There is a small grey wooden house on the side of a dirt road. The house number is 73 Edgemire Road, and the old man that lived there is dead. No one knows he is dead. His wife had died ten years ago, and he had no friends, family or children. The only people that knew he was alive was a store clerk in the town three miles from there, and an old widowed lady that used to watch him from her rocking chair when he went into the store where the clerk works. No one will miss him. And he knew too much.

He didn't just die from a heart attack. He didn't die from some bacterial disease that he picked up in the permanently damp house. His old rusted red ford pick-up truck didn't get stuck in a ditch, and he didn't die of starvation. He died from three bullets: one to the heart, one to the stomach and one to the head. Once the old man was shot, he was dragged onto a tarp on the back porch, where his throat was slit and his body drained of blood. The body was dragged out to a hole in the woods where the foxes and wolves would eat him as his decomposing body lured them in. the blood was put into buckets, and put in the iron ice bucket, where it froze into solid blocks. Three sets of hands then cleaned up the bloody floor, rinsed the tarp, and cleaned the house. They spent one week fixing it so the wind no longer stole in through the uneven door, and so water didn't leak from the roof when it rained. The wrought iron beds in the three rooms in the house were made up in faded sheets, and the paisley print rug was dragged in front of the fire place. The chimney was swept, and wood collected, and soon there was a roaring fire in the stone fire place. Two others had gone out and killed a deer.

The skin was lain out over a clothes line, while the intestines and organs were put in a bucket and placed in the ice box. The rest of the deer was butchered by the sixth person, and the bones were cut up and placed in a pot of boiling water, so the marrow would seep out. Vegetables and stale bread were gathered from the cupboards and placed in the marrow broth. The partially cooked deer leg was added last, and they let it simmer. The sharpened their knives, tightened the strings on their bows, made more arrows, and polished their guns. The silencer was polished until it gleamed like a diamond. In total, there were six children, and they didn't care that they were living in a dead man's house; a man whom they murdered. They didn't care that they had stored his blood and left his body for the animals. It was in their nature. They were runaways, and they were determined to survive. But this old man wasn't just some innocent victim. He was the reason why they were on this earth.

He was not their father, but he was their creator. They were his creations that had survived the event that was supposed to kill them all off. Out of one hundred, twelve survived. Six remained as a group on one side of the world, while the other six had retreated to an uncharted island off the coast of Africa to hide. To these six, the islands six were cowards; they were the ones that survived by luck, and by using them as their protection. After their current mission, they planned to find and kill the island six. They planned to either kill them, or take them with them. Unfortunately, the latter seemed unlikely.