VAUGHN SHOOK HIS HEAD again while slouching upon a stump in the middle of the woods in what used to be the southern United States. When they’d fled, almost a year ago last spring, the complications of the word 'freedom' as they now manifested were unimaginable. Burying his head in his hands and rubbing his eyes could not remove the oppressive weight from his mind. Neither was there respite from the aching in his heart, or the eternal flame that burned to be with Stephanie. Freedom, he thought, is a lot more than just crossing a border. Yet running for both their lives, for all the poor people who followed him, did not allow any deeper consideration of freedom, than merely finding a place where they wouldn’t immediately be murdered. Unfortunately, now their fate had become apparent to Vaughn as he assessed what one year of freedom had gained them. There’s also a slow death, just as sure as the quick one. One year of their so-called freedom had not produced anything of hope, but only brought them closer to disaster. Vaughn had grown a full two inches this last year, and was sure there wasn’t a muscle on his body that hadn’t been conditioned, reconditioned, then somehow given automatic-battle thought. However, his physical preparedness could not ease Vaughn’s foreboding. Jargono’s impeding invasion, the earth-demons’ maturation and undoubted reproduction, and the eventual unnamed punishment from the theocratic Christian government to which they now owed their meager, continued freedom, all these were knots in his gut. . . .