text: [Themes: horror]
  
  My eyes shoot open. That was a large thump. It was from outside. I sit up in bed, and see my father putting on boots. He grabs only his rifle and puts on his coat. He hands Mother a revolver and puts a finger to his lips. He opens the door. Cold wind and snow blow into the house. He shuts the door quickly.
  
  I climb down the ladder being careful to not wake my brother. My mother turns to me. She shakes her head and points at me. Then, she points back at the loft. I still come down.
  
  I stand next to my mother, and she says nothing. My ears strain to hear anything from outside. My mother holds the gun as if it's a snake. Please, let this be a false alarm.
  
  The handle turns. I smile at my overactive imagination.
  
  A man barges in. He pushes my mother down. The revolver falls onto the floor. He twists my mother's arm behind her back. Two other men push their way inside and close the door. I stand motionless. My mother claws at the attacker's face, but he punches her in the stomach. She stops and gasps for air.
  
  One of them men grab the revolver while another grabs me. My brother sits up in bed. The man with the revolver points it at my brother.
  
  "Get down here, boy. We don't want to hurt you," the gunman says.
  
  "Do what he says," orders my mother. My brother climbs down the ladder.
  
  "Sit at that table," continues the intruder.
  
  My mother and brother move to the table. I stand still. When my father comes back, he'll have no chance. We have to fight.
  
  "Get on. Go with your folks," the man holding me pushes me to the table.
  
  > Comply
  I sit down in a chair.
  
  "I'm Morty," says the man with the revolver, "Don't any of you move or make a sound. That way, he won't get hurt." He motions outside.
  
  I sit still. I cannot move. Tears fall down my cheeks.
  
  The door's handle moves again. My father comes inside. He's looking down and stomps his feet.
  
  I think somebody threw a rock, but-." My father stops speaking when he sees the other men. Morty is holding the revolver to my mother's head.
  
  "Drop it slowly," demands Morty.
  
  My father looks at us. Without taking away his gaze, he lowers his rifle to the ground.
  
  "Sit down with your folks," says another intruder. He picks up the rifle. "I'm Jacob. That's Huxley. He's Morty. Where's your firewood?"
  
  "We still have some in here," my father responds, "It's in that box." He points to it. They throw more firewood on our dwindling fire.
  
  "Can your woman cook up something warm?" asks Morty.
  
  "Of course," she states. She stands up and moves into the kitchen. Huxly follows her.
  
  Jacob moves to the fire he takes off his gloves. His hands have ice crystals on them. They're pale. He tries to push off the ice and snow off of his beard and clothes. He outstretches his arms and basks in the amazing heat. He looks younger than my father. I suppose his parents are dead by now.
  
  Morty appears to be faring better than Jacob. His orange hair is not covered in ice now is his skin as pale. He's awfully thin. I think Huxly is thinner.
  
  "Will you have any visitors any time soon?" questions Morty.
  
  "We always check on our neighbors in case this happens. I'd suspect they'd come tomorrow or the day after."
  
  "How many people are in the town?"
  
  "Oh, many. They're all armed like I was. We don't take prisoners, but we don't track people who haven't hurt anybody."
  
  "I get it. Well, you better understand that we don't want trouble either. There's a large group of the crazies coming this way. We'll only stay until morning."
  
  "Just don't hurt my wife or kids."
  
  "Just don't force me... What's your name?"
  
  "I'm Richard."
  
  "What about the rest of you?"
  
  "That's Claire and Amos. My wife's Ladonna."
  
  "It smells like she can cook good."
  
  "She does."
  
  We all sit in silence again. My mother steps out of the kitchen with a pot. She hooks it over the fire and sits down at the table.
  
  "Sorry about hurting you," says Huxley. His face is still bleeding from my mother. She doesn't say anything in reply.
  
  Time passes by at a snail's speed. I pray that the pot will heat up soon. I don't know how long their manners will last.
  
  My mother goes over to the pot. I think it's soup. She stirs the soup and steam rises from the top. She goes back into the kitchen and comes out with spoons and bowls. She picks up the pot and pours it out for the men. They grab the spoons and bowls and devour their sustenance.
  
  The rifle is sitting on the floor. The revolver is in Morty's britches. I could grab the rifle. No, it is too far away. I could run outside to look for help. No, I'll freeze. It's too long until I can find town...
  
  > run Outside
  I push down my chair and push open the door. I don't hear any gunshots behind me. I run through the snow. If I run fast enough, maybe I'll make it.
  
  I run down the road in my nightgown. The snow is up to my ankles. I trip and fall. My legs feel bruised, but I stand back up. The wind is cold. I shiver.
  
  I remember autumn when the fields produce their bounty. It is a time of joy before this time of depression. I wish it was warmer. I always enjoyed fishing and letting my feet dangle in the cool waters.
  
  I turn around to check if I have a pursuer. I do not, but there is a trail of blood coming from my feet. I run harder. Running makes more heat.
  
  Have the intruders killed my family? Did I endanger them? It doesn't matter. I have to save them. They could die without my help. Why did they even find our house? This doesn't make sense.
  
  Slowly, the coldness that grips my body transitions into warmth, but it is a bad warmth. It is like being burnt by the sun. Something is wrong with my skin. It's too cold.
  
  I run faster. Tears drop down from my eyes. My nose is like a waterfall. My hands look red. I feel so tired.
  
  There was once a bird that sang at my window. It was many years ago, but I remember her fondly. She just sat there and chirped away. I would lie in bed hiding the sun with my covers, but I would always stand when I heard her. I had to see her. I had to know the provider of my joy.
  
  I fall again. My arm bleeds. There's a deep red line running down. I limp forwards. I must go forwards. It has to be soon. It has to be just beyond my sight.
  
  > Lune
  I can see the village. It is so close. I fall to the ground. I try to stand, but I fall again. I use my arms to pulls myself through the snow. It is so close. I have to reach it. I edge my way towards a home.
  
  I crawl up the front porch. At the foot of the door, I bang on the wood. I scream for help. Old Man Roberts opens the door.
  
  "Dear God, get inside," he says. He picks me up and lays me by the fire. He takes off my soaked gown and lays a blanket on me. I feel so warm, yet I am so cold.
  
  Through my teeth, I stammer, "Fa-fam-ly." I do not know if he heard me. Darkness overtakes me. It's a warm shade of black, and I am not quite sure if its sleep or death which embraced me.