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“I don’t care; I like the heat,” she said.“Me too, I’m an old desert rat from way back when,” I said. “I used to dream about the heat when I was in prison; it was always so cold in there. Part of our punishment, I guess.”“Hmm,” she said.I noticed a small group of young people: a couple of kindergartners or maybe first graders and an older girl. Siblings, I supposed. I had a thought, a random thought.“Marian, see those kids over there?” I said. She looked to where I was nodding.“Yes, the. If you can't then gather up as much food as you can and any extra stuff like clothing and bedding and get back here as soon as you can."I then turned to Vicky who had just walked up to me from climbing down from the ridge. With a quick word to her, I tasked her to collect all the weapons that the Turtle soldiers had been using. I also asked her to grab a couple of Cro-Magnon women and get them to help her dump the carcasses of Buktohesh and the Turtle soldiers into the pit that they'd been. They were what you would expect for somebody stupid enough to get hit by a jeep in the dead of night: bone fractures, massive internal bleeding, even a concussion.A concussion... that would be something that happened to my head. Could this have caused my mysterious power? It could very well be so.Cool reasoning told me that I was probably heading up a blind alley. After all, a concussion would more or less damage my brain; the odds of it activating some unknown power were astronomical.I knew,. I took a breath and flipped it over. I crumbled to my knees as I was faced with the reality of the picture. My mother was lying on the floor, in a pool of blood with her katana and wakizashi laying next to her. She had three bullet wounds in her chest and one in the center of her head. Under the caption were the words, ‘Is this your famed Akita?’ I don’t know why, but I didn’t cry. I just knelt there, staring at the photograph. Anger filled me. Anger at the world. Anger toward the people who.
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