The Angel Of Death

      Her footsteps echo through the empty hallways. The lights are not coming to life. It is, after all, four hours after the curfew.
      The place is quiet as the grave. It is a well past two o'clock in the morning. The world sleeps now. Save for those like herself. Her footsteps ringing through the entirety of the house. The others living there hear the footsteps. Though they will deny it upon naught but the most severe tortures imaginable.
      She pushes the door of a dark room open. Her footsteps carry her down a flight of stone steps. Her long black jacket waves with the motion of her long and commanding strides. Her hands, concealed within the most malleable black leather she could buy, carry death.
      Her gloved and tight fist pushes open a second door. She steps into the chilled night. The dogs come tearing at her in silence. They are trained not to bark. They are trained to attack without making any noise -save their rapid running.
      She pulls off one glove. They stop inches from mauling her. They sit and wait.
      She smiles and pulls the glove back on. "Come," she says, her voice deep and sombre.
      Five pitbulls fall in line behind her.
      She smiles again. Her own army.
      After some time, she steps out of the forest. The streets are empty. A few figures -shadows- flash in her vision. To them she is just another shadow.
      Her boots knock on the sidewalk as she walks to the alleyway. The window she passes flashes her reflection in the moonlight.
      She wears a long black coat, hanging down to the middle of her shins. Her boots are thick, climbing to just below her knees. They are dull and black. Her pants cover the boots to the ankle -black and loose, easier to run with. Her shirt is snug. The collar locking at her throat with two dull black buttons. A black nylon mask is pulled over her head. Even the eye slots are covered -a one-way tinted plastic. No one can see into her eyes, but she can see into theirs.
      She had once been called The Angel of Death, as a farce. Now, she is that Angel. Her power is true. When this Angel sees her prey, death is more than certain to follow.
      She steps into the alleyway. The dogs follow and sit beside her. They are silent. She is silent. They lie in waiting.
      Across the street, in the alley opposite her own, she sees the shadows moving. Three of them. Beneath the nylon mask, she smiles. Her hands reach under her jacket, and draw two dull firearms.
      Handguns. She doesn't know what kind they are. She doesn't care. They fire when she wants them to. And that's all that matters.
      Lights appear in the street. Two sets of headlights.
      Perfect, she thinks, setting herself into a crouch.
      The vehicle lumbers closer. The searchlight sweeping over the alleyways.
      She waits. Once, her breathing would grow fast and harsh as her blood and adrenaline would pulse with anticipation. Now, it doesn't matter. Fear doesn't exist. Excitement is dead.
      A then, she sees the front of the vehicle. The dogs all sit up and she leans forward a little. The weapons are clenched in her hands.
      She hears the rocket take off. The first white van jolts and then explodes.
      She goes. Her footsteps slamming against the paved roadway. The dogs rushing forward with her. The others across the way coming forward as well.
      The men and women in the white uniforms rush from their vehicles, trying to find their enemies.
      She sees two men with assault rifles. She squeezes the triggers four times each. Both men fall to the ground. Two more jump from the intact vehicle. The dogs latch onto both men. She empties two shots into their faces. Their bodies are torn to the ground by her dogs.
      She sound of gunfire explodes all around. Flashes of light as weapons are discharged. Barking, screaming, snarling, shouting, and silence.
      Within ten minutes the scene is silent.
      The three others are now two. They incline their heads at her and take off back into the alley. She moves back toward the forest.
      "Come," she says again, in the same deep and sombre tone.
      The dogs follow. Their jowls glistening with blood.
      They step into the forest. She's still got five dogs with her. They tread through the darkness of the forest in silence.
      She doesn't pull the mask from her head. Beneath the nylon mesh, her eyes are dark and empty. They took out ten tonight. They lost one. Her vendetta isn't complete yet, though. It won't ever be complete.
      They all fight for freedom. She, however, fights for vengeance. And she will have it.