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Adrik Ivanov


Mamba

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The rain dropped through the cracks of the old rotted roof. Nature had already begun taking back his parents house. It no longer felt like home, the rusted pot hanging above the fireplace now contained spiderwebs instead of his mothers stew.

His fathers chair covered with dirt and grime, sat waterlogged in the middle of what used to be the living room floor. The valuables laid littered about the house, pictures of his family laid smashed and stepped on.

Behind the little home where he and his sister used to play as children. The place he buried her and his parents. He clutched the rifle in his hands in sadness...in anger.

The war-torn remnants of his neighborhood still smelled of burnt lumber. Mass graves laid behind the old schoolhouse he attended as a child. Shell casings littered the street, collecting rust in the drains.

With tears in his eyes he ripped off the patches of his uniform. He had served the CDF in the civil war. He fought and killed his countrymen because he had belief in what they had stood for.

He slumped down and slid his Makarov from its holster and placed it to his temple

"Бог Прости меня" he said as he slid his finger towards the trigger. Just as he was about to pull it his radio crackled to life.

"This is the Blackwood Militia. If you are hearing this there is hope. No longer will we hide in fear. No longer do you need to feel stepped on or oppressed. No longer do you have to live off of scraps. Find us."

Adrik Ivanov stood up and holstered his pistol. He bent down and picked up one of the pictures of his family and slid the pack onto his back. He walked out of his family home determined. Somebody would answer for his families deaths. Somebody would pay. This Blackwood could be the key to that.

He looked back on his home one last time. Positive in his heart that the monsters didn't kill them. No, this was the work of man. He didn't care how many people he questioned. Somebody would pay. Somebody would suffer as he suffered.

--To be continued.

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