Afterlife Anew

A Prologue,

This, like any great story, starts and ends with a stab wound.

    It was the middle of the night. Security rounds were done an hour ago, but our truck sat empty just a few metres from civilian lines. Some generic song played in the background, static cutting in every couple of lines. It was an upbeat, American song—ironically fitting.
    I was standing, facing a fellow reaper with caution as he waved his knife dangerously at me. He demanded I reveal myself to him, take off my uniform. It was just the two of us in the desert. He was drunk. I tried to refuse, politely at first.
    My boots scratched at the rough sand as I tried to walk back to the truck with a sigh, but the man wouldn't let me past him. He grabbed my arm and pushed me back, sending me stumbling. I struggled as he started grabbing at my blouse. I shouted for him to stop, my voice as stern as I could muster, yet still bearing some fear to it.
How did it get to this? I remembered never being too cocky, nor too open about the relationship I had there. I dressed modestly when I could and kept my head down. I was only loud and commanding when I needed to be.
    It's how I was raised.
    But, now was not the time to be dainty or quiet. Now was not the time to cower.
    "Sokolov, stop. You're going to give away our position." I said. He got close to her, holding her shirt in his fist, prepared to do something.
    Stone-faced, I stood there as he screamed in my face.
    "What, you think you're better than me?! Just because you had the option to fight, unlike us?" He was angry, I could tell. "I'll show you where your weak charity will get you, stupid bitch." He spat on her face. "Get on the ground!"
    Micah's face twitched in anger just a second before she brought her arm up, harshly ripping the man's hand from her blouse, undoing a button or two to reveal a gray undershirt. With effort and a grunt, I spun about-face, swinging my right leg out to widen my stance, setting myself to flip him.
    She took a risk, one that she would regret. She got close to him, put her back against his chest. I quickly pulled with my whole torso.
    As he went, I felt the pain on my scalp. He'd gripped a fistful of hair. My head was yanked along with him as he fell hard, hitting his head on the firm earth below. Almost immediately, he yanked on he boot, making her stumble as he charged toward me, a crazed look on his face. Two immediate lunge attacks, one after the other. I barely dodged both of them, stepping back each time. Panic filled me as I was beginning to realize Sokolov wouldn't concede. Not with or without a fight. I didn't know how long I could keep this up.
    My heel caught on something as I tried to tell him to stop again. I fell back and braced herself as the knife came my way.
    The knife went into her left tricep with some force. Gritting my teeth against the pain and grabbing the end of his sleeve, I knew then, he was going for my outer thigh; He wanted to keep me there, helpless with no escape. I barely managed to keep grips. Hooking one foot behind his, and the other flat on the ground, I fiercely pulled on his arm, giving him a splitting headbutt as I forced my legs to complete the trek for higher ground. I stood quickly as he went down.
    I pulled the knife from my arm and tossed it to the side, applying pressure to the wound as soon as possible.
    "Shit!" I had never been squeamish with blood; you weren't allowed to be squeamish in the Russian military—you would never survive. I survived, though.
    I'd survived for a little over five years, stationed in the same desert. Feeling a boost of adrenaline rush in as though my skin was a floodgate holding my savagery at bay, I turned to glare at him.
    He regained balance, got to his feet quick. He gave a sinister smile as the pain began trickling down my arm.
   "I'm going to show everyone how ugly you actually are under that pretty fucking face," he slurred harshly. He whipped out another blade, a scythe. My eyes widened as he sprinted to me again, new weapon in hand, ready to strike. It was so quick, I had no time to think.