He is weakend,cripled at the soul.His fate and hope seem to both fade with his terminal existance.Isolation from society extinguishes improbable rescue. But he likes it that way.Its better that way.The enemy is at his front door, with power of a super storm. Alone and afraid. Distraught by the death of his fellow comrades.Pleading inside for help but cannot yeild his pride within. Suffering in silence he remains tall. Imposing a blood thirst that connot be quenched with the fire of revenge that refuses to subside. The storm arrives and he is ill prepared. Pellets of sleet slam his chest. His powerful but weakened knees begin to buckle. To retreat is not an option. Unitill his final breath he faught, not untill the final blast of his rifle. He was reunited with his loving comrades.
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