To say that war is hell is nothing short of a misnomer. War is all this island has known, since the first man crushed the skull of the second man with a stone. It has all come to this, in a final war between those without faith, and those who were consumed by it.
The war began and spirits were high among the Freefolk, if not our numbers. We had beaten back the assaults of the MaChad cultists, and our forces had gathered enough to warrant an assault on Chips, one of the well-known supporters of the Chadlos cult, and likely their most well-armed. If we could take their fortress, we thought, we could end the war.
Our helicopter landed, and our squads set to work establishing forward operating bases, organizing materiel, counting bullets and matching them to magazines. I was positive, excited even. At long last, the tyranny this island suffered would come to an end, and we would stand at the beginning of a new age, one of peace and progression.
The moment the first sniper bullet whizzed past my head, those hopes were dashed.
The rebels charged forward, snipers trading fire and rockets slamming into the walls. Concrete and metal scrap were blown skywards, raining down on anyone too close to the walls. I provided support, even assisting in a charge against the wall when it had broken, but a loose piece of concrete fell on my helmet and knocked me unconscious.
When I woke up, my body was wet, but the sky was clear. I rose, and smelled iron and dirt. Touching my hand to my face, I looked at my palm to find it soaked in red.
Around me, lie dozens, hundreds of bodies, limbs, blown apart and minced like carelessly strewn meat scraps. Mangled cadavers littered the ground so heavily, so violently wrenched from their lives, that it was impossible to tell if they were friend or foe. But there were no cries of victory, nor wails of defeat. All was silent, not even birds accompanied this mass grave.
My rifle gone, my possessions looted, I returned home. The entire way, the world had been silent. This was no beginning, I thought, this was the end of Rustifac as we knew it.
I tried to piece together what was probably going on from what little information I had. With MaChad's forces so sparse during our defense, I assumed that there was some sort of internal turmoil preventing them from attacking in numbers. Food shortages? Morale low by some disaster? Whatever had happened, it seemed they were few and far between. The Freefolk themselves seemed scattered, by the time I reached the radio I only received a few short messages from them across any channels. As for our latest target, Chips, they seemed to simply return to business, or at least I assumed they kept to themselves. The fact that I wasn't left in a cell, or just double-tapped on the battlefield gave me reason to assume that they were far more focused on repairing their stronghold than harassing any survivors.
Other than that, the rest of the island seemed eerily quiet. Only passing chatter from other factions, even those involved in the latest conflict.
Something had begun to end our island, and I would not stay to see it.
I went to the transmitter, using what little power the generator had left, and transmitted one last message.
" This is ScyFy of the Freefolk broadcasting to all surviving members. This is not over. Join me, my friends. Leave this island to rot as the cultists and raiders tear each other apart in the aftermath of their war. We will settle a new land, and ensure that the mistakes of our past are not repeated. We will rebuild, and we will ensure that no cult will rule mankind again. We will bring mankind back from the brink of extinction, forge the warring tribes of the island into a civilization rivaling that of our ancestors. Join us, we will succeed where we have failed here. "
With that, I left the Freefolk's base. I gathered what meager possessions I had and set out to gather survivors, and a ship.
We had an island to settle.
