Free Liberty or Tyranny by John Grit Page A

become some kind of a pacifist? There was more to these radical groups than what appeared on the surface. For one thing, they were becoming more sophisticated in their planning of attacks. There was a hidden purpose to them. They seemed like a bunch of nuts at first glance, but there was something else going on. He had no idea what, but something. Did they have a new leader, one with a little training?
    The driver swung around the crowd and backed his wagon to the fresh grave, giving gentle commands to the mule. He jumped down and waited for someone to help him carry the simple plywood coffin, standing there in baggy stained overalls and wearing a straw hat. In combination with the old, weather-worn wagon and the malnourished mule, he could have been from the Depression era. “My truck wouldn’t start,” he explained, “so I hooked up the old mule.”
    The mule waited too, standing there already drowsy, ears drooping, back steaming in the still cold of the morning, after its two-mile pull down the streets of a dying town still haunted by ghosts of the dead and inhabited by the few remaining survivors of the biggest holocaust in human history.
    Mel took a corner of the coffin, as did Tyron and Nate. They carefully lowered it into the grave. Brian stood by the pile of fresh dark earth that had little smell to it because of the cold, wiping his face with his jacket sleeve.
    Deni moved closer and stood by him. “Do you want to say a word before the preacher does?”
    Brian nodded and stepped closer to the grave. Looking down at his friend, he swallowed. Then he began to speak in a voice much older than his years, sounding more like his father than the boy he was the day before. “He knew the firebomb was coming, but he didn’t think of getting away, he thought of me, pushing me to safety. It cost him his life.” He looked up at the sky. “I read that if a person knows his next breath will be his last it becomes the sweetest breath of his life. Kendell was denied even that, dying in a burning ball of fire. But he lived long enough to kill the one who killed him. He died as he lived, thinking of others and fighting for justice. He was my friend. I will never forget him.”
    The preacher began to speak, but Nate didn’t hear him. He couldn’t take his eyes off his son. He realized that two boys had died the day before, and one man was born. He had witnessed it over the last year, but Kendell’s death had completed the process. Death of life and other things often come out of season, he thought. Sadness filled his heart, tempered by pride.
    ~~~
    Brian said little more than three words all the next day. He cleaned his rifle and then washed his spare clothes – what little he had – and his spare socks, hanging them all over the bathtub to drip and dry. Then he rubbed his boots with leather soap from a small container Atticus had given him and checked the strings. Emptying his pack, he set everything out on the floor and did an inventory. That’s when he looked at his worried father and spoke his three words of the day. “Need more ammo.” After repacking everything, he promptly went to work sharpening his five-inch hunting knife.
    When Deni gave Nate a worried look, he silently went to work on his own weapons. She sighed and left the room.
    ~~~
    Several hours before daylight, Nate and Deni were woken by a low noise coming from the living room. They armed themselves and crept down the hall, finding Brian sharpening his knife again, tears running down his face as he stood in the dark, looking out a window at the moonlit front yard and street. It had spit snow for hours, leaving everything sheathed in a light covering of white. Nothing moved outside in the still cold.
    Without a word, they turned and went back to bed, not sleeping for more than an hour, just lying there in their sleeping bags, worrying about Brian.
    It was still dark when Nate woke. The room was almost as cold as the outdoors. They didn’t have any way