It was an open field of snow soaked in blood. Between the high trees and deep valley it had snowed nonstop since the battle began a week ago. The frail echo of the wintery wind seeping through the hollow threes the remaining survivors, cold and clothed in raiments, thawing socks and wet boots made bloody footprints toward that unique blood trail in the snow. It lead them to the underground where the most vicious of their enemies was breathing out his last air. This was not a good day to die. But frozen body parts lay about the falling snow. The fight had lasted through the night where the sound of unceasing gunfires was a cacophony rhythm. He was the sniper with the 50 caliber blowing out heads and guts from a good distant. At time he heard his victims mourning echo in the snow for a good while and then their blood ran out and so was their lives. If he died here tonight he would have missed out on so much. The kiss she let him taste on the day they were deploying to battle, that unfinished poem he planned to read on the day he would get on his knees and ask her to spent forever with him, this was not a good day to die! He could go back in time and be that little boy running up that hill carefree to play with Sam and James. But it came down to this; many childhood dreams don’t survive in adulthood unless the owner of those dreams was so willfully strong that the obstacles that made many deter did not affect him. But it was late, he was cold and the noise and footsteps of his angry enemies would soon find him frozen in the gutter of the underground. It was a cold day to die.