[ WP ] Three friends . Four AM . No dialogue

A high pitched scream pierced through the air, waking me from my deep sleep. The woman ’ s cry was cut off as a gunshot rang out. I sat up on my makeshift bed and drew in a sharp, deep breath. A quick glance around the small apartment determined there was no immediate danger, but it was difficult to see anything in the shadows. My eyes finally adjusted to the dim light coming from the candles in the center of the room, allowing me to fully assess my surroundings. Mark was on the other side of the room, crouched near the window. He was peeking through the blinds looking outside at what was going on in the streets below. An orange light flared across the window as he scrambled backwards, away from the window. The resounding boom of an explosion immediately followed. The entire building shook, causing some of the shelves to come crashing to the floor. Sitting there, staring wide eyed at Mark, our eyes met. Both of us were in shock of what had just happened and completely unsure what to do. He rushed over to me and clasped his hand over my mouth, knocking me back against the floor. Placing a finger to his lips, he signaled for me to keep quiet. My head nodded in agreement, showing that his message was understood. A faint smile spread across his face as he released his hand from over my mouth. We stayed still for a moment and slumped back against the wall. It wasn ’ t until now that I noticed Jen, standing by the door with her pistol drawn. A faint stream of light shone down her face and into the room. The door was open a crack, allowing her peer down the hallway. A sigh of relief washed over me. The woman who was shot outside wasn ’ t Jen. But that raised a new problem and more questions. Who was she? Why was she shot? Who shot her? We haven ’ t come across anyone else since the exodus from our city. And we were sure that we ’ ve stayed far enough ahead of the ever advancing Dusk Militia. Jen silently shut the door and hurried towards us, holstering her weapon. She pointed her index finger upward and made several circular motions, and then with two fingers, made a chopping motion. Pack-up and move out, fast. 
 
 My mind took over, folding up the blankets that made up my temporary bed and stuffing them into my pack, along with the rest of my few remaining belongings. It wasn ’ t much. Most of my things were left behind when we fled our homes; leaving anything that was not absolutely need for survival or could be easily carried. After The Revolt, my possessions were reduced to what was taken with me. Everything else was probably destroyed or, if it was valuable, it was taken by the greedy troops that followed. Mark blew out the candles and the room went dark, save for the faint glow of the moon coming through the blinds. He poured out the remaining hot wax onto the floor, before wrapping the candles in a cloth and sticking them in his bag. Creeping towards the door to regroup with Mark and Jen, my leg became caught. My pants were snagged on something on the floor, but it was too dark to see what it was. Pulling franticly on my pant leg, the cuff tore, subsequently causing me to lose my footing and go tumbling to the ground with a thud. Darn. I lay still for a moment and listened for any signs that my stumble had alerted anyone downstairs, but there was nothing. Regaining my composure and checking myself for any injuries, my focus turned up towards my friends. They both stood hunched over by the door, ready to head out. Mark slowly opened the door and peeked out into the hallway. Light from the hallway shone into the room, surrounding myself and the mess around me. Quickly checking both ways, Mark signaled that it was clear and stepped out of sight. Now clearly visible in the light, a torn piece of my jeans stuck to the corner of a broken shelf. 
 
 Letting out silent sigh and picking up my things, my gaze fell to the ground and the dozens of items that lay strewn across the floor. The realization soon came to me, they were books. What a rare sight. These were writings from the days of old, probably from the time of my parents. My mother had told me that books were stories written by hundreds of people from different cities and nations. There were stories about science, history, love, war, and countless other topics that I had never heard of. There were even books that were supposedly entirely made up by those who had written them. Without thought or discretion, my hands began grabbing up as many of these books as could be crammed into my bag. Jen was just leaving the room when she looked back at me, stuffing my bag. Her eyes rolled in disapproval as she motioned me to hurry. It wasn ’ t until my pack was hoisted back onto my shoulders that the understanding of how heavy books are came to me. I trudged on, figuring the extra weight might be worth it. My rationalization was that we would be traveling less as winter grew colder, which meant that we would be staying in the same place for longer. Having more down time meant the need to stay occupied, and reading about the days of old would do just that. At the very least, they ’ re made of paper, and paper is a useful material for starting a fire to keep us warm. Stealing out of the room, my pace fell in behind my friends. The three of us headed towards the western stairwell of the complex. It was the farthest staircase from the apartment we were living in, but as far as we knew, it was the farthest from where troops might be systematically searching for anyone. They always went room by room, floor by floor, building by building, clearing cities in search of anyone dumb, or brave, enough to stay behind. Of course the main difference between being dumb or brave was getting caught. Most survivors were shot on sight, even those who attempted to surrender peacefully. However, a rare few were given a choice, either pledge allegiance to the Militia or be killed. The troops usually made a spectacle of it, bringing the fighters outside to face the leader of the unit. The leader would be the one to make the offer of life or death. Those who were actually given the choice were those whom the troops thought would be useful, should they pledge allegiance, and deemed able bodied and fit to serve their cause, whatever the hell that was. However, those who were young and fit enough to be of use, were the ones who held the firmest to the ideals of the Revolt; and of the hundreds of people I ’ ve seen caught over the months, none had opted for the pledge. They all died as martyrs, claiming loyalty to the Revolt with their last breath. 
 
 Mark stopped at the end of the hallway and signaled for us to halt and keep quiet. With a firm grip on the handle, he pulled on the steel door that led to the stairwell. But nothing happened. He pulled on it again, even harder, but was met with the same disappointing result. We began to panic as all three of us grabbed hold of the handle and pulled as hard as we could. The door scraped open a few inches, and after a few tries it finally opened enough for us to squeeze in. We removed our packs and slid them inside the stairwell, then crawled through separately after them. The three of us crept over to the railing of the staircase and peered down to the ground level, seven floors below us. Beams of light flicked back and forth as troops ascended the flights of stairs below. Dang, they ’ re already here. We won ’ t be able to get out from the ground level. My friends must have had the same thought, as we all looked up towards the roof. Jen took the lead this time and started up the steps. Mark went second with me once again taking up the rear of the group, repeatedly checking behind me while climbing. We reached the small landing on the top and stood at the door. It was quiet, eerily quiet. Even the sound of the troops ’ footsteps could no longer be heard. But the peacefulness was abruptly ended by the sound of yelling and gunfire. It seemed like chaos going on a few levels under us, what appeared to be the eighth floor. There had been others staying here, just above us. The realization hit me hard. People we didn ’ t know had been living next to us, for who knows how long, and were being gunned down. And all we did was stand there, because there was nothing any of us could do. Exchanging glances, there was a strange understanding between us that one couldn ’ t risk their life, or the lives of the rest of us, to help people who were most likely already dead. Nowadays, one doesn ’ t help other people, especially strangers and outsiders. They could be armed and dangerous, or worse, working with the Militia. If they weren ’ t already part of your group or someone you knew, then they weren ’ t important. So, with the cover of noise below, we burst through the door onto the roof, unconcerned with what had happened beneath us. A faint light glowed on the horizon, my eyes squinting to see around me. It was nearly dawn, probably no later than four in the morning. The sun was beginning to rise and the golden sunlight reflected off the blanket of snow that covered the rooftop. The familiar crunch echoed beneath my feet as my legs sank into the cold slush, rising up to my knees. It would be near impossible to lose anyone in the unmarked snowfall; even a blind dog could easily track our fresh trail of footsteps. Our group marched through the sludge toward the edge of the roof to search for any way out of this predicament. We were surrounded. Hundreds, if not thousands, of troops filled the courtyard below. Dozens of tanks and personnel trucks lined the streets. Hurrying back to the door, we retraced our steps, leaving only one set of footsteps. My hand reached for the door as a quick prayer escaped my lips. We had no choice but to find a place inside to hide and hope for the best. 
 
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