THE INTERIOR OF THE van was cool, yet Trisha couldn’t stop sweating.

They had been preparing for this day for over three months. She, along with her brothers and sisters in arms, rode toward their destiny inside a customized panel van. Three vans in all. Each one holding seven of the dedicated, if you didn’t count the drivers. And she didn’t. After all, they wouldn’t be doing any of the actual fighting.

She and her fellow Prawn sat on benches that had been bolted to the floor and ran the length of both sides of the cargo area. She clutched at her rifle, her knuckles going white. She could do this, it was what she was meant to do.

“Nervous?” The Prawn next to her asked. His name was Rick. The two of them had gone through training together.

“A little, yeah,” she replied. “You?”

“Are you kidding me?” Rick said. “Of course I’m nervous. I mean, this is it, isn’t it? What we’ve been training for.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

The van rocked slightly as they hit a pot hole, or other such common road obstruction.

“We can do this, though, right?” Rick asked. She could see the strain around his eyes. He too held a firm grip on his rifle, his knuckles whiter than hers, if that was even possible.

“Darn right,” she said, sounding more confident then she felt.


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