A truck pulls up quickly to the front of the town hall, and the several figures crowded in the truck bed immediately disembark. One of them holds a crate, and in this crate the clanging of several bottles topped with gasoline-dampened rags could be heard as the carrier sprints into position. He sets the crate down beside his buddies, and multiple hands reach down to take their share.

A spark. A small flame from a lighter. The wind-up, then a mighty heave of the arm—

The Molotov cocktails smash against the entrance of the town hall, the wooden door and its frame being doused in the flammable substance. The building's fire alarm kicks on a few seconds after, and they can see the inside sprinklers unleashing their showers through the windows.

Mackensen's van speeds down the street, and the rest of its passengers are dropped off by the spot where Richard lays. They pass the bodies of the ambushed guards, pressing forwards to cover the exits. Splashes burst from the trample of their boots, their rifles glisten in the streetlights. Like a pack of wolves, they surround their prey.

Two militiamen come barreling outside, driven by a sudden and unexplainable panic. They do not even have their weapons at the ready, and are gunned down viciously by Mackensen's team. Their blood is spilled, and mixes with the rainwater.

All manner of chaos surrounded Richard as he lay prone on the sidewalk. And he took in the sight of it, of this violence—and found himself swept up by it, consumed by it. He had nothing to say when several figures burst from the town hall's auxiliary exit, and were cut down by a crossfire. The rain poured, thunder sung a terrible chorus in the black-night sky. Blood flowed like rivers, and stained the ground with its slick presence.

"Rich'!"

R.J. is upon him, and offers a hand, "C'mon now, get up old man!"

"I ain't old yet!" Richard called back, and took the offered hand. MacReady guided him quickly to the closest getaway vehicle, a dark grey pickup truck idling in the street.

"Go, get out of here!" R.J. calls over the stormy din.

"What about you?!" Marsh asks of his companion.

"I'll be fine, just get out of here!" R.J. waves him on, and onwards he goes—

Something strikes Richard in the back, and he collapses to the wet asphalt. The air has been punched out of his lungs, and he gasps, choking and sputtering. All manner of noise encompasses him, and he bites back the urge to cry out in anguish. He believes it to be true: a bullet has found its mark, and now the reaper's scythe is inches from his neck, ready to sever his connection with this material world once and for all. He is not ready.

Flashes come to him, like pictures, of his wife Evelyn smiling fondly at him, moments of holding his baby daughters in a loving embrace, seeing the joy in their faces and hearing their peals of beautiful laughter. He imagines his mother and father embracing him after his successful journey through college. Tears fall from his eyes, and are lost in the rain.

Kate's voice echoes in his mind, harkened from that moment of sincerity where he had pulled her from the brink of despair.

I love you, Dad.

His heart beats with determination. A fire burns in him, sweltering with sudden intensity. Strength finds his arms, and he pushes himself up from the cold, wet asphalt.

I love you, too.

Richard opens his eyes.

One of R.J.'s men is seen crossing past him, the man's rifle aimed at an unseen foe. A bullet strikes this man in his leg, and he goes down. Richard acts before he thinks, crossing the distance and hoisting the man up in support.

There is the getaway truck, a few paces away. In the bed of this truck, a couple of R.J.'s men provide cover fire so Richard can reach them. The wounded man is hauled up into the truck bed, and Richard follows afterwards. The entrance of the town hall is no longer doused in fire, and a great number of militiamen scramble from its doors to counter the attackers. This is all Richard can parcellate before the getaway truck accelerates and drives away, out of the line of fire, past the checkpoint barriers, and into the dark of night.

Footsteps echo down the sidewalk. A petite figure, weighed down by their drenched overcoat, runs quickly down the concrete path. Their shadow stretches and shrinks under the streetlights, and there is the harsh sound of their messenger bag smacking against their side as they go.

Kate's teeth are chattering. She can't stop it, and neither can she abate the painful numbness of her fingers. A gust of wind assails her, and she raises her arms to shield herself. The rain bites at her nose, pummels at her hair, and leaves her feeling like she had fallen into the freezing waters of the bay. Yet still, she presses on.

Her direction had been aimless for the past minute or so. She's lost track of how long she's been running—partly because she was in a panic and partly because the ache in her side has gotten so much worse. She shouldn't have been surprised when she pressed her hand against the area and it came up coated in red, but the urgency of the moment had left her unknowing of anything outside of herself. She existed in this small, fragile little slice of hell, where rain pelted her like hailstones and the wind howls in her ears, demanding her slow, miserable demise with every billowing gale.

Gunshots ring past the staccato of the rain. Kate stops, looking back to where she had ran from. Fear drives her to the worst thoughts imaginable; she can't even parcellate what it means, only the feeling of it is there. She renews her retreat away from the sounds, even though she does not know where she's running to. There is a bitter numbness in her legs, the rainwater having soaked through her jeans to caress her skin with its icy touch. The impact of her shoes on the sidewalk is all that tells her she's still moving forwards.

She hears the roar of an engine, faint at first, but soon the sound of this vehicle is clearly audible even with rolling peals of thunder from above. A pair of headlights shift into view, and the shape of a large van gives way through the curtain of rain.

Kate gasps once she realizes—the van wasn't going to stay its course. She had just crossed an intersection, on which the vehicle now attempted to turn. However, its speed was far too excessive, the turn was far too sudden, and the van slipped and rolled on the wet asphalt. It tumbled a good fifty feet before sliding to a stop at the curb, its lights going out and leaving the wreck covered in shadows.

Kate hesitated, then rushed across the street. She steps carefully towards the van, eyeing the battered exterior pensively. She wondered if it was even worth the trouble.

The back door is kicked open, and a pair of legs scramble out of the metal coffin. A man is groaning and swearing under his tongue, clutching at some wound upon his face. Kate cannot tell how severe the injury is, but she knows it wrong to leave this injured soul alone and unattended.

"Fuck, aw fuck—!"

"Are you alright?"

The man mumbles something, but she can't make it out. He turns back to the van, and reaches inside, pulling from it another pair of legs. Deciding quickly, she assists the man and pulls out his comrade. This one was unconscious, and had a terrible gash running across his face. His nose was split near the bridge, and his upper row of dentures could be seen where the laceration began. At least, that was what it seemed like; Kate wasn't sure she was seeing things correctly. Her vision was blurred around the edges, and had to constantly blink to get the raindrops out of her eyes. A couple more figures stumbled out of the back, dazed and confused.

The first man was distraught. After being assured his companions were alright, he leaned down closer to the wounded man to inspect the damage. He saw it better, and he choked down the urge to cry. Suddenly, he reaches back into the van, and pulls something from it. He speaks—

"Broken arrow, broken arrow," he rasps into a handheld radio, "Bravo's van rolled over, we're stuck on the north side of town. I got three casualties, two moderate, one critical—requesting assistance if possible."

"Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

"Get out of here, kid," the first one barks at her, an arm of theirs waving her away. She stumbles back, and looks over the van one last time, but something gleams out of the darkness. A pair of headlights approaches from the direction the van came, and she points to it.

"Look, there's no need to worry—someone's coming to help!"

"What are you talking about…?"

The headlights stop. Figures step out of the vehicle. Eyes widen with realization.

"Aw fuck, militia!" the man bellowed, the gun in his hand shrieks death with every squeeze of the trigger. Kate's footing slips as she tries to duck, the sudden change in balance sending her to the ground. Bullets zip past her as she rolls back up and away from the firefight, the wounded man and his partner covering her retreat. She doesn't look back, running quickly to the entrance of an alley and out of the light's reach. Shouting comes from behind her, but more gunfire responds, and is responded to in kind.

Then, the gunshots suddenly ceased. A dreadful feeling nips at her heels, and she ducks into a small corner behind one of the many large dumpsters lining the alleyway. It's just the sound of rain and thunder now, and the wheeze of her lungs pulling bitter cold air.

She realizes that there's no chance for her to continue her escape down the alley; the militia will chase her down with their vehicles and execute her like they did to those men. She needs another route, and quick; her eyes trace a path from the top of the dumpster to the opposite side of the fence, and she follows through before doubts can take hold. She unslings her messenger bag and throws it over, then begins to climb. Her fingers are numb, and she barely makes it up due to her shivering, but with one great heave, Kate tosses herself over the fence and lands on her side. She then pushes herself up against the fence, her messenger bag clutched to her chest with shivering arms.

She counts her heartbeats, her silent breaths labored and shaky. The sound of footfalls can be heard over the droning ambience of the rain. They pass, but she waits nonetheless. Time is measured with each shuddering breath. Darkness looms over her, and she curls up into herself, hoping that it would not take any interest in her.

There's more footsteps, running back down the alley. The sound of an engine comes afterwards, and it drives off into the dark of night. Only now does she allow herself to sob, her eyes closed, her lips imparting a final whisper.

Lord, help me.

Numbness gives way to a strange comfort. The rain is not as cold as she first thought. She opens her eyes, and beholds the light of salvation—a small journey away from where she lies. She pulls herself up, and pushes herself towards the light. What brilliant light this was, a burning star of white light, surrounded by haloes of black and blue colors. And in its innermost ring, the golden shades of rich yellow, like dandelions on a summer's day. She smiles at the warmth it brings, and she feels all earthly terrors flee from her. She closes her eyes, and basks in this warmth. At some point, she stops and rests upon the ground, and gives herself over to the bliss of nothingness.

She feels not the pair of arms dragging her inside the house, nor hears the sliding back-door click shut.