Eleven

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     It was just a regular day. Zoe was sitting and reading a book on their couch, Josh playing a game on his phone beside her. She was nine, the younger sister of an almost-thirteen-year-old. They were each other's best friend when they moved around a lot, the only constant, besides their parents, at each new location. They were currently living in Eastern America, fresh from France.

     They were just chilling like they regularly do when the world shook with bombs. At first, Zoe thought Earthquake. But as their window breaks with shrapnel breaking through, Josh tackles her to the ground, keeping her down. "Get to the cellar," he says, standing her up. She looks at him with wide green eyes, but nods. He shoves her off. "I'm right behind you!" He calls.

     She runs, sprints down the front stairs of their home and toward the cellar. Before she can get there, someone stands in front of her, aiming a gun. Zoe screams moving to dodge, but someone's now behind her, grabbing her wrist.

     "Come on, General Frossen will enjoy you." The man lifts her over his shoulder and begins running.

     "Josh!" Zoe screams, but her voice is overpowered by the sound of a helicopter landing in front of them. She tries to fight, but she ends up crying and just feeling exhausted. 

     They sit her down on the seat, immediately pressing a cloth over her face. She looks up at them with fearful eyes but just looks at a full face helmet, not even human eyes.

     Her vision clouds and, before they're even off the ground, she's asleep.

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