The battlefield was not the place for the single soldier. Though television and Hollywood liked to portray individual super-soldiers wading chest-deep through hordes of archetypical communists and terrorists, the real world was hardly so forgiving. Unit tactics and cohesion won battle. Not individuals with panache for shooting. Torsten thumbed back the heavy hammer on the Sharps. He had, to be truthful, not necessarily prepared for this eventuality. He had figured the city was too far from the Amish community for them to be harassed this early. 

Though the growing afternoon was chilly, the Finn was already sweating. How many years had it been since he felt this stress? He licked his lips, half-listening to Allison while his head worked to look all around them. He tried to smile at the woman, “I’m sure everything is okay, but we must assume it is not. Yes? Yes. Please, just sit here for a moment. Do you see that barn?” He asked her, pointing to the one directly ahead of them. Its broadside was towards them. “Once I’m there, I will wave you towards me. We will move into the village from that barn. No problems.”

He did not exactly believe what he said. His eyes turned to the sky. Fire could have driven the Amish to a farm they couldn’t see, but no columns of smoke rose up into the blue skies. 

Torsten stood, wasting no time to sprint out of the woods. For such a large man, he was a capable sprinter. He held his rifle in his right hand, making a beeline for the barn. Feet from it, he dropped, so that he slid the rest of the way, kicking up dirt and dust around him. Just as quickly as he was there, he was peering around the edge of the rifle down a neat row of farmhouses in the distance. After making quite sure that the position was safe, he waved Allison on. 

He turned, so that he was facing Allison as she began her trek across the field. That’s when a blood-curdling scream pierced the countryside. It continued on for what seemed like an eternity, wailing higher and higher, until stopping into a gurgling sob. Torsten was already scrambling out from beside the barn. He could see nothing from his position – the narrow dirt lane that wound down the center of the village was empty.

Until a woman came bursting out of the church eight hundred yards away. One would have to have the eyes of a hawk in order to see her. She wore what appeared to be a red dress, stumbling down the stairs of the holy building, while turning to look at three men who came out of the double-doors behind her. 

They were obviously not Amish. They wore orange jump suits, though it was difficult to tell from the distance. She was running from the men, who were happy to simply stroll after her. Nobody from within the town raised a finger to help her. Doors and windows were barred. 

Torsten took a knee next to the barn. It was raised slightly upon a hill from the rest of the town, which bowed into a valley. The church itself sat higher up on a hill much like the barn. [i]” Pelkureita. Vitun pelkurit,”[/i] Torsten hissed. He rested his left elbow upon his knee, while his left hand stabilized the barrel of the heavy rifle. He rested the butt of his rifle against his shoulder, peering down the rear Creedmoor sight.