An Anarchy Christmas

       Soft rustling filled Cameron’s ears as he pulled the whetstone along the blade of his knife. The sun was just setting and he wanted to be prepared in case stragglers decided to meddle with his camp to steal his supplies while he slept. After awhile of sharpening the blade, he licked the edge to test the sharpness. A pinprick of pain told him that it would adequately sever a head and he placed the knife under his pillow. One last look around told him that he should be safe for awhile before any stragglers found his camp. He scuffed out the fire he had used to cook his dinner so it wouldn’t give away his location and lay down on his bedroll. Mentally, he recorded the 147th day of his traveling after North Korean radicals had attacked the government and plunged the United States into darkness. Not quite the end of the world, but the end of the world as every American had known it.
        Cameron was traveling to the capitol of a rebellion. When the radicals had taken over, they had captured every man and woman capable of putting up a resistance and put them into what were mostly concentration camps, built to make the Americans shift over to the radical’s side. Groups of people banded together to form escape attempts, but only one concentration camp had been completely overrun by rebels. That camp was in Texas, and there was no way to get there other than by walking. For others, the hostile takeover had driven hordes of people crazy, and they now roamed the land as stragglers, stealing supplies from travelers headed to the rebellion’s capitol.
       Before falling asleep, Cameron thought back on the day of his capture. It had been Christmas day and he had just woken up to the sound of his mom and sisters caroling outside his door.
       Suddenly, the words of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” turned into bloodcurdling screams. The door to his room crashed down to reveal two armed foreigners pointing guns at him and shouting at him in bad English to get out of bed and put his hands behind his head.
       Slowly, Cameron stood up and held up his hands. Things happened so fast and he was still groggy from sleep, rendering him useless to resist. He remembered of what had happened other than the last glimpse he had of his family. Both his mother and oldest sister were on her knees with her hands behind her head. The looks of desperation and the streams of blood running down their faces made his own blood boil, but the guns pointed at his chest and the back of his head ruined any prospects of defeating the enemy for a man with no fighting experience and a dizzy head. ‘Mom… Kristen… What’s going on? Where’s Cassie?’ He looked around slowly, trying to ignore the muzzle of a shotgun poking his head every time he moved.
       The two Koreans led Cameron through the living room, where a third foreigner was standing by a young woman, who had struggled desperately. However, the struggle hadn’t lasted long and she was now lying on the ground with blood matting the hair on the back of her head.
       “Cassie!” Cameron lunged forward, brushing aside one of the foreigners. Before he could reach his sister, the third man punched him in the jaw, throwing him to the side.  Just as Cameron was about to attack back, a shot rang out and pain exploded in his shoulder.
       The last thing Cameron heard was the sound of gunshots coming from the house as he was shoved into the outstretched arms of men and woman grasping for freedom from the back of a van. He never found out just what the gunshots were, but he never stopped wondering. No matter what he said or how he acted, he loved his family, and they meant more to him than anything, especially now in this god-forsaken time. Ever since being sprung from the concentration camp by a group of rebels, he had been traveling almost nonstop other than to sleep. Revenge was set deep in his heart, and nothing was going to stop him from finding out what had happened to his friends and family, especially those who were liable to have resisted, which included Cassie. They were liable to be either dead or in a concentration camp somewhere, most likely thousands of miles away. As for the ones that hadn’t resisted, they were probably relatively safe at home, living an oppressed life under a corrupt dictator.
       Clearing his head of the thoughts clouding his mind, Cameron exhaled a deep breath and tried to relax and get some sleep. Just as he was about to drift off, scratching sounds came from where his backpack was sitting next to a large rock. Moving slowly, he grasped the handle of his knife, keeping his eyes closed to make the illusion that he was still asleep. Footsteps sounded out, coming closer to Cameron. When whatever it was stopped next to him, Cameron lunged forward and knocked a human being to the ground, then held his knife to his or her throat.
       “Wait, the mockingbird flies during blue hours in a purple sky,” a feminine voice made Cameron stop and stand up. That strange sentence was the phrase the rebellion used to identify members to each other.
       “Who are you? Why did you go through my backpack?” Cameron had to ask, even though he already knew. By the light of the stars, he recognized a bush of reddish, curly hair and a small nose, freckled from overexposure to the sun.
       A confident grin met his gaze. “Well, I was checking for identification to prove that you are a rebel. I myself was just sprung from the Mississippi camp, and I’m on my way to Texas. As for my name, you should already know that. Right, Cameron?”