Name: Griffin Andrews (Griff) Age: 53 Father was a coal miner and his Mother was a house wife Lives in Kamensk with his wife Remy, His daughter Sam and his son Lucas It was early July when Griffin had taken his son on a week-long hunting trip to their favorite spot in the woods near Msta. This was the third year in a row now that they had made the road trip down from Kamensk. This trip was promising to the best yet. For the first few days nothing seemed off, the deer weren’t very active but this was nothing new to the boys. Bad weather, the neighboring town over even fellow hunters in the area all played factors and they weren’t about to let that ruin their trip. It was after their third day out in the field that the trip took it’s turn. Long after the fire died out and they had fallen asleep Griffin heard a loud crash in the camp. He opened the tent flap and found a soldier fumbling his way out of the fire pit he has moments before fallen into. Griffin was about to ask if he was alright when the solider made eye contact. It was apparent something was wrong. The soldier let out a loud screech and leapt straight for the tent and through the open flap. Griffin was quick to get out of the way and deflect the attack but by that point it was too late. The soldier had fallen onto his Lucas who was still laying in his sleeping bag. He lets out a loud groan when he felt the weight of the of the man fall onto him. The soldier quickly turned its attention to the boy and then proceeded with the attack. Griffin arose to his feet outside and started pounding on the soldier to try to turn its focus back to him but he was unrelenting. The soldier impervious, like he didn't know he was even there at all, deaf to the screams and fists that were being thrown at him. The attack lasted all of 30 seconds from the time of the first crash to the last scream of his son. But the scars it would leave would last a lifetime. With one last effort Griff reached into the tent for his rifle that had been laying next to him just moments before. He chambered a round and in one swift motion he pulled it up to his shoulder and aimed at the back of the man's head. He fired. With one loud bang the tent and the woods around him fell silent once again and he remained motionless with his rifle still at his shoulder. After the smoke cleared from his barrel he could hear the smallest muffled moan from his son from under the lifeless body that laid on top of him. He through the body out of the tent and jumped to his son's side. He wiped the blood from his face and out of his eyes and tried to assess what had happened. His little boy was dying right in front of him. On the cold ground, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the woods. He was helpless. There was nothing that could be done and a moment later he was gone. His last breath past through his lips and he laid motionless in his arms. Griffin’s eyes swelled up he clutched him tight against his chest and cried. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the tent and his son’s side until morning. It was at sunrise when he stepped outside for the first time and to take his first breath of air. In that breath was the realization that everything had changed. He’s life had changed. He was no longer the same man he was the night before. Somehow, even with the overwhelming weight of the events he found his was to his feet. He wrapped his son’s body in his sleeping bag and dug what would be his final resting place. He marked the grave with rocks and a makeshift wooden cross he put together with some wood that he had found. He said his last words to his son, went back to camp and grabbed his gun. He knew he had to get back to his wife and daughter. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy but what had to be done. But is wasn’t until he returned to his home that he would realize to the extent of how difficult this might be.