The mountains of West Virginia, a beautiful place, the trees, the creeks, and the rusting mining equipment. The little photo of Vanessa Jenkins the prettiest little girl from Stonewall Jackson High is still packed into your vest pocket, slim little build, the loveliest blue eyes, but if there was one thing you loved most about that girl it would be her smooth tail. You used to use it as a pillow when you’d sleep under the kumquat tree together, pull when you wrestled in the creek, or wash the mud off of it after hikes. You'd run you fingers down each of the yellow stripes on her back and tail. Lord do you miss that little racerunner. The way'd she'd turn blue in the summer, the very tip of her tail and nose turn a bright cyan blue. 
	But you can’t go back, you don’t even think you can look her in the eye no more, cause right now you’re lying down at the top of a cliff, no tail to rest on, nothing but you, your rifle, and the wind. You’re one of the last of the West Virginia Wolverines, and not one damn fed drives in your valley anymore
So they send rookies to die to see if you’re still kicking.
	One squad of  ten green goonies enters the valley from the north, heading south. Was it wednesday already? Time sure does fly don’t it? No matter, you know they’ll kill ya if they see ya, so you’ll return the favor. You used to hesitate. The scar along your cheek taught you otherwise.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Two of the greenies fall limp, and one starts screaming.
Crack
Crack
The screamer goes silent and their gunner goes down.
The remaining goons start heading back north.
So you start checking plates.
Two were caught lacking and the last four got around the bend with broken plates.
Successful day overall.
You make your way back to your cave and fire.
	You take off your muddy boots before you enter. Inside is a small fire underneath a mound of sticks, it’s not ideal but after your run in with loyalist Airborne you added it. Over the fire is a pot of chile, the same pot you and the old rebs would sit around and drink. They went to Texas, wanted to join up with the Corps, but you stayed here. You weren’t fighting for some grand cause, you were fighting for home. So home is where you stayed.
	You turn on the broken radio, hoping to hear some transmission on any wavelength, the normal static on 50.0 and 50.1 being the only thing on. You’d used to talk with the other hermit hellfighters, but your mic broke sometime last fall, and the old hellfighters went silent one by one. You look to the three books you’ve read a thousand times; the Holy Bible, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, and the Zombie Survival Guide. You go over the old workbench you took from a workshop two towns down. You strip and assemble your rifle a few times, inspecting every part to see if it's in need of repair or replacement.
	You say a quick prayer before leaving to hunt and forage. The first stop is the bodies of the feddies, a whopping seven intact MREs, and a Hershey's bar. Your prayers worked, chocolate has been an increasingly rare luxury ever since you took up post in this valley. Luckier still is the four packs of cigs. You go over to the creek to check the blackberry bushes, a good pound or so are ready but the rest are still redder than a lobster. There’s nothing in the traps, but you have plenty of salt pork and pickled fish from winter.
	Life is… life is simple, wonderfully simple actually, everyday is calming. Even when you’re shooting feddies. You’ve grown accustomed to the life of a hermit marksman, as you sit over the far cliff hoping to spot a sounder of hogs or a lonesome buck you begin to think back to your family. Poppa was a stoic man, and a religious one at that, always stringent with the cash and abundant on the prayer. He was also a self-made man, son to a drunkard and a hippie who marched himself into the coal mines in the summer of ‘87 at the ripe age of seventeen. Come the Fall of 2000 he had become the foreman of the operation, and decided he should begin to sire children. Hence, come fall of ‘01 you popped out right into mother’s “loving” arms.
	Mother, so you were told, was at some point a sweet girl, virtuous and voluptuous in equal measure, but all you remember was her dissatisfied stare and aversion to touching her son at all. You remember how she’d praise your little twin sisters for every A they’d make, and all you can remember was nights with no supper because of a B+. Though she was always so proper in public, every one her friends loved to have her and your sisters over. Never you though.
	Come the spring of ‘21 is where the fun began, you were two years into your law degree on spring break back home in Blackwater Creek. You and Pops were watching the T.V when the president had his brain splattered onto white house balcony. Two months later you joined up with the Wolverines and Poppa took himself and his five younger kids down to Alabama. Momma stayed at home, you don’t know why, but as far as you know she’s still there.
	It's the spring of ‘25 now, four years have passed since the troubles started, you hear that Texas is the center of the wider war effort, but you ain’t seen it, you ain’t heard it on the radio either. Last summer you became the last West Virginia Wolverine in this neck of the woods. The pack used to number fifty people in the five caves on the mountains around the valley. All but one are empty, and you haven’t got the heart to check the others.
	You see, summer of ‘24 just before everyone left the feddies tried to take this valley, and by extension the stretch of I-77 with it. Of the fifty Wolverines sixteen made it out without serious wounds, twelve more were on death's door, Ole’ Johnny Jackal’s guts were hanging out of his stomach, and Kevin Ganger wasn’t faring much better with the two dozen bullet holes in his chest. Jenny Hawkins wept over her husband and brother’s corpses that night, and Preacher Gary had the rest of us dig graves for the dead.
	It was after that fifteen headed south, thirty four went to heaven, and one stayed put. The bodies of the fed soldiers still sit in the valley, moved off the road one by one, all one hundred and sixteen. It was a good fight nonetheless, and ever since the Fed’s never came down the section of I-77 in any meaningful numbers.
	An hour passes at your hunting perch to no avail, just the occasional squirrel or songbird. There’s a somberness to the air, and maybe you should go to the other caves. Just to see if Preacher Gary missed anyone that night…
...right?
You slink your way around the mountains and through the valley, the fact that you’re wearing a frankenstein suit of salvaged feddy gear, what was your gear, and fresh vegetation does help with remaining undetected though.
The first of the four uninhabited caves has nothing but the wrong ammo and a crate of cans. Best left here you decide. As you work your way to the nest you can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching you. Which is odd because the only bit of you visible is your eyes from behind the wood-bark mask. The next cave has slightly more promise, some gauss and three suture kits, and best of all, five precious books.
	Remembering that feeling of being watched you carefully emerge from the cave prone, rifle ready scanning the opposite cliff. You click out your bipod and begin a more thorough search for your stalker. With your left hand you flip the safety of your pistol off. After some time of scrutinizing the opposing side of the valley you see fit to change positions. You’ve grown a careful man over these past few years, between your run in with 101st Airborne in winter of ‘23 and the loss of your fellow wolverines last summer you’ve grown very aware and very, very sneaky.
Between rotten logs, thick brush, and small boulders you remain visible for less than a second between covers, setting up, and scanning once more. You swear you catch the glimpse of a scope in the corner of your eye every now and again. Every twig that snaps under your foot gives you a small panic as you expect for the world to go black at any moment. You make it to the bottom of the valley unmolested by gunfire. As you sling your rifle over your shoulder to go through the storm drain going underneath I-77 the asphalt a foot from your face explodes. You dive into the drain. The air is knocked from your lungs as you slam against the concrete tube.You see dirt rise up in puffs from the bush by the entrance. If you’re lucky the feddy sniper thinks he’s nailed you instead.
	You emerge from the other end of the storm drain and scan over the cliffs for the sniper. Just as you prepare to move a single brass casing falls from the cliff above. You creep up the rocky bank a sliver more of the sniper coming into view with each step. You reach them just as they begin to search for another target. You set your rifle up pointed straight at the sniper, taking a good look at them. It’s clearly a female, a cougar based on the tail and facial patterns. You’re surprised she didn’t notice you as you approached.
“Bang”
	The feline female turns to you mortified.
“Please, don’t” She begs.
“You know the rules. Vest and belt off, hands out.” You say.
	You’d never actually taken a prisoner before, mainly because you’re a marksman and prefer long range engagements. While you’d become used to seeing people go up in red mist from a half mile away watching someone get torn in half at six feet with a shotgun slug is a bit harsh for your taste. So, you’d always kept a pair of handcuffs on you.
	The cougar sniper tosses you her belt and vest without a word and a forming tear in her eye.
“Alright, hands out lady” You say, slipping the handcuffs over her wrists and tightening them with a pleasant sounding click.
“What are you going to do to me?” She asks on the brink of tears.
“No idea, I’m the last of the Wolverines.” You say pushing her back towards the cave you call home.
“Wait really?!” She protests.
“Yes. Now get in the cave.” You say the adrenaline of the firefight slowly leveling off.
You tie the cougar up in what in the past would look like one hell of a night, but really it’s just practical to have her hands straight up. She squirms in her ropes but finds she can’t cut the ropes with her claws.
“Alright what’s your name miss.” You ask.
“Haley.” She says looking at the ground.
“Haley who.” You ask once more.
“Haley Shortclaw.” She says, now clearly nervous.
“Never heard of you.” You say.
“What?!” She says caught off guard once more.
“Look miss Shortclaw I promised to make sure not one damn feddy made it through this stretch of I-77. I am a man of my word.” You say.
	She just looks down at the ground, her hands still bound above her head. She’s breathing real heavy. It don’t matter, you got things to do. First on the list is take a bath. The cougar looks panicked as you drag out the bathing barrel. You begin to drop the layers of your provo ghillie suit, first are the shoulder sticks, then the leaf kilt and so on. Soon you’re stark raving naked and ready to bathe. The cougar looks a mix between horrified and shocked.
“Something wrong missy?” You demand.
“You’re a human?!” She stammers
“The hell else I’d be?” You respond.
“I dunno, an eagle or dragonfly or something.” She says.
	You roll your eyes and grab the bag of charcoal from it’s box. You walk across the cave to grab the heating pan only to see the cougar sniper again looking terrified.
“Something wrong?” You ask nonchalantly.
“Are you going to torture me or something?” She pleads.
“No” you snort
“Then what are you doing?” She says a hint of sass in your voice.
“A bath.”
“Then what?” She pleads.
“Probably make lunch.” You say offhandedly.
	You put the charcoal in the warming pan and slid it under the lifted barrel. You walk over to one of your cabinets and grab a mug and some of the hot cacao mix you’ve had since day one. Ten thousand packets at the start, now somewhere around six thousand. You get a pot and grab some of the water in you rainwater collector and set it over the fire. The cougar stares at you bitterly the entire time.
“Is something wrong Ms. Shortclaw?” You ask with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes. Yes there is Mountain Hunter. You have me strung up like a chick in bondage and you’re making COFFEE while preparing a BATH!” She snarls.
“What so wrong with that? And it's hot cocoa not coffee, you want any?” You say taken aback by the rudeness of her tone.
“You have killed well over a hundred trained soldiers, kept an entire interstate needed to fight the Seps in NC for months, ALONE, and you’re offering the only one who’s seen you and LIVED hot cocoa! See the problem?” She barks.
“Nope, consider it a badge of honor, the Airborne fella who saw me caught a slug to the chest from Jenkins.” You say remembering the cooky old possum.
“Wait a second Mountain Hunter, you’ve had a run in with the airborne, and survived?!” She shouts.
“Keep it down would ‘ya you’re giving me a headache, and yes, but only thanks to the other members of the pack. If it happened today I would probably be dead.” You say checking on the cocoa water.
	It's simmering.
“Lucky for you the last American airborne unit was wiped out two months ago.” She snarls.
“Really? Hadn’t heard about it.” You say swirling the brown powder in the bottom of your mug.
“No shit this region has been jammed since the winter.” She snaps.
“That explains why the radio stopped working.” You say entirely unphased.
“What did you think happened to it?” She asked.
“Figured it died, I live in a cave like the taliban after all.” You say still entirely plainly.
She whispers turskly “like the fucking taliban…” she says shaking her head.
“You know what? I’ve got some questions for you Ms. Shortclaw.” You say 
“And if I don’t answer?” She says sternly.
“No supper.” You say like Pops used to do when you came in the house with muddy shoes.
“You What do you think I am? A child?” She hisses.
Holy fuck shut up and let me go about my day woman.
“You’re certainly acting like one.” Is all you have left to say.
	You finished making your cocoa in peace, ignoring the ranting of the cougar woman. Note to self: Do NOT take prisoners. She finally stops making noise once your bath is ready and you strip down, but before you get in the barrel you check over the books to see if any are a good read. Ah, perfect, one of Lizzies afohm novels. Interesting.
The warm water is perfect, and the week’s worth of grime slides off with a pass of the hand, normally you wash in the creek with homemade soap but killing days are always bath days.
The first chapter of the book is like the setup of a hallmark movie; rich, dominant, human male with game weaker than fall leaves and a petite little fox girl with what seems to be so sheltered that “first time” to her applies to talking with men. The second is some chance meeting at a random function, you think it was a Chile’s lobby. It doesn’t matter she was across the dinner table from him in like three paragraphs.
	It plummets into smut from there. Not much to say, that shark girl was always a perv and when Ollie was still alive they were a good couple. Ollie. You almost forgot about him. Twice the man you ever were, the ideal american man, looked like a cross between Drew Brees and Superman and had a heart of gold. He died that fateful night, went down in a blaze of glory, two stolen M4 carbines with 100 round drums. He took what he served. Wasn’t much to bury, but you all knew he died before he hit the ground. You close the book and throw it onto the workbench to your left. You stare at the rocky ceiling of your home remembering all those good days before you became the last.
William would always puff up like a peacock whenever Hoover was trying to get in Cathy’s pants with his stuipid mating dance. Benny taught you everything there was to know about modifying firearms Nat seemed to revel in bloodshed, half-bear was something else off the battlefield. Shit. Andrew called that big girl mommy in the bedroom. If there was one person you missed most it would Greg, the wise-cracking cook and carbomber. He was like the older brother you never had, you’d hunt together, fish together, it was one of the main reasons you stayed here for so long.
So, why do you stay here? Texas is south of here. Greg is dead, buried at the top of this here mountain. Is it because you feel like the rest would’ve stayed and fought? Or is it because you don’t know anything else anymore? You wanted to be a lawyer, get rich, and make sure Pops could retire in peace while havin’ a family of your own. Now, what are you, a rebel sniper who’s killed all but one person who’s ever entered the valley. Alone.
You’re gonna keep fighting the good fight. No reason not to. Nothing else you can do. If anyone comes from the South you’ll make sure to let ‘em through. As the idea of someone to talk with seems so nice two words that that damned cougar comes to the forefront of your mind. “Mountain Hunter.”
“Hey missy, why the hell do you keep callin’ me “Mountain Hunter”?” You ask facing the top of the cave.
“That’s one of the names they’ve given you.” She says.
“What are the others?” You ask
“The Invisible Death, Reaper of 77, The Unconquered to name a few.” She says bitterly.
“The name is Francis, refer to me as such.” You say still lost in thought.
“Francis who?” She asks.
“Francis is all I care to go by.” You answer.
“Do you know how many people you’ve killed?” She demands.
“Nope, nor do I care to.” You say.
“Since this war’s start you and you cell have killed over seven hundred people.” She snaps
“And you DON’T CARE?!” She continues after taking a breath.
“The wolverines existed until last summer, only count the winter and now for me.” You say.
“YOU ALONE HAVE KILLED TWO HUNDRED PEOPLE!” She screams.
“And?” You say.
“How do you sleep at night?” She snarls
“You wiped out my company last summer, you didn’t even bury the dead, and every time it’s my company, every week we lose more and more.” She snaps.
“Okay, you act as if it was personal. Greg’s last words were to hold this valley, so I have, for two seasons. Your lot’s been the one sending people to die.”
“So the last words of terrorist spur you on.” She says disgusted.
That’s too far. You get out of the bath and walk over to the Cougar woman.
“What did you just say woman?” You bark.
“You. Are. Driven. By. A. Dead. Terrori-” Is all she can say before you slap her across the face.
“If you ever speak of Greg like that again I might not be so kind.” Is all you say before getting back in your bath.
She looks back at you with a tear in her eye and a look of disbelief.
	“Never hit a woman…” The words of your father fill your head. You silently argue with the voice of your father in your head. You know what you did was wrong, but disrespecting the dead like that, unforgivable. You glance over to the cougar who’s begun a silent sob. Good that bitch deserves it for what she said.
	You soon leave the bath, dry off with the ever thinning towel, and don your standard camo rather than your provo ghillie. You grab the cloth mask and put it on, determined to check the other caves. Before you leave you have one question for miss Haley.
“Are there anymore snipers out for me?” You ask, trying to hide your contempt.
“Like I’d tell you” She whimpers.
	You leave anyway, slinking between cover and going through the storm drain once more. You come to the last cave on the far side. Your heart sinks when you see what’s inside. It’s Gary, clear by the bible in one hand and his grandfather’s M16a2 in the other. He’s little more than a skeleton now. His ribcage has almost a dozen holes in it. At the entrance is a small pile of bandages once soaked in blood, the trail leading to his body, and pooling in the same reddish-brown of dried blood. You look around the cave, finding piles of paper where he wrote his bible studies down, three medical textbooks from Virginia Tech, and a small mountain of full feddy mags. One thing on his desk seems to make it so much worse. It’s a note. Addressed to you.
	“Hey Francis, if you’re reading this I’m already dead. Don’t worry about it though, I hear Heaven is pretty nice! If you’re wondering why I didn’t pass out during the funeral service it’s called PCP and morphine, Mary thought it would help with healing, but I know I’m not going to Texas with the rest of us. I’m writing this just after the funeral, I’m going to the creek one last time before I die. Either way, I know you and Greg were close, and I know you’re gonna stay here and fight even if we beg and plead with you to go, you’re stubborn like that. Best of luck being the last of the Wolverines. God bless, Godspeed, and may you never lose your faith (nor tenacity for that matter!). Farewell Francis, the night is beautiful isn’t it.”
	A tear rolls down you read that last line. It was a lovely night. That note was just like Gary, but the fact he knew you were going to stay cemented the fact that you have to stay. To the left side of the cave a shovel rests, dirt still on the spade. You take the shove and bang it against the wall of the cave sending a  few sparks flying. You grab the largest crucifix he has in the cave and nail it to an uncut length of firewood. With your knife you carve “Preacher Gary into it. You soon find a place suitable to bury a body by the creek Gary loved so much. Dig, dig, dig and stab. Soon an open grave and its headstone is ready. You gather Gary’s bones and place them one by one in the grave. You throw a fistful of dirt into the grave before filling it. You set your rifle down and say a lengthy prayer for Gary.
	With a warmer and heavy heart you make your way back to the cave to scrounge for resources. Little other than maybe a month’s worth of canned food. All of it but the books stay. You shoulder your rifle and carefully leave one last time. You once again go to your hunting perch hoping to see something, anything. All you find is a looming sense of dread.
	As you work your way back down the mountain you see an unarmored humvee parked on the side of a road with six men out of it and one on it’s 50 cal.
	You ready your rifle, lay low behind some cover and stick your gun through a bush to hide the flash.
CRACK.
The gunner’s head splits in two and in a moment of confusion one of the men shouts.
“FUCK YOU REAPER!” before he receives a round to the neck, killing him instantly.
The remaining five.
Crack
Crack
Crack
Two more are felled by you, one bleeding bad from his abdomend.
You fire once and a mystery sniper fires less than a second after you.
The motorized squad is dead, and you begin to slither from your cover. You wind your way down the mountain feeling something watching you closely. The gaze is broken once you enter your storm drain, you cross and jump into the little indent to the left of the exit, draw your pistol and wait.
A green head pops out, rifle barrel following a fraction of a second later.
“Who are you?” You demand at gunpoint.
“I’m a Sep soldier.” It says in a clearly feminie voice.
“That’s not who you are.” You say.
“My name is Vanessa.” She says.
“Jenkins?” You ask.
“Francis?” She asks.
“Yep.” You say.
You pull her from the storm drain.
“My cave’s up there, I have a prisoner at the moment.” You say pointing.
“A prisoner?” She asks with a snark.
“Yeah, a Feddy sniper with a vengeance.” You say.
“I gotta see this one.” She says, beginning to walk up the cliffside.
	You round the corner to enter the cave to see Vanessa inspecting the sniper like a horse at auction. Pulling back her lip to check her teeth, running a hand through her fur. She looks both curious and revolted”
“What have you done with her?” Vanessa demands.
“Slapped her once for disrespecting Greg.” You say bitterly.
“Huh, she looks like a rape victim. When’d you catch her?” Vanessa says.
“Maybe 10ish on the shadows.” You say.
“Odd, I though feddy snips were tough as nails.” Vanessa says.
“Apparently the last battle of the Wolverines wiped out her company” You say
“Makes sense then.” Vanessa shrugs.
“Well Haley you feeling better?” You ask.
“Fuck off Francis.” She barks.
“Wait, her name is Haley?” Vanessa says concerned.
“Yeah, Haley Shortclaw. Why?” You ask, now a little nervous.
“She’s been hunting Provos like you since ‘22, and you’re the one she has beef with.” Vanessa says with a smile.
“Why is that important?” You ask, taken aback Vanessa’s newfound cheerieness.
“She’s a feddy war hero, a hundred plus kills, and right now, the Reaper of I-77 has her in chains.” She says as if to mock Haley.
	Haley then reaches with her mouth to snap at Vanessa’s hand from her bound position, to which Vanessa quickly moves her hand from it. Haley glares at Vanessa, a look of pure unadulterated hatred on her face.
“I think this prisoner needs to be punished, Francis.” Vanessa says annoyed.
“Nothing permanent” You say.
“Fine” Vanesssa says, drawing her knife.
	She cuts the clothes off of Haley leaving her in nothing but panties and a bra. She then kicks the torn clothes into the fire. C’mon, you could’ve used that fabric. You have to admit Haley has a nice body, but you even looking at her makes her seem more embarrassed than angry.
“Speak of war heroes Francis, you’re one yourself.” She says with an almost angry smile.
“Really?” You ask hoping that to be a joke.
“Not at all, the last of the Wolverines joined up with the Free American Army around Labor Day, and we thought for sure that I-77 would be back in feddy hands. Six months later here you are, the last man standing.” She says as if interrogating me.
“It isn’t easy, I put an awful lot of effort into being entirely undetected.” You say proudly.
“Doesn’t change the fact that the Wolverines are leading the push up I-77 and their regimental song is about you.” She says.
“A song? Seriously? Greg, Ollie, and Nat were much better fighters.” You say renouncing the stupidity of being a warcry.
“~Oh how I wish to be up past Charleston, back where Francis hunts, where the valley swallows the roads and men! Francis, Francis Reaper of 77, been fighting alone since fall!~” Vanessa sings.
Haley snarls.
“You know that song Shortclaw?” She snarls at Haley
	When did Vanessa become so angry? She used to be sweet and tomboyish, not some kinda no-nonsense soldier. Even saying that you were a talkative type before ‘21, so you don’t really have a leg to stand on there. Still, this isn’t like her.
“Hey, Vanessa, when did you join up with the separatists?” You ask.
This seems to take her off guard as she seems to freeze up.
“I, uhh, joined in… uhh… November of ‘22… yeah November of ‘22. She stammers.
You draw your pistol.
“Liar.” Is all you say.
	The Texas based separatist army, or the Free American Army, started in May of ‘23, you remember the radio broadcast as they announced the liberation of New Mexico, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Louisiana, before then they were called the Texan Army, and they didn’t take outsiders. You remember this because Kyle and Bennet came back with a 55 gallon drum full of JD’s and all of you got good and drunk hearing the Texan Pledge of Allegiance followed by hours of Texan provo songs. 
	Vanessa glares at you. Her hand hovers over her sidearm. She knows if she tries anything her cold-blooded corpse will be the next on a long list of bodies.
“You know the rules.” You say trying to mask the feeling of betrayal with coldness.
She tosses you her belt and vest, then puts her hands out.
“Monster.” She whispers as you tie her hands.
“You aren’t the first to tell me that Vani.” You say coldly.
“Between the two of us, you were always a coward.” She whispers.
“A coward you can keep the feddies at bay.” You whisper back.
	Haley stares at you fearfully. As you chain up Vanessa ten feet away from her. You walk behind a curtain and into a small shrine to the Lord. Beside the statue of Jesus Christ is a cat-o-nine tails whip.
	You take your shirt off and grip the whip. “Remember, no flinching.” Your mind says in Gary’s voice. Twenty lashes, ten for weakness, ten for trusting. 
“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” You say as you swing.
*Whoothsch* goes the whip as it snaps against your back. You repeat it nineteen more times and walk back into the main cavern focused and calm. The sun is setting, it’s time to eat.
	You go back into one of the smaller chambers of the cave. Your meat storage room, salted hog carcasses hung by metal hooks, great links of sausage, and three deer made to jerky where they hang.
	You shave off about a pound of meat from one of the deer taking it with you back into the main chamber, just as you do Vani and Haley stop with some indecipherable whispering. It doesn’t matter the rope around their hands has a core of steel from an old winch. You toss the dry meat into the pot, and quickly add water and some greens and carrots.
	The dry meat disintegrates into little strands of muscle and fat. You pour the pot’s content into three bowls. One goes at the table, the others on the wooden cuffs of each of your prisoners. You eat in peace, neither girl making any noise. After you finish and clean up you start feeding each of the girls, their hateful glares are lost on you but they do not resist a single spoonful of the stew.
	You lessen the tension on the chains keeping them up letting them lie on the floor before you retreat into the deepest part of the cave. In the last chamber where light hath never shone is a sleeping bag and a blanket of sheep hide. You stare into the blackness feeling betrayed, angry, and confused. You wonder why there was a motorized squad outside your cave, and why did it look like it was due south? No matter, perhaps Vani had spoken nothing but lies, but if the FAA is really up near Charlestown your service as a Provo sniper might soon be over.
	You dream of the next life, a farm in flat land surrounded by woods, a creek running through that’s jumping with fish, beside you is a faceless woman, and the vague feeling of watching invisible children play. Despite the eeriness of it all it seems desirable, homely even. You walk into the woods and a feeling of guilt washes over you. There are faces in the trees, all vaguely familiar, all in a shocked or pained state. You come to a pile of steel casings. An unreadable text is on them. It hits you. They’re names. The faces turn to face you and start to scream.
“KILLER”
“MURDERER”
“TERRORIST”
“REAPER”
All on repeat.
You wake in a cold sweat drenched from head to toe. You leave your chamber to hear gunfire in the distance. Haley and Vani are huddled behind one of the workbenches. You quickly don your fatigue and belt. In a minute you’re on the shooting platform. 
BOOM
The noise rocks you and you scramble to see what it was. A tank model you’ve never seen before is driving up your valley due north. You begin to fire towards whatever forces are due south and can be seen under the full moon.
“WE’RE IN THE VALLEY OF THE REAPER MEN!” Shouts an officer.
	The men cheer and seem to fight with increased vigor. You shoot what you can, but the constant clap of machine gun fire keeps you from fully focusing. A red flare is shot up from the south and the sound of distant guns fills the air. The world goes silent for a moment as the road north goes up in fire. You feel the heat of the blast on your face before the shockwave hits.
The war has passed you by.
You hear the officer from before shout again. “MAKE CAMP MEN, WE’LL PUSH TO RAVENSWOOD.”
You don’t leave your point all night. Come morning you make your way down in full garb. Flak jacket, camo fatigues, cloth head covering. You stand before the officer’s tent and wait.
He emerges and falls to his rear. “A-are you the Reaper of 77? He asks panickedly.
“I suppose some call me that.” You answer, carefully examining the man.
	He’s tall, but rather lanky. He seems to be healthy with the exception of the multitude of scars across his face and forearms. Above that he’s an older white fellow, maybe younger fifties and tanned bronze.
“Tell me about the war, and the West Virginia Wolverines.” You ask.
	You help the man up. He seems rather dazed by the whole exchange. You take the man to your cave, sit him down and get some sausage from storage. The good stuff. Half venison half pork. Vani and Haley are hiding themselves from his view and he hasn’t seemed to notice the chains. You fry them without a word the sizzling of the sausages breaking the silence.
	You serve them on a wooden plate, a rare sight in the cave since the Wolverines left. The officer still seems taken aback.
“What is your name Mister?” You ask.
“Marlin Thompson, but most people call me the Buffalo Bull.” He says.
“Why is that?” You ask.
He tilts his head, his emerald eyes piercing more than an owls.
“You haven’t heard?” He says.
“They’ve jammed my radio since the summer.” You answer.
“I lead the Lafayette Legion from the front, almost as famous as you are Reaper.” He says.
“My name is Francis, I wasn’t aware I had a nickname until yesterday.” You explain.
“I suppose that makes sense, the Hermit Hellfighters along I-64 didn’t know about their name either.” He explains. “So, what’s fighting been like here?” He asks.
“It was pretty fun until last summer when-”
“The wolverines met Sniper Shortclaw right?” He interrupts.
“No, they sent a full company during the night and we fought hard, 34 died, 15 left, and one stayed put. And speaking of Shortclaw, come on out missy.” You growl.
	Haley and Vani emerge from behind the workbench, Vani embarrassed and Haley livid. Mr. Buffalo’s jaw drops as he sees them bound.
“When did you catch Shortclaw and Vani?” He says excitedly.
“Yesterday.” You say blankly.
“I’m surprised you survived both of ‘em no man’s ever done that.” He says giddily.
“Is that so?” You leer at the both of them.
“I gotta get back to my brigade and tell ‘em this is gonna shatter the fud morale.” He says stuffing his face before running off.
	A short while passes before Buffalo shouts “WAKEY WAKEY MEN I GOT NEWS!”. In an instant  around two hundred fully armed and equipped men emerge from tents, foxholes, the storm drain, tanks, and APCs. How a man from Louisiana got his hands on such things is beyond you but beside the point. He begins to excitedly shout “SHORTCLAW AND VANI ARE THREATS NO MORE!” His men cheer as if hearing their favorite NFL team got the first draft pick. Buffalo continues “BETTER STILL IT WAS THE REAPER WHO CAUGHT ‘EM. THAT’S RIGHT CAUGHT, NOT KILLED LIKE ANY SANE MAN.” His men go into what best can be described as a euphoric mix of dancing and singing. As you emerge to watch over the seeming festivites one of his men points at you “Look bro it’s the REAPER!”.
	Thank the Lord you were wearing your mask otherwise you’d be redder than a summer tomato. The men in the valley begin to sing a new song.

“Oh up by Ravenswood is where I want to be! 
Down in the valley with the Reaper you see. 
Two hundred feddies have entered that valley and not one has come out Alive.
 He’s to who all good provos strive!

So if you're a feddie, and on 77!
Prepare to be sent to Heaven.

With a rifle and mask he’ll kill ya so fast.
“Who killed me” is a question you’ll ask.
When standing just before the gates.
With a sigh and wave Gabriel will say
It was the Reaper of I-77.
Now get into Heaven before I count to eleven

He’s been fightin’ for longer than the Witch was in power.
Because causes grown men to cower
‘He got the name the Reaper of 77

So take me down to Ravenswood!
I’d fight beside him if I could!
Because of that Man
I’ll fight where I can 

From Amish Abe and his bloody spade
To Houston’s .50 Cal Saul
There is not one
And I mean None
Provo with a deadlier gun!