Personal Narrative: Life After The Civil War

I sat up just in time to see my father stumble through the front door. He had cuts across his face. His boots were caked in dirt. His clothes were torn and he could barely speak. Behind him on the front porch was some food. It was a few small bags of rice, meat, and fruit.
My father went on to tell us about work in the fields, which naturally changed my opinion of the administration again. They worked for hours, without falter or break. If they stopped for a second, they would be beaten like slaves. The few who refused would be placed in front of as many workers as possible and shot in the head.
I knew one thing. The town would never survive if we kept going this way. I had to go to the meeting tonight. We had to fight back.
I waited until
I walked a long corridor between offices filled with paperwork unfinished in stacks. I wondered how things had happened here, if the officers put up a fight, or if they gave up their weapons to the men who seemed to know what was going on. One office had a desk riddled with bullets that seemed to partially answer my question.
I went to the back, there was a small clearing with a light from the building illuminating it. There were fifty or so people, in small groups huddled around waiting. I saw five police officers, David, a few other teens, but most were ordinary gun toting citizens.
I walked up to David and a few other guys from my school. Most were unarmed, simply looking for a way to help, but a few carried weapons with them, small pistols mostly, two even had shotguns. They asked me where my gun had come from. I told them I picked it up in the commotion during the massacre on the bridge.
I found out the group was calling themselves The 3rd Street Guerrillas. They had met only twice since we were taken over by the unknown regime. There was yet to be a major leader, but for the most part, the police officers had taken the