Today is the second Sunday since the escape, and maybe, just maybe they'll make it past the lake. The three figures huddled down low by the edge of the thick woodland look like a part of the landscape as much as the pebbles scattered about the waterline of the dark imposing lake. The country of the fortunate, the revolutionary folk. They only have themselves to thank for the predicament they found themselves in. Their ideological thoughts on the brink of destruction. The old man can hear the young comrade slowly wiping his sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans, just hearing the doubt in these actions makes him break out in a cold sweat.
"How much longer would they have to run?"
"Would they stop only when confronted with the barrel of a gun?"
"Would they have to kill again?"
The involuntary act for survival was to repeat itself sooner than he had hoped for. Hours from then, though none but one of the men had even the slightest inclination for it. The planner did, he planned on murder the day his father abandoned his mother to fend for herself and her children, with no roof over their heads and nothing to eat, his affinity for murder only increased further when the weaker siblings passed away in the winter famine, when all they had to survive on were the remnants of whatever he managed to snatch away from the mouths of wild dogs, carcasses. His hate kept him alive as his mother grew weaker by the day. His bleak outlook on life changed for the better when he made the acquaintance of the kind grey haired old man, but his thirst for murder did not. He needed to punish someone for the cold hardness of his life.
The bivouac across the lake, the only remaining obstacle in the way of their escape is illuminated by the light of the campfire, voices carry across, they sound jubilant and sing drunkenly of the past. Shortly before their escape news had reached them of an increase in rations, the first in years. It seemed to the old man that the increase was being put to use tonight. Several voices have now began to shout, the singing has stopped, shadows move in the light of the fire. Seemingly a fight has broken out, and the harsh voices grow louder.
Suddenly a shot rings out across the darkened lake. The young comrade jumps up and runs, merely a child, only along for the ride, wanting to get away from the wastage, death and decay of the old city. As the next bullet flies past his shoulder, the young boy looks up to the sky as if in prayer. He doesn't hear the last shot before the bullet makes it's destructive path through the back of his head.
"Victory!" Shouts the runninng gunman as he lifts the rifle high above his head. When he reaches the edge of the lake starts to walk over slowly, one eye on the woodlands, each step made with careful precision, his shoulders tensed. When he reaches the boy, he relaxes, realising that no one else is around. His thick moustache quivers as be bends down over the boy. His nose red with the cold and his breath visible in the night sky reeking of booze sweeps over the child's body. Turning the body over he seacrches the pockets of the overcoat, then the pockets of the jeans, looking visibly disappointed. Taking one last look he spits over his shoulder and mutters the word "filth" under his breath.
As he gets up he uses the butt of his rifle to steady himself, he winces when he transfers the weight from the rifle back to his left foot. This is enough for the planner, the shooter's fate has been decided, betrayed by his weakness.
The planner looks to the old man and sees him shaking with his face buried in his hands, he wants to say something comforting, something like "he is better off now" but with his mind too preoccupied with his new found advantage his face hardens and he suddenly finds his last remaining friend nothing but a burden.
