They stormed strong through the blistering cold winds and deep sinkholes of white. They were not looking for “us” anymore, they were looking for me. The last of “us” and the thick blanket of blinding snow was my only hope of not being found, and not being killed. I had to think, think hard. The storm was soon to stop. My foot prints would be found before the snow could cover them. Yet if I stayed they would find me here. I looked down at my blood stained coat in the knee deep snow, and decided to run, I left the coat behind. The dogs were tracking the smell of my blood. And the coat would buy me some time, time to run. The light of the men’s torches grew closer and I herd one call out “The dogs found something! This way!” The coat had only led them closer, the quiet crunches of footsteps in the snow turned to loud frantic running towards me and dogs barking angrily at me as if I was a deer being hunted by a pack of wolves. So I ran faster, so they ran faster, so I sprinted, so they sprinted. Whatever I did they countered. They were gaining on me, and the blizzard ceased its roaring. There was nowhere to hide. And I couldn’t out run the dogs. There was one option left, and my chance of survival was nearly gone. I took out my pocket knife that was given to me by my father when I was ten years old, he told me that this knife was my protection from danger and that he would not be able to protect me anymore. And he shed a tear, He knew his fate. I did not until the following day. I came to visit him but found that he died in that hospital the night he gave me the knife. It is all I have left of ether of my parents. And now the time has come to put it to use. The first dog jumped and I blinded it with the knife and it ran away but the second one pushed me into the snow from the back and attacked me, and then I heard a rifle shot and I found myself in a pool of blood, I then decided that I was in shock and was dying. But to my surprise I saw that I was lying in the dog’s blood, and my friend who I thought to be dead holding a stolen rifle and a first aid kit. He shot all three men and two dogs, almost faster than the men knew he was here, and the last dogs ran away in fear.  No, sadly it was not my father, although I wished it so. He has been dead for seven years. No, this was one of “us.” The last other one of “us” His name is Dan. He has been hunting since he was six years old. I should know, He is my brother, the only family I have left. “Fred? You’re alive!?”Dan said. “I was about to ask the same thing to you.” I replied. We stared at each other and tried to hold our emotions back but eventually we both ended up crying tears of joy and running into each other’s arms. After we pulled ourselves together, Dan gave me the first aid kit and a stolen pistol and said “Looks like it’s just the two of us.” And I said “So we are the only ones left?” Dan sighed “Yes. We are the last ones, we are the last of us.”