Heathens..
In the dark Montana winter of ´32, whoever will fire the last shots will tell those who will listen who the heathens, insurgents or race traitors were.
From your position on the second floor of the house you are sheltering in you see the wind pick up again, blowing drifts of snow like waves in the streets of what used to be suburbia. Seems like it was a nice neighborhoood back then, with well kept lawns and double carports with basketball hoops.
Now, raccoons have taken the place of football moms and dads with pickups. Gardens have become little patches of forest spilling into the streets, gradually breaking up the tarmac.
In the distance, a few shots break through the whistling of the wind.
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