Farrell's Last Thoughts

So it had come to this. Traveling through the green woods, listening to the emptiness of it all, hands tied together, with a gun barrel pointed at his back. This was how a man who enlisted in the army, willing to put his life on the line for his country, was repaid.

Ever since day one no one had really liked him. They were more than happy that they had finally been given the orders to execute him. Mitchell, the mother-fucking asshole, was the one who was most willing to do away with Farrell. Jones was the unfortunate, dim, well-meaning guy teamed up with him. Mitchell was just an all around piece of shit who thought of women as nothing more than objects that spit out babies and sucked cock. Farrell liked Jones a hell of a lot more. Jones was kind, just stupid with a thick skull. Plus he was weak. Had Jones been stronger perhaps Mitchell would already be dead and the prisoners' hands untied. Unfortunately Jones was weak.

Farrell looked sideways at the skinny wreck named Jim trudging along beside him. Jim looked in real bad shape. Malnourishedweren't they all?and beaten up. Jim hadn't gone through the training Farrell had and it showed. Jim was weak, too. Farrell could smell the fear emanating off of him. It reminded him of how much like sheep humans really were.

The birds were singing in the trees the most lovely elegies imaginable. Farrell understood that these were the last songs he would hear in his life. No more Izzy Pop. No more KISS. No more Beatles. No more Elvis. No more A Fire Inside. A pit formed in his stomach, but he repressed any feelings of depression. Considering his whole life amounted to nothing at all, his death sure as hell wouldn't mean anything either. So why be scared of it? So why be sad about its coming?

Jim tripped and fell. Everyone stopped but Mitchell, who walked up to Jim's weak form and pointed his Claymore downwards. Mitchell put his foot down on Jim's bloody, grimy face and brought the barrel of his gun down closer.
"Please," Jim pleaded. Farrell was disgusted at how pathetic it sounded. He wished that Jim understood that it was best to die silently with honor.

"Believe me," Mitchell began, malicious humor dancing in his eyes, "I'm not interested." He paused and tilted his head to the side. "You see, I'm gonna have the black one. And I'm gonna make her squeal."

"Mitchell!" Farrell barked. That last sentence had been far too much. Mitchell removed his foot from Jim's face and aimed his gun at Farrell. Farrell closed his eyes and turned his face away from the gun, fear flying through his system. His training was forgotten. His honor was forgotten. "I swear to God it's gonna end badly for you!" he managed.

"Move," Mitchell commanded of Jim, his interest in the situation gone. "Come on, move! Get up!" Jim began to struggle to his feet. "Get up you fucking cunt!" Mitchell shouted as he kicked Jim in the side, sending him down again. "Fucking move! Get up!" Jim scrambled to his feet and was walking again, his green shirt covered in dirt from where he had been laying down. He was walking backwards. "Move your fucking ass!" Jim turned around and kept walking. Jones and Mitchell were right behind them with their Claymores raised.

Soon they reached a clearing next to the perimeter wall. There was a mound of dead bodies next to the wall. Dead and rotting. Chopped apart by bullets. They were the bodies of the infected that had managed to sneak in. Most of them were from last night's attack. Last night had been a horrifying spectacle.

Last night had sealed the fate of Selena and Hannah to live out what remained of their lives as sex slaves to the remainder of the nation's army. Selena was strong, so Farrell didn't worry about her much. Hannah, however… Hannah was only a teenager. If Farrell could escape from Jones and Mitchell for just a second he could probably book it back to the mansion, but what then? Get mowed down by the others in the mansion?

There had to be some way to get help to Hannah. Some way. Perhaps if Jim could get away he could help her. It was worth a shot.

Jim and Farrell turned away from the pile of dead bodies and faced Jones and Mitchell. Jones looked utterly terrified and uncertain. Mitchell looked like a kid in a candy store.

"Come on, then, you fucking pansies," Farrell said, his voice set and determined now that he had a grip on himself, his training back in mind, "do me first." Then Mitchell did something that Farrell had been fearing. He put his blade on the tip of his gun. Jones saw this and began to shuffle about.

"Mitch, just use the gun," Jones ordered, pleaded.

"So you're gonna stick me, Mitchell, is that it?" Farrell said.

"Mitch, just shoot him!" Jones continued to plea.

"Why?" Mitchell replied in a playful manner meant to intimidate Farrell. It worked.

"Because it's fucking quicker!" Jones exclaimed.

"Is that how you're gonna let your sergeant go out, Jones?" Farrell inquired. He hoped to turn them on each other just long enough to let one of them escape. This was his last shot at accomplishing anything apart from death.

"I'll fucking shoot him, then!" Jones proclaimed, moving his gun to do so. He looked so innocent and naïve. His wide eyes didn't seem to have caught on yet that this was really going to happen. Mitchell was much more experienced and more of a psychopath. He was relishing the dread on Farrell's face.

"No you won't," Mitchell replied over his shoulder, walking closer to Farrell.

"You gonna let him stick me, are you?" Farrell continued. "Like a fucking dog!" Farrell spit all over Mitchell's face and Mitchell drew back a step. He had a hand on his face but made no move to wipe the saliva off. He dropped his hand and Farrell could sense the anger boiling inside of him.

"I'm gonna enjoy this," Mitchell declared with a smile. He took one step forward and then Farrell felt something go through him shortly followed by something else. It occurred to him distantly that he was being shot. Thank God for that. Thank God for that.

Farrell's body dropped to the ground, dead. He was now part of the pile of the dead.


Mitchell looked over at Jones, even more rage boiling through his body. Jones had almost shot him! Mitchell ran up to Jones and knocked him to the ground.

"You stupid cunt!" Mitchell screamed and put his gun in Jones's panicking face. "What are you doing? Oh, you wanna shoot me, do ya? You wanna fucking shoot me! I'll fucking kill you"

"Where's he fucking gone?" Jones shrieked. Mitchell at first didn't know what he was talking about, then he turned around to face the other prisoner, Jim. Jim was gone.

"Fuck it!"

Author's Note:

My first update in a long time. I've been meaning to get this written and posted up, but I just never got around to it. It might take me a while to get the fourth part up. Hopefully not too long, though. It doesn't take me long to write these… it just takes me a while to sit down and write them.

Thanks to my reviewers so far. Now I'm almost a year older than the last time I posted a chapter and a year more experienced (it may not be a very good story, but bear with me I'm only 15). I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

"I remember when I was told the story of crushed velvet, candle wax, and dried up flowers."-AFI "Days of the Phoenix"