My Dearest Samantha,

 I write today because there is something I must say to you.  I found this typewriter in an office on what looks like an old military complex or base.  Like most all of the non-computerized classics, it still functions, the sealed ink ribbons are useable and this parchment has survived.




 I suppose I could have used charcoal, but this will give me a chance to really put all my thoughts down quickly.  I haven't all day to wallow about!




 Words will never be enough for me to tell you how sorry I am.  I have carried this sorrow, regret and remorse with me everyday of these past twenty-five years.  It's gnawed at me and haunted my dreams.

 Of all the things we've talked about; the good times we've shared and the harsh times we have endured.  This was something I could just never bring myself to talk to you about.  There was an arguement between a group of survivors.  



 December. 

 2014. 



 Supplies were bitterly fought over in those days.  Not everything had spoiled or been looted yet.

 The fight got more and more intense.  There was a lot of yelling, but I was having a hard time understanding what the gist of the back and forth was.  I watched until one man put a gun to a girl of nine or ten years old head; then a woman put a knife to her throat.  There was no conscious decision for me.  I hardly even felt the recoil of my rifle.  It was my trusty little .22, but from fifty yards, it could spoil a mans day.  

 The woman looked horrified and confused as the man toppled away from the child grasping at his throat.  I worked the bolt of my rifle as she screamed and grabbed the child.  The others in the group, three men and a woman all stood stock still, mouths agape.  A suppressed .22 makes a sound like spit quietly hitting cement.

 I lined up my next trigger pull and my little friend spat once more.  The lady collapsed; my bullet actually severing her spinal column.  The child crawled into her arms and began crying.  I chambered another round.



 I just can't abide children being mistreated.



 Well, after the shock, greed, lust wore off or just plain stupidity kicked in, the others still there called out to me.

 "WE KNOW YOUR'E STILL THERE!"  One of the men yelled as he  turned in a circle.  "CAN YOU HEAR ME?"  A grim smirk crossed my face.  I shot a can on the ground near his feet.  The look on his face was almost worth any price!  "WE JUST WANT TO TALK, GODDAMMIT!!"  He shook miserably after seeing the can skitter away.  

 I climbed out of the car trunk I had been planning to spend the day in and leveled my rifle at his face before I replied.  "So," I paused, "Talk."

 "Look, mister," he was visibly distraught, "We been following them for days!"  I must have looked as confused as I felt because the others nodded.

 "DAYS!" one of the others emphasized for him.

 "Yeah, so, we want her when you're done." The first guy finished.

 That was the moment I felt sick to my stomach.  I knew then what had happened.  The child's parents were trying to keep their daughter out of these sickos hands.


 And... I had killed them.


 Before I had a chance to think; my hands went on automatic.  My rifle fell gently from them.  Then those well trained hands of mine began queuing up a cacophony of death. 

 The motions were so well practiced and ingrained with me that I had unholstered, taken the safety off, wrapped both hands around the grip and started lining up the sights while squeezing the trigger of my pistol before I consciously felt the .22 slap my chest.



 Boom-Boom. Boom-Boom. Boom-Boom. Boom-Boom.  



 A quick staccato heartbeat.  Left to Right.  Two bullets aimed for the hearts of the family's attackers.  



 Boom. Boom.  



 The closest two of the four were halfway to the ground when the deadly muzzle swung back from right to left, adding a third bullet to the face of those whose had not yet had time to fall from the chest wounds.



 Click. Snick. Snick. Click. 



 It took more time for me to realize I had killed all four and put a new magazine in the Beretta than it did for me to actually pull the trigger.  I didn't bat an eye at the thought.  The world was full of scum.  What they thought I wanted and what they wanted afterwards was of no consequence to me.



 The child was still in her mother's arms.  Tears had washed streaks out of the blood and down her cheek bones but she was staring at me.  No longer crying just sniffling.  I walked towards her but stopped short.

 "Are you okay?" I asked her.  She nodded.  

 "What's your name?"

 "They were gonna eat me," she pointed at the corpses behind me.  "Mommy and Daddy weren't going to let that happen."  She started crying again.  "They're dead now."  It was said as almost a whisper followed by an even more quiet, "Are you going to eat me?"

 "No," I shook my head, "I've got plenty of food and you can have some if you're hungry."  Her eyes got wide.  "But you have to tell me your name first."



    "Samantha."  



    You looked down as a light rain began to fall on your face.  I gave you a biscuit, you almost swallowed it whole.  The rain got us both a bit soggy, but I had you back to camp before it was too bad.  There was one good thing about the rain; it washed away the blood.



                        -----------



 I'm sorry I couldn't tell you in person.  We got ambushed trying to get into the hospital for supplies.  Ben's fine, I'll be sending this letter to you with him.



 I hope you can forgive me someday.