Pierre squatted behind the up turned wagon that blocked the mouth of the cobblestone street in New Paris. The assault weapon he held in his shaking hands contrasted with the old muzzle loader held by his blond companion. Everybody fought with whatever they could get their hands on, and in the last battle, he’d been lucky enough to get to a fallen monarchist’s weapon before anyone else. He absentmindedly reached down and clicked out the clip, looking at it like he’d done more than a dozen times that morning. He only had one more on his belt, and this one was only half full. That gave him maybe seventy-five rounds, tops. He’d been too free with his ammunition during the night. Still he was in a better position than the great majority. Most had to use hunting rifles, shotguns, or worse yet muzzleloaders.

He swore as the small-arms fire, flying overhead and nipping at their barricade, sent a shower of wood splinters down upon them. The two men huddled lower hoping not to get hit. He looked up to see the tracer rounds burning a path across the small square they defended, finally ricocheting off the stone walls on the far side.

The sight brought back memories from his childhood some forty-one years before. It had been a morning much like this one when he’d gone running from his small house by the sea, drawn by the excited yelling of his brother Laurent. The sky was covered with glowing missiles heading out over the froth caped waves, leaving long white clouds trailing out behind them. They didn’t know what was happening but they knew it was important. Their mother, drawn out into the open as well, turned and ran into the house to turn on the big radio. The announcer talked a lot about someplace called Cuba. She’d spent the rest of the morning, listening to the radio and crying, cursing someone named Kennedy. Pierre and Laurent didn’t know who he was or anything about Cuba. The truth was they really didn’t care. They both stood awed and amazed as the second wave of glowing clouds soon appeared. This time they were coming from across the Atlantic and heading inland.

France, like the rest of continental Europe, had felt lucky at first. Few of the missiles were targeted on them, but those that were left a lasting impression. The whole world was driven into the long winter. Populations died, governments fell, everything changed. More importantly for Pierre, his mother and brother died, leaving him alone, cold and hungry.

Those who had food became lords, barons they were called, and a new royalty emerged. Positions of royalty depended not on birth, but on the control of life sustaining elements. When the nuclear winter finally lifted, their system was already ingrained. These Barons were ruthless, and for forty years had bled the life from the people.

Nearly two-and-a-half centuries after the first revolution, the people of France had decided to rise up and be free once more. It was a new generation, those who didn’t remember, those who had never groveled asking for the lord’s pity and food, who made the body of the movement. People like Pierre were just along for the ride because they had nothing better to do and no love lost for the barons or their king.

The young man at Pierre’s side couldn’t be more than twenty at the very most. “Soon we’ll be free, and won’t have to feel we owe our existence to anyone,” his blond companion said with a childish grin.

Pierre doubted it would be that easy. He wondered were that remark had come from anyway. He tried to just shrug it off as he peered around the corner of their rickety defensive wall, but the thought seemed to find a hold in his mind and wouldn’t let go.

Three royal soldiers were making their way slowly down the street toward the barricade. As Pierre peeked around the edge of the wagon, he was surprised by a loud blast and the smell of black powder. His surprise grew as he watched one of the oncoming soldiers blown over backwards as the large lead slug hit him square in the face. The other two threw themselves against the walls that enclosed the street, looking for a little protection. His blond companion, elated, finished reloading and stood for another shot, shouting “Equality, Liberty and Fra…” His words were cut short by the barrage of fire that tore through the top of the wagon and caught him square in the chest.

Something in Pierre’s mind clicked in that instant. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he rolled, bringing himself into the open beside the upturned wagon. He screamed as he let loose with the assault weapon in his hands, dividing the rounds left in the clip evenly between the two remaining soldiers. It wasn’t until everything was still that he realized he’d been finishing his partners cry of “Fraternity!”

He realized, as he changed the spent clip for his last full one, that he was no longer combating because he had nothing better to do. He wanted to be free. Something that had been taken away from him without his even knowing it. It was stolen that morning, when, in his innocence, he had joyously watched streaming missiles cross an otherwise cloudless sky.