The door swung open, letting a burst of cold air into the flaming limo. Firm hands darted in and wrapped around Andrew. Fire licked at the left side of his body, and at the age of nine, he wondered why it didn’t hurt more. Gunfire exploded all around him, along with the whoosh of molotov cocktails crashing over the streets.
“I got ya,” a gruff voice said in Andrew’s ear. “You’re gonna be safe.”
“Mom,” Andrew wheezed. He reached for the limo, desperate to get his mother before fire engulfed the entire car. People were running everywhere, screaming in anger, pain, and fear.
“She’s lost, boy. The tribes killed her.” Bodies, broken and bloody, surrounded them.
“Why?” Andrew asked.
The man didn’t reply. He just carried Andrew away from the chaos of the battle in the streets. Dazed by the pain up and down his left side, Andrew watched as a man dressed in green carried a boy very much like him over to the car. This boy didn’t move, and his eyes stared at the sky in lifeless horror. The green man strapped the boy’s body into the limo. The car burst into flame as the door swung shut.