Sean survived boot camp and he loved every minute of it. He was a good soldier, in fact one of the best in the whole platoon. The competitive fire that was always on the back burner during his dull, meandering years in high school was suddenly and inexplicably lit. Sean wanted to be the very best in every facet of the Corps, and he nearly was. It was his ability to excel at every aspect of basic training that brought him to the attention of his superiors. It was his superiors who believed they had found the perfect Marine for the perfect job, and they assumed they could use and control him to satisfy their own whims.
They were wrong.
He left the Corps with a dishonorable discharge and it was here, in one of the greatest military institutions ever conceived, the seeds of doubt were sown in him forever about what the government, or any authority for that matter, has to say.
After the Marines, he returned home to Chicago and registered at DePaul University for fall classes. He figured with a dishonorable discharge on his record, however unjustified it might have been, a college degree would be an absolute necessity if he wanted to succeed in life. He obtained dual degrees in both history and political science, completing his undergraduate studies in only three years.
Sean came under the influence of Dr. Rosenstein early and often, enrolling in several of his courses each year. He learned from Rosenstein, while at the same time Rosenstein learned from him. They developed a relationship unlike that of teacher and pupil, but rather one of friendship. They enjoyed constant, late-night bull sessions about everything involving the government and everything else that did not. Eventually, with a wholehearted trust Sean believed the man deserved, he revealed to Rosenstein what had been asked of him by his superiors, and his refusal to do so that caused him to be dismissed in shame.
Indeed, Sean knows what it means to be a soldier, to release a certain degree of control over one's own thoughts and actions. He is fully aware how easily a soldier's morals can be trampled in the process. He also knows he never wants to have that helpless feeling again. Sean stares at the figures storming their way up the beach and he knows what kind of men they are: the kind who he had once been.
They move and look like professional soldiers, but any amateur watching them could arrive at such an obvious conclusion. It is the little things Sean notices that tip him off. Specifically, their ability to generate absolutely no sound as they creep along the beach. They move like ghosts, phantoms, nearly unseen in the darkness. They do not require hand signals or walkie-talkies because they know and can predict each other's movements. These soldiers have worked together before, perhaps hundreds of times. They all possess laser targeting on their automatics, but the tiny red dots are not illuminated like in the movies. These men are not about to let their enemy know they are coming.
Sean suddenly realizes, with a sinking feeling and a knot in his stomach cinching tighter by the second, that he may be their lone enemy tonight.
He tries to devise his next move, but he is unable to construct a coherent plan of action in his mind. His brain feels cloudy, like he is trapped in a bad dream, making it difficult for him to think clearly or even rationally.
The soldiers gather steam as they approach the sidewalk separating the beach from the cottages. Their boots shuffle over the concrete sidewalk and finally, they reach the first row of cottages. In groups of three or four, they begin to enter these beachfront homes.
The group of soldiers from the last helicopter moves directly towards the cottage he is hiding under. He waits anxiously for a moment, holding his breath in his throat, terrified they spotted him dive below the cottage. He fears they will haul him out from beneath the porch and whisk him away without an explanation, unconcerned that he may have a few questions of his own.
The soldiers are practically on top of him now, no more than fifteen feet away. They point their weapons in his direction when suddenly, they veer up the cottage's front stairs and quickly traverse them, the loud pounding of their boots on the wood above him rumbling in his ears.
Sean lets out the shortest of sighs.
He watches distressingly as the soldiers begin razing the cottages next door: banging down doors, knocking shutters off their hinges, busting windows. He hears crashing glass and heavy thuds as the men move above him in what sounds like a tango with an elephant. Each cottage appears to be receiving a deluxe redesign.
The soldiers seem to be searching for something or someone, but what or whom? Are they looking for…survivors?
The word courses through his body like an electric shock.
Is that what I am? A survivor?
Immediately, what he has survived and why are questions that begin to pinball around inside his head.
Do the soldiers know I survived? Is that who they are looking for? For me?
Sean compels himself to drop all the guesswork and devise a plan to blow this scene as quickly and quietly as possible without alerting the GI Joes. Approximately a hundred yards south of his present location is a path leading into the woods, which should afford Sean a comfortable security blanket until he can determine where he needs to go. There are miles of woodlands, nearly all the way to Saugatuck, a town around 25 miles south of Tamawaca. The woods would provide cover and possibly shelter if he is forced to hole up for the night. It seems to be his best option at the moment.
The problem lies in reaching the path without being seen. Streetlamps dot the sidewalk at various intervals along the beach, supplying more than enough light for him to be spotted. Sean decides it is a risk he is willing to accept.
The soldiers appear to be rapidly working their way from the beachfront cottages to the cottages further inland. He will simply have to ally himself with the shadows, which should offer a small measure of camouflage, until he can reach the path. His best chance is now, before they return to their helicopters.
Sean starts to ease out from underneath the porch when he suddenly stops. A lone figure casually ambles up the beach, dressed like the other soldiers, but different in a way. If Sean has to guess, this is probably the man in charge. He does not carry an automatic weapon like the other soldiers, only a Colt pistol with a pearl-colored grip in a holster at his side. The man's nonchalant demeanor suggests the utmost and supreme confidence in his leadership and that everything, despite appearances to the contrary, is under control.
The man arrives at the sidewalk and strides purposefully towards something. Sean cranes his neck around the side of the porch to watch, coming dangerously close to exposing his head to the light from a streetlamp. The man bends down at the foot of Abraham's overturned wheelchair and grabs an object from the back pocket. Sean notices the object is not much larger than a cigarette pack as the man straightens up and continues walking towards the back row of cottages.
Sean thinks momentarily about Abraham and whether the man upon whom so many legends and rumors are based played a role in the drama unfolding here tonight. The coincidence seems uncanny.
There is no time to think about that right now, however. Sean needs to exit this scene and do it fast. He glances around to determine if the coast is clear to find no soldiers or their shadows lurking about. He immediately starts sprinting towards the path.
His arms pumping and his legs running full stride, Sean is a Marine again: back in boot camp, negotiating the obstacle course. He feels like he can fly, as if he is running on air. He is going to reach the path. Sean has shelved his strategy of cautiously moving within the shadows and agrees with the great mathematicians that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.
He is twenty yards away, fifteen, ten, and then…
Whack!!
Sean is leveled by the opposing team's