would die too.

It was decided. With a face as hard and still as stone, he pulled his radio to his mouth. “This is Blake, piloting the Spitfire Mk. II. I’m bailing from the formation.”

“Engine trouble?” asked Jackson, his voice crackling over the radio.

“No. I’m going to crash it.” And a small smiled graced his lips. Well, I don’t need this helmet anymore. He let the helmet roll from his fingers and down to his feet. He watched the dials in front of him with almost dead eyes, the voices of the others inaudible to him.

“Blake! What are you doing this for? Stop it now, get back into formation!” Jackson. Why did he always watch over him like that? Blake was piloting his plane to the ground, towards the German base they were sent to bomb. He’d bomb them all right…

“This is because of what happened, isn’t it? It wasn’t your fault, Blake! Don’t do this!”

Blake picked up his radio thoughtfully, still staring at nothing. “They were my friends. They were my family. I do this for them.”

He abandoned the controls all together, pulling from his pocket two slips of paper. The first was the old, black and white picture of his troop. He smiled and set this in front of him. The second was a letter, given to him unknowingly by Damien before he had ran of to his death.

“Build a bloody great big statue for us, all right?” Blake’s smile turned into a laugh and he grabbed the radio again. “Hey Jackson. When you get back, look in my dresser. You’ll find some plans… it might sound stupid, but I’ve got more than enough money put away for it. Just do it.”

And then he pulled the radio from the control panel, letting it fall down with his helmet. The plane was sent into a barrel role and as the clouds parted, he saw his target. Anti-Air turrets were in place around the base…

He took the joystick in his hands and dived farther down, firing. The turrets shot through his wings, a fatal shot had he not been planning to crash anyway. He was able to take out the turrets with relative ease, saving his friends trouble. Sirens were going off down below and his plane was being shot at again, but at this point he was pretty much dead anyway, just a big hunk of metal.

He was going to stare death in the face.

The building was in flames, spreading rapidly to the surrounded building. Half a plane stuck out from one side which soon exploded in a dazzling light as soon as the gasoline ignited. Men were screaming and running around, hoses spraying the blaze ineffectively. The wind picked up, blowing ash and flame.

A flaming piece of debris came from the plane, the wind blowing it in wide circles. The paper came into view, blowing past. Mitch, Patrick, Vance, Seamus and Damien, all lined up, with Blake at the back, his arms encompassing them all and laughing. The flames were burning the paper, the image fading rapidly as the picture closed in on itself, turning black. Another wind blew, breaking the picture into ashes.

Children were laughing, running around the base of the statue that dominated the park. Balloons of hundreds of colors were waving in the wind, the sun beating down with a pleasant heat on the green grass. The statue had six people, all standing heroically on their pedestal. Mitch on one knee, beside him Vance, mimicking his pose. Patrick stood between them, now very definitely portrayed as a woman and happily so. Behind her were the taller Damien and Seamus, back to back and their arms folded and a disgruntled look on their faces. Behind them all stood Blake, his mouth open in laughter. Below the statue was a plaque that read, along with their names, a single quote.