A to Z of a Terrorist. Adult 8,800 A simple farmer turns to terrorism. (standard:adventure, 8693 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1226/859	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
After his home is bombed and family killed, an apolitical farmer searches for revenge by joining a terrorist organization. Much violence near the end, showing what often happens in real life.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

are back. While before they were vilified in our town -- in fact 
physically thrown out for our own safety -- this time they're welcomed. 
This time, they promise to bring in Land-to-Air Anti-Aircraft rockets 
to protect us. 

I'm now the owner of four cattle, three sheep and a couple dozen
chickens; no house or other buildings. With the only factory in town 
destroyed, there's no work to be found. And, of course, I am an angry, 
very, very angry young man. 

I try to keep busy as a way to avoid thinking of my family. But I can't
help noticing their graves in a splintered olive grove behind where the 
house used to stand. Life becomes a shadow, a dim existence without 
reason. Without hope or ambition, only a day to day attempt at survival 
for survival's sake. 

There is no compensation for my losses, financial nor emotional. The
government, once a fatherly figure, ignores my, our, status. As weeks 
go by, the rebel movement sounds more and more enticing ... something 
to live for. A reason to exist, even a source of income. They're known 
to pay well. 

Before the attack, I was never political, having enough to do in helping
out at our farm. Although it wasn't a rich life, I'd been fairly 
content with its simplicity in a complex world. I'd never held, much 
less fired, a firearm. But I can learn, with vivid visions of 
slaughtering Intricias in my mind. Filling my dreams with restless 
nights. 

As a reason to continue living, and as revenge, I join the rebels. 

*** 

"The Intricias must be stopped," Mikos, our political instructor, tells
us. "Before their friendship with the Ubama, our ancient feud had 
quieted down since WWII with both our countries briefly battling at the 
border, a handful of deaths every year. 

"Now, with the help of the technologically advanced Ubama and their air
power, the Intricias seek to take over all of Jakerstan. Since the 
Ubamas want our oil, they've armed the Intricias with battle tanks, 
modern artillery and aircraft against which we have no defense. 

"Our own government is sucking both Intricia and Ubama asses. Even
though the Rusaniah's offer us assistance and our own modern weapons, 
our traitorous cowardly government refuses. The officials prefer to 
keep their personal estates and wealth safe, rather than fighting for 
our country and its honor," Mikos exhorts us. 

We're sitting in a half-circle in front of a large campfire, Mikos
silhouetted by open flames as he tries his best to work us into a rage. 
Every few minutes my group leader, standing in half-shadows to the side 
will raise an arm, bringing rousing cheers from the audience. It serves 
to urge Mikos into a frenzy which, in turn, does the same for us. We 
hang onto his every word, while sitting on cold ground, involuntarily 
twisting and bouncing in response. 

"We here, us few, are the only force willing to fight the asshole
Intricias and, if necessary, the Ubama. It's a fight for liberty, to 
save our ancient ways from encroachment. We have our own oil deposits 
along their border which the Rusaniahs would be glad to help us develop 
and the Ubama covet. 

"Most of the world thinks our efforts are hopeless ... and maybe they
are. But if we put on a brave showing we can topple our corrupt 
government and accept military aid from the Rusaniahs. With their help, 
we can win and retain our freedom. Only with a mutual defense treaty 
can we protect our people and way of life. 

"We've tried Democracy. It didn't work. We've tried our present Supreme
Ruler. Now the Ubamas from across the sea accuse us of Communism. Why 
not? Why the hell don't we become Communists? It can't be worse than 
the other two." 

We build defensive bunkers and train endlessly. One day I wake to the
sounds of many powerful engines. Strange, since we use only a few 
pickup trucks and old sedans given us by sympathizers from the big 
cities. 

I look out my tent-flap to see a convoy of huge modern trucks driven by
strangers in civilian clothing. Although large, the vehicles aren't 
new, with many dents but new tires. I can dimly see different military 
logos from many countries painted over with glossy gray paint on the 
sides. 

The strangers are wearing the same types of clothing as we are, though
their skins are of a much lighter hue than mine and I later notice 
they're taller than my people. 

This morning, after breakfast, we're issued new rifles. They, like the
trucks, are from several nations, many rusty from disuse. But they are 
automatic assault weapons, better than our bolt-action WWI Mausers. 
Mine is an AK-47 with what I think are Chinese markings. Although the 
new people are found to be Rusaniah, none admit to it and I look, in 
vain, for Rusaniah equipment. There is everything but Rusaniah goods. A 
truckload of rations are marked “US” from WWII. 

We are gathered in a group and given an explanation by Captain Thomos. 

"These are your new instructors. You'll find them from every country
except," he says, winking, “Rusaniah. I repeat and you'd better listen 
well. We are receiving NO help from Rusaniah. If you are ever captured, 
even tortured, you WILL deny it to your dying breath. 

"They will teach you how to use your new weapons. With their help, we
can preserve our precious freedom. Listen to them well and obey them as 
you would obey me." 

Along with the new instructors come an influx of recruits. Our pay is
raised, the money coming in from somewhere but not my concern. I'm glad 
when we move into the mountains, away from my war-torn town. The sight 
of the town, even from a distance, is depressing. 

*** 

This mountain camp has many caves which we enlarge with both pick and
shovel and more modern machinery. Hidden roads are built, meandering 
through trees and kept covered with fresh brush. With the new roads, 
more vehicles are brought in, themselves covered by camouflaged 
netting, while crews are trained to drive and fight with them. I'm 
pleased that we're starting to look, act and feel like a real army. 

I shudder at the thought of revenge, to have my hands around a Ubama or
Intricia throat, squeezing slowly, watching the light of life leave 
those evil eyes. 

One night, an air raid tears up part of a forest near us but we aren't
damaged. Obviously the enemy is looking for us. The captain decides to 
split up the camp, moving many of us to other locations for more 
safety. 

"When are we going to fight, sir?" someone asks. "All we do is train,
but for what?" 

Myself, I take the opportunity to ask, "Can I be taught on one of those
tanks, captain? I can kill many more Intricias from in there." 

"Don't worry," he says, laughing, "I've picked you for a more personal
task. One where you can kill many of the bastards, face to face. If you 
have the guts, that is. Just wait until we're moved." 

It's a frantic and exhausting few days as we receive more supplies of
items such as tents, stacks of lumber and netting. It's loaded onto 
some of the smaller trucks, along with other supplies. 

Finally, many of us move to other camping sites. Although we take some
trucks with us, the heavier tanks are left behind. The captain is 
afraid they will leave tracks and doesn't want to take time to build 
sturdy hidden roads like we have to our first camp. Any day now, the 
Intricias might find us. I've learned that our own cowardly government 
is also looking for us. I don't know, kinda feel queasy, about killing 
my own people ... but I long to kill Intricias. No matter who flew it, 
it was their plane that killed my family. They who will suffer my 
wrath. 

*** 

There are thirty of us at the smaller camp and about the same amount of
instructors. This camp is supposed to be for specialized training. I 
still don't know what we're doing here but our rifles are taken away 
and we're being trained with new weapons. They are silenced mini-Uzis, 
an Israeli weapon normally used for clandestine operations. 

We also have sniper rifles. Heavy .50 caliber Chinese M99-IIs. They
weigh over 30 lbs and kick like a son-of-a-bitch, far too heavy to hold 
in my hands and fire. We have four of them. At first, we shoot from 
tripods, then in a very strange manner. We practice with steel sheets, 
about two-feet square, that one man has trouble lifting. They're 
designed to stack easily and then quickly bolt together into larger 
panels, 6' x 6' square, braced in back with stout wooden poles. 

For over a week, all thirty of us train in carrying those squares, the
rifles, poles and ammo. Once in place, we practice until it only takes 
a few minutes to form the large square with a firing hole near the 
middle. The panel is raised and braced, the sniper rifle mounted in the 
hole and we're ready to fire. It's a small armored emplacement, one 
which normal pistols and rifles can't penetrate. That's our morning 
training, while we're fresh. 

In the afternoon, we have political training while our meals digest.
We've our own political trainer, mostly to re-enforce loyalty, trying 
to work us up into a passion against the Intricias. Some of it, 
initially, seems silly but I find my patriotism and loyalty increasing 
to a raw rage. I do notice the Ubamas are mentioned often, given an 
equally evil status similar to our real enemy, the Intricias. Although 
from halfway around the world, they seem to be an equal enemy. 

We're shown movies of Ubaman atrocities around the world, seeing them
slaughter real people in real places, mostly from aircraft. I begin to 
wonder just who bombed me and my family? Was it a Ubama aircraft, not 
an Intrician? We see endless bombings, people milling around in panic, 
only to be cut down by aerial machine-gun fire. The killers are 
sometimes Ubaman with stars on the sides if their vehicles, sometimes 
Intricians. Some films are of teeming masses of starving commoners 
ignored by fancy cars containing the wealthy passing among them. 

A crude mock-up of a building is built of wood. Not the entire thing but
only two floors and no roof. We're required to not only memorize but 
walk the halls, sometimes blindfolded and cussed at if we even touch a 
wall. We spend hours every afternoon, evening, and night in that 
edifice, learning it like the back of our hands. Sometimes we wear gas 
masks and stumble around in the dark. In the end, I can walk that space 
in my sleep. 

During the training, ten men from our original thirty are gradually
eliminated. Not entirely but still trained, tested and kept as 
alternates. Me, I'm assigned as a sniper. Though still able to take on 
any task, I keep on with sniper training on the .50cal while others 
concentrate on other aspects. 

As the alternates, wearing padded clothing, play hostage, we practice
taking, confining and moving them around. That's a fun part, as they 
are encouraged to protest and resist. Later, it stops being fun as 
we're taught to use real force. The idea is to keep them off balance at 
all times, not giving hostages time to plot or even think. Random 
kicking, slapping and constantly moving them from room to room keeps 
them confused as to our intentions ... unable to think clearly or plan 
escape. 

Pulling our punches only slightly, we degrade them, beat them for any
supposed infraction. Conflicting orders are a favorite, fists and boots 
punishing errors. Endless movement from one locked room to another 
keeps escape plans down. We yell at them, spit on them, degrade them. 
One of the first things we're told is to strip real captives of all 
clothing, then handcuff their hands. 

We're told that with real hostages we can rape the women at will and to
occasionally have male troublemakers, especially leaders, perform oral 
sex on us and each other to further degrade them. I try to get prisoner 
duty but, since I'm a large man and a good shot, end up as a sniper. 
Having carried that heavy rifle, I can see their reasoning. That's 
alright, though, in that I can do a lot of killing with the M99. 

Then, we're taught to wander from one window to another in the mock-up,
keeping rescue forces occupied. To that end, we're to lay land-mines on 
the roof to keep helicopters and enemy soldiers from landing. We're 
also going to have a large supply of phosphorus hand-grenades, we're 
told. 

"Where are we going to get all this stuff?" one man asks. "We can't
carry it with us, especially those steel plates." 

"Don't worry. It'll be there. All you need do is use it," is the answer.


Although we're not told where or when or why, we certainly learn how. 

"Quickly, you bastards.  And don't take any shit off that guy.  Slam him
in the guts and shackle him."  An instructor shows us, barely pulling a 
punch on the complainer, knocking him to the ground.  "Like this.  
These aren't people we're taking, they're the assholes that killed your 
families, your friends.  Treat them like the pieces of shit they are.  
They'll kill you in a moment if they have a chance.  Remember that and 
show no, I mean no, mercy.  If it's a ten-year-old female dog, kick it 
like one.  Think of it as a rabid puppy, trying to bite your ankle." 

Three of us are chosen as team leaders, myself among them.  Team Leader
Achi is to be in charge, Dumas and I to be co-seconds in command.  If 
and when Achi should die, it's hoped that one of us others survives to 
take over. 

Finally, Achi, Dumas and I are called into an otherwise empty conference
tent to receive more-specific orders from the captain. 

"Gentlemen, your country is depending on you.  As you've no doubt
surmised, you're going on what will probably be a suicide mission.  
Whatever happens, remember that I and your countrymen will be forever 
grateful.  You were chosen, at least partially, for your patriotism and 
loyalty. 

"Millions of lives depend on you, your training and your ...
ruthlessness."  He paused, going on with, "Also because you have just 
cause, more than most of the others.  You three have been orphaned by 
Ubama or their lackey Intricias.  You've, all three of you, seen your 
families die by cowardly attacks with no chance to save themselves or 
fight back.  There's no way to defend yourself from a 500 lb Ubaman 
bomb." 

I look over and see Achi, hands white as they grip the edge of the
table.  Dumas sits, red in the face, eyes a mask of hatred -- as my own 
no doubt are. 

"Tonight, after sundown, you will be transported to an airport; you
don't need to know where.  You will all be given civilian clothing and 
take flight for Intricia.  Although it will stop for fuel, you will end 
up in Arentia, the capital city of Intricia."  He pauses, as if to let 
the information sink in, then continues, "A local guide will take you, 
by foot, to a certain building.  It's a government building.  The floor 
plan will be the same as the mock-up. 

"As you enter, you'll see a gift shop against the back wall.  Your metal
shield parts are inside.  The clerk will show you where.  But first, 
you'll be shown a room that will hold your other supplies, weapons, 
mines and the rest.  We've smuggled those items inside, some with the 
help of the guards themselves.  As you must know, loyalty is not an 
Intricia trait.  Once you're inside and  ready, the shopkeeper, guide 
and the others will leave.  That is when you begin your task, which is 
to ensure that everyone else in the building is taken hostage.  If they 
resist, don't hesitate to kill them. 

"There will be a meeting going on in a ground floor conference room.  It
will consist of both Intricia and Ubaman generals and high-level 
diplomats.  They are your prime objectives and will not, I repeat, will 
not leave that building alive. 

"You are to take as many of them and their personal staff alive as you
can but don't hesitate to kill.  Then you let the outside know about 
it.  We want the worldwide press to get there which might take time.  
After that, put on a show.  Kill those important hostages, one by one 
and in plain sight if possible, as well as anyone else in authority 
that you can target outside.  That's what the snipers are for.  Those 
M99 rounds will go through most of the armor you'll find out there, 
even as the shields protect you. 

"It'll be up to you three, as leaders, to keep our people on track. 
Since you'll be in charge, you'll have to decide just how but keep the 
mission going as long as possible.  Kill all the important people but 
leave a few guards and others alive to tell the story later.  We want 
the world to know our power and to fear us. A few days or a week on the 
International News Services will aid our cause greatly." 

He stops to wipe tears from his eyes.  "Good luck and may God be with
you and aid you in doing His will.  Now go and inform your men.  You'll 
leave all personal identification and weapons behind, receiving new 
ones at your destination." 

He shakes our hands and hugs us as we troop out.  I hardly notice, my
mind filled with senses of purpose, pride, patriotism and ... yes, 
apprehension and fear. 

*** 

Arentia is a lovely city, though I hope to change that at least a
little.  Our guide, an Intrician traitor, is waiting as we leave the 
aircraft.  Since no other aircraft are near us, it looks like we're 
parked in an out-of-the-way spot near a fence.  As soon as we leave, 
the airplane taxis away. 

"Come. The others are waiting and getting anxious," we're told. "The
sooner we're out of it, the better.  I'll take you to the janitor's 
entrance to the basement. 

"Because of the conference, the building is supposedly sealed. 
Ground-floor doors are solid steel, two inches thick and locked.  They 
were locked this morning by security because of the meeting inside but 
it helps your cause since you have no need to barricade them.  
Fortunately, nobody ever remembers to secure my, I mean the janitor's, 
basement door used to take out the trash."  Eyes bright, he gives a 
nervous laugh. 

"What kind of security can we expect, inside?"  Achi asks, even as we
file through a small rusty gate from the airport.  The other side is an 
overgrown vacant lot, grass as high as my head that ends at a cracked 
sidewalk on a street filled with warehouses. 

"There are two guards on each of the two conference-room doors ... with
rifles.  They look to be mean bastards.  I counted eight more in the 
lunchroom and two walking the corridors.  The ones in the lunchroom 
seem to be mostly chauffeurs but might be trained and armed.  I might 
have missed some." 

"And the big shots themselves?" I ask, getting a shrug in return.  We
start off, knowing to walk spaced out, not more than two or three men 
together. 

He leads us to this building, four stories tall and not all that wide
but looking to be solid with marble sides.  We enter through a small 
recessed door in the rear.  Crossing to a room behind a large boiler, 
we find our promised weapons waiting, along with small two-way radios. 
We load up and get ready.  For a few minutes, the air is suspiciously 
loud with the snapping of bolts as weapons are checked and loaded. 

"You take three men and take care of the drivers," Achi orders me. "Just
kill them to get them out of the way.  We don't need them as hostages.  
Then come back to get your rifles and set them up." 

He turns to Dumas.  "Take a couple of men and find the walking security.
Kill them.  I'll take the rest of our men and storm the meeting." 

"Let me go up first, to see where the walking guards are," the guide
suggests, "then get the hell out of here.  They know I work here and 
won't be suspicious.  Oh and Milli at the souvenir shop got cold feet 
and left already.  The door to her shop isn't locked.  Your metal 
plates are stacked in its storeroom.  It's a large pile and easy to 
see.  Also, don't kill the large man behind the counter in the 
lunchroom.  He's one of us.  Give him a gun and he'll join you." 

"Is that all that's in the building?" I ask. 

"No.  I don't think so.  Although the place is locked up for the
meeting, there are probably a few workers in some of the offices.  They 
come and go at odd hours.  Some sign in and out but most don't bother." 


"About how many can we expect?" 

"Who knows?  Maybe half a dozen?  This is a day of rest." 

The janitor leaves us, going up a set of stairs leading to the lobby. 
Achi motions one of us to go with him. 

We mill around anxiously, for what seems like hours but is only a few
minutes. While waiting, we test our radios.  Although cellphones are 
more modern, radios are immediate communication, without constantly 
pushing buttons or dialing numbers.  Turn them on and you can 
communicate with everyone on that bandwidth.  I don't trust them.  
Whoever put them here might know the frequency. 

The longer we stay penned up in this room, the more anxious I become. 
We'll be in real trouble if trapped here.  I'm relieved as the janitor 
and our man come back. 

"We saw two guards walking up to the fourth floor," the janitor says.
“They're taken care of. We slit their throats.  Good luck."  As he 
hurries toward the back door, I hear a "Phuuut."  The janitor has time 
to look back with questioning eyes before dying on his feet.  Achi has 
seen fit to kill him. 

Achi looks at me and I shrug.  He's the boss. 

At a nod, we troop upstairs and separate.  Three men stay with me as I
hurry down familiar corridors to the cafeteria. 

We waste no time.  Going in, we spread out just inside the doors.  Our
silenced Uzis spit bullets, stitching seven or eight men and one 
uniformed woman, mostly seated with cokes or coffee.  The loudest sound 
is that of cartridge casings hitting and bouncing on a linoleum floor.  
Most simply fold, heads thumping heavily onto tables, with a couple 
sliding down to the floor.  The smell of cordite rapidly infuses the 
air.  It's overkill but we have a lot of ammo with us, more than we'll 
probably live to use. 

"The shields," I order my people, motioning a bug-eyed civilian washing
cups behind the counter to come with me.  He's a large man, presumably 
friendly.  Why not use him? 

As the others hurry through long-familiar hallways to get the metal
shield plates, I lead the cafeteria worker back down to the basement. 

Although heavy, we each manage to carry two sniper rifles back upstairs.
 Dumping three onto the floor in the lobby.  I carry mine, along with a 
heavy metal crate of ammo, over to my assigned window.  It's the one on 
the left side of the main entrance door.  I send the stranger back down 
for more ammunition for the sniper rifles. 

While others struggle to assemble my personal shield, I take time to
check the front door, finding it secured with a broad iron bar 
connecting the two halves.  Knocking it with my knuckles, gives a solid 
thud.  Shaking the bar has no effect whatsoever.  It will take a tank 
to knock that metal door down, I believe. 

Then I go back and check out my weapon, fingers clicking the scope to a
battle-sight range of 100 yards.  Opening the 30 round box of 
ammunition, I slide two extra cartridges into each of my shirt pockets, 
load another into the weapon's chamber, then slam a loaded magazine 
into the bottom with a sharp "kaclack."  I'm ready to go.  As I regain 
my feet, I see the shield assembled and in place.  Sturdy wooden 6“ x 
6“ bracing poles are holding it upright, though leaning back at a 
slight angle because of the weight. 

I click on the radio.  "Three ready at one," I mutter. "How things
going?" 

"Okay," Dumas replies. "Number one is finishing the room.  Wait twenty
and then it's a go." 

Heart beating, infused with adrenaline, I look out through the small
gun-port in my shield.  The street outside is busy, traffic backed up 
at a light.  Dozens of people are on the sidewalk, suspecting nothing.  
I see a middle-aged couple sitting on a bench over by the opposite 
sidewalk, backs to me and feeding pigeons.  At one point, my keyed-up 
nerves are startled by someone knocking on the front door.  After a few 
tries, he or she leaves. 

I'm so nervous and petrified by the scene outside that I lose track of
time.  Enough to jerk upright as I hear sounds behind me.  Looking 
over, I see my conscripted assistant from the lunchroom setting down 
several more containers of cartridges.  He gives me a sickly grin. 

Then hell breaks loose, catching me by surprise as others begin firing
through windows around the building.  I hear the deep-throaty 
"cracking" of heavy rifles such as mine, each report drowning out the 
staccato firing of 9mm Uzis, silencers removed for accuracy.  There are 
also sharper “Cracks” of rifles picked up somewhere, maybe the 
conference guards? 

Looking back at the street, I see an old woman, pigeon-seed sack falling
from her hand.  Her companion and the walkers are, every one, staring 
right back at me.  Cars, horns blasting, are everywhere, trying to get 
away onto sidewalks and lawns, mowing down defenseless pedestrians in 
their frantic haste. 

Some of my companions are firing from windows on this side of the
building. I see bullets ricocheting from sidewalks and cratering car 
bodies.  Dust seems to be puffing up from everywhere, making it hard to 
see the morning sun.  Screams fill the air outside as victims get over 
their shock, at least enough to run ... the ones still able. 

The heavy M99-II Chinese sniper rifle almost slips out of sweating hands
as I lift it, trying to fit the muzzle and scope through that small 
gun-port. 

I try to blank my mind, as I've been taught.  Not to think of them as
victims, not even as the friends and relatives of the pilot that killed 
my family.  They are simple moving targets, particularly complex 
mechanical icons, a challenge to my expertise. 

Not needing the scope at such short range and leaving individuals to the
Uzis, I fire my heavier rounds at the thickest targets, autos and 
buildings across the street.  My bullets, unlike the smaller 9mms, go 
completely through both civilian cars and walls.  A .50cal is a mean 
weapon. 

When I see a face at a window, I blow it off the body.  I can imagine
the round not even slowing down as it blasts through room after room 
behind her.  If this were a machine gun, I could tear those buildings 
down to the ground.  I fire at a tree across the street, seeing 
pedestrians fall as a large chunk of the trunk disappears, sending 
deadly wooden splinters over a wide area. 

Changing five-shot magazines, I continue to fire at trees.  I feel no
elation, nor regret -- nothing at all as the first tree falls, 
partially blocking a six-lane street.  To me, at this moment, it is 
only the cumulative result of hundreds of hours of training, nothing 
else. 

The smell of cordite in the lobby makes it hard to breathe as I reach
back for ammunition, finding none waiting.  Looking behind me, I see my 
loader struggling to press fresh cartridges into a magazine in his lap. 
 He's having a hard time of it and can't keep up with my firing.  Those 
magazines are heavy, the cartridges thick and slick from sweating 
hands. 

"Go back to the basement," I tell him.  "There's a little square
mechanism down on the smaller table that fits over the magazine.  It 
has a lever on it to force them in and easy to load." 

While he's gone,  I load several by hand.  When, after a few minutes, he
returns, huffing and puffing, I show him how to use the loader, then 
step back to my weapon, hanging loosely from the firing port. 

In my absence, many conditions have changed.  For one thing, the street
is clear, only dead cars and people spotted over concrete and lawns.  
Secondly, I see police and emergency vehicles piling up at the far 
corners of the street. 

With inactivity, I feel apprehension about facing legal authority.  Up
until I was bombed, I've always been law-abiding.  Like with most 
people, respect for authority is at least partially because of fear.  
The sight of flashing lights, uniforms and the sound of sirens is 
intimidating -- even now. 

My response is to try to aim at the nearest corner, finding my small
firing-port won't let me. 

Screw it, I think, pulling the rifle out.  I carry the heavy weapon
around the shield.  On my knees, the rifle's thick barrel resting on a 
window ledge, I use my scope to aim.  The first shot knocks down a man 
in a suit that seems to be giving orders.  I take time to aim each 
round, trying for those in charge.  In half-a-minute, that end of the 
street looks empty of humanity. 

For awhile, I don't know how long, I alternate with both ends of the
street.  When the bastards take cover, I simply fire through the police 
cars. 

At the end of that time, heavier vehicles move in, armored cars and an
Armored Personnel Carrier, APC.  I don't know if I can shoot through or 
into them but continue firing anyway.  Maybe I can and maybe I can't 
but it keeps their heads down and is something to do, rather than stand 
around with my thumb up my ass. 

It seems to be a standoff. 

*** 

It's now hours later.  I still fire an occasional round but, after
counting my remaining cartridges, decide not to waste them.  My loader, 
the cafeteria worker named Tronto, is standing with me in front of the 
shield, daring any fool to give himself away by aiming at us.  We  
control the street. 

There isn't much activity at the street-corners except for a gathering
of more and more military-style vehicles, no activity in front of us.  
I do see occasional shadows moving in some of the windows across the 
street.  The Intricias must be, have to be, setting up for a 
counter-attack. 

One or two of my pals are wasting time and ammunition by peppering them
with Uzi fire, as well as someone with a rifle is taking pot-shots at 
shadows.  Whatever they're planning, it doesn't show. 

"Why are you helping me like this?" I ask Tronto. "This isn't your
fight." 

"But it is," he says, leaning out a few inches to look down at the
ground. "I better get some of those grenades from downstairs.  We 
should have them to drop on the ground outside.  Sooner or later 
someone's going to try to creep up to throw something in here. 
Explosives of some kind." 

"Go ahead.  Maybe you should look for something to help prop this shield
up?  It'll probably stop grenade shrapnel." 

"There are a lot of politics here, in Intricia," he tells me.  "I'm a
member of a group fighting the government for our own freedom.  Two of 
my best friends are political prisoners because of our religion." 

"I never paid any attention to politics," I tell him, "even in
Jakerstan, before I lost my own family.  Now, it seems I'm involved in 
them, up to my ass." 

"Aren't we all?  They can be both insidious and persistent.  Mine are
religious.  My people have been repressed for hundreds of years here 
and are finally fighting back.  Every day, it seems, our synagogues are 
burnt and the police look the other way.  It has to stop." 

"I never paid any attention," I repeat. 

"Nobody does, unless they're involved ... or forced." 

"I never did," I can only repeat again, thoughts deep in my own
problems. "I never noticed.  I was too busy making a living to vote or 
pay attention to elections. That was for other people.  The interested, 
not me." 

"They say we're devils.  If we want to worship our way, we should move
to Jakerstan with you.  This is our native land, not Jakerstan." 

"I didn't know that, never noticed." 

When he doesn't say anything more, I notice he simply isn't here, has
left for grenades. 

Before I can turn back to my firing-port,  Achi comes over to tell me
what's going on and planned.  We have our radios, mine in my shirt 
pocket and turned on but we know the enemy will be listening in by now 
-- which makes them virtually useless. 

"For now, we're in control," he tells me.  "So far, we've lost one man
and three are slightly wounded.  One of the generals carried a pistol 
and got a couple of rounds off before we shot him.  I'm in constant 
contact with the Intricias, through a landline telephone. 

"We've got fifteen big shots locked up, including the Ubama secretary of
state and the Intricia general that was in charge of the raid that 
killed your family.  His name and picture were in the newspapers here 
afterward."  He pauses, a large smile on his face.  "I thought you 
might want to kill him, personally?  What you say?  In the fucking 
window where the foreign news media can see?  I've been talking to a 
reporter on the telephone and she said her station is broadcasting 
live." 

"Christ, yes.  Give him to me.  Damn!  I can't believe it." 

"Now, wait a minute.  We have to make this a real media event.  I've
been thinking.  What we'll do is save the Ubama guys for last.  But to 
prove we're serious, execute four of the other big guys at once, 
simultaneously.  One on each side of the building.  And...." he stops 
to giggle insanely.  It takes Achi entire minutes to be able to tell me 
his plan with a straight face. 

"Hey, pal.  Too damned crude for me," I tell him.  "I don't think I
could physically do it."  I look over at Tronto.  "How about you?  Can 
you do it for us?" 

"Easy," he says, "with his help." 

All three of us break out laughing at the way he says it. 

"Come with me and we'll get him," Achi orders Tronto.  Turning to me, he
says, "I'll signal on the radio.  Four quick clicks, then a lone one.  
Do it then." 

A few minutes later, during a pause in firing while I reload, I look
behind me.  Tronto is back, along with a naked man stumbling towards us 
on his knees with hands tied behind his back.  The guy looks to be in 
his sixties, pot-belly extending out from a flat chest.  He's looking 
at the ground, blood dripping from nose and one ear.  I notice the 
distinctive face and wild white hair, knowing it's really General 
Thoros.  Not knowing if I'll be able to hear the clicking, I give my 
radio to Tronto.  It's his operation, not mine, though I can hardly 
wait for the performance. 

*** 

The Intricias wait until dusk.  The counter-attack begins with half the
windows across the street being abruptly filled with police or soldiers 
with rifles and light machine guns.  I don't know what's going on at 
the other sides but my part of the building is soon being peppered by 
small-arms fire.  Seeing the movement starting, I barely make it behind 
my shield. 

Bullets hitting the shield sound like popcorn popping but are no threat
at all.  After the first volley, I kneel in place and fire back, 
bringing a second blast of the smaller projectiles.  I can't see the 
street corners anymore but figure something must be happening there.  I 
hear a few grenades going off but figure nobody's had time to creep up 
to the building and our automatic Uzis will discourage it for quite a 
while yet. 

It's not long before two armored-trucks make their way, clumsily, down
my street.  Luckily, I think, they're not military tanks but only APCs 
sporting machine guns.  But, I know, even a .30cal machine gun burst 
can probably knock my shield over and a .50 certainly will.  Against 
them, I go from an almost invulnerable target with only a small 
firing-port to a six-foot-square bullseye. 

Nervously, I see the two vehicles stop.  Shooting back will, I know, be
useless with their frontal armor.  Even the drivers will be watching 
through armor-glass view-ports. 

For long minutes, everything is quiet except for an occasional shot from
either side and an errant grenade going off somewhere.  I should leave 
my post, I know but can't force myself.  I'm too frightened to shoot at 
the trucks and start a conflagration of return fire.  They must know my 
position by now, in easy range behind a wide window. 

A touch on my shoulder startles me into almost dropping my rifle-stock. 
It's Dumas.   He's carrying an Intricia security-guard shirt, complete 
with shiny badge -- several more of them in his arms.  I notice he's 
even wearing one himself. 

"Put this on.  I found them in a locker-room.  We're going to start
killing hostages.  Once we begin, there's no saying how long it'll be 
before they take us out.  It might be with the first execution or even 
after days of arguing back and forth.  Largely, it depends on how much 
they value the Ubama pricks I captured. We're to keep resisting as long 
as we can but can't fucking win in the end. 

"It's a long shot but Achi and I figure some of us might be able to
sneak out during the confusion of an attack. 

"We don't have enough of these for everyone and it might not do you any
good but it's best to live to fight another day if we can." 

"It doesn't seem right, Dumas.  It just doesn't seem right.  To leave
like that." 

"Why not, if our deaths are needless?" he points down at the groveling
general, whose tearing eyes seem to beg for mercy.  "We'll do our best 
and will kill all these bastards," he says, kicking the general over 
onto his side,  "but if a few of us get a chance, we should save 
ourselves." 

He leaves to pass out a few more shirts and badges.  I, too, kick the
general in the guts and put on the shirt, feeling slightly guilty.  My 
own is torn in places but, between the two of them, I manage to stuff a 
half-dozen loose grenades next to my chest.  I want them with me to 
drop out of a window later.  My rifle is pretty much useless.  One more 
shot and the return fire from those trucks outside will wipe me out.  
Achi will, even now, be on the telephone to give us more time, more 
television time. 

I turn back to my firing-port, feeling top-heavy with cold metal
cylinders against my t-shirt.  I hope my belt holds the weight.  The 
sight of those armored vehicles is unnerving, to say the least.  Three 
of the four machine guns point at different angles but I'm looking 
directly down the barrel of one 50cal.  That thing can tear this shield 
apart in moments. 

Behind me, I can hear Tronto and that fucking general talking. 

"You won't kill me if I do it?  Please promise me.  I've tried to be
fair, only doing my job.  I was only following orders.  I even refused 
when I could get away with it." 

"Sure, you did.  My orders are to shove you out this window afterward,
alive.  That's the truth.  If, of course, you do a good job on me."  
Tronto laughs, more a harsh giggle.  "Oh, that'll feel so good.  A 
fucking general, yet.  I never had a general do it before." 

"Do you believe him?  That he'll let me go ... after?" the simpering
fool asks me. 

"We're honorable men, not like you bastards.  We're not in the habit of
lying," I reply, grinning. 

Tronto's voice rises abruptly,  "Are you accusing me of being a liar?" 
I hear a slap and whimpering.  "Besides, I hear you did a couple of 
your guys before.  The first time," Tronto says, giggling again, "is 
the worst, from what I hear.  They said you enjoyed it, you fucking 
pervert." 

"Please?  Tell him you want to let me go.  Please?  I have a wife and
three children.  They need me." 

"She must be a real whore to let YOU use her, you son-of-a-bitch,"  I
answer, hearing a scuffling, ending with a thudding sound. 

"Uhhhhh!  Please, sir, I didn't mean it.  No. I beg you. No more."  More
thudding and whimpering. 

I think Tronto is probably kicking the shit out of the son-of-a-bitch. 
Good. Damn good. 

"Hear that?  Four clicks.  Time to go, you bastard.  Around the shield. 
Time for your supper,  General Asshole," Tronto says, laughing.  "Yum 
yum time." 

It's going to get plenty hot in a minute, I think, finally daring to
take my eyes off the steady black barrel of that fifty aimed directly 
at me.  Wiping sweaty hands on soiled trousers, I slowly remove my 
rifle from the firing slot, hoping that action alone won't bring a 
burst my way.  They must see me doing it, only the sight of that 
general keeping me alive.  Quickly, I heft the heavy weapon and step 
back, away from the shield. 

Once away from the window, I set my weapon down and glance toward the
front.  I'm looking directly into the general's blank eyes.  He's on 
his knees in front of Tronto, eying the man's crotch.  I see no 
emotion, only sweat dripping off his nose, mouth trembling but gaze 
steady as Tronto unzips. 

My helper's hands grab the back of the general's head, shoving it
forward.  I hear grunting sounds as Tronto's dick is forced into the 
bastard's mouth. 

General Thoros, the son-of-a-bitch that ordered my family killed, is
sucking Tronto, his head bobbing back and forth right in front of the 
window, his troops, and who knows how many million television viewers. 

Too bad, I think, that we can't let him live like Tronto promised.  The
bastard is humiliated beyond belief.  The cowardly cocksucker that's 
ordered thousands of innocent people killed, while himself living in 
luxury.  Bye-bye respect, bye-bye honor, bye-bye to your place in the 
history books, you son-of-a-bitch.  You won't be remembered for dozens 
of so-called brilliant campaigns -- but for sucking a single cock. Good 
for you. 

Even as I watch, along with the world, I hear a lone pistol shot, slowly
followed by two more.  The other three are finished, three important 
hostages dead. 

Hand shaking, I take out my own sidearm. 

"Enough.  Get out of the way," I order Tronto.  He jerks back, turning
to me, hard and still-damp penis waving.  General Thoros also faces me, 
eyes bugged out as he sees the pistol. 

"Damn!"  Tronto jumps aside, as the general's bladder gives, a thick
yellow stream arcing across the floor between them. 

"No!  You promis-- " he says, shaking uncontrollably. 

I grab coiffured white hair, turning his face toward the window. 
Holding my pistol back about a foot from his left ear, I blow his head 
half-off.  Only then does he get his promise, as I and Tronto shove his 
body out of the window.  The son-of-a-bitch. 

It's silent outside for a few seconds, during which I hear screaming and
gunshots reverberating throughout the building as, I assume, other 
prisoners are executed.  We were told to kill all the high-ranking 
ones. 

Then comes a firestorm from hell as an intense wall of pent-up passion
breaks loose from outside. 

I holster my pistol and look up to see Tronto burst, parts of him
spraying me along with shreds of glass.  As I turn to run, I'm almost 
crushed by my metal shield as it is dented and forced back, the force 
of multiple .50cal rounds outside bursting the supporting poles behind 
it. 

I stumble and fall to the floor.  Spent, physically and emotionally, I
lie there, looking at my faithful rifle, the stock now shattered by 
gunfire.  Ha, as though I'd have the strength or courage to try to 
retrieve it.  I can't force myself to move one inch toward that wall -- 
that virtually solid wall of lead.  I'm probably only saved, so far, by 
the angle of fire from the street and the thickness of a concrete 
floor. 

After what must be a minute or two, the firing slacks a little, though
it doesn't stop.  I crawl on my stomach, trying to get across the lobby 
and into the supposed shelter of the basement.  It seems an impossible 
distance away as I slither like a snake. 

If there's anyone else moving, I don't notice.  Halfway across the room,
some fool runs, actually runs, past, almost stepping on me in his 
panic.  A wooden ceiling joint falls beside me, splinters jumping out 
to pepper my right leg.  Bullets are ricocheting around me, a 
particularly lethal rain. 

I roll over onto my back, trying to get my shirttails back in.  I don't
want to lose those grenades.  One hell of a thing to think about. With 
trembling digits, I giggle as I re-secure them.  At the stairwell to 
the basement, I simply slide down on my back, heedless of protecting my 
head -- only in getting away from the firestorm above. 

Lying on the basement floor, I feel safe.  Nothing can hurt me down
here.  Even the noise seems slightly abated.  I manage to sit, feeling 
the injured leg.  It's bloody and painful.  I try pulling the largest 
splinters out but it hurts so much that I stop. I don't think any 
arteries are hit, since the blood is only seeping.  My precious 
grenades are lying around me, again released when my shirttails came 
out. 

A thought comes to me.  Why the hell not? I think.  I'm not in the same
cowardly class as a cocksucking Intricia general.  And I'm still 
wearing this Intricia security-guard shirt, complete with shiny badge.  
I pick the deadly canisters up and stuff them back against my chest, 
hiking my belt up a notch to keep them in. 

A jolt of pain, intense in its suddenness, hits me as I manage to stand,
chest heavy with ordnance.  I must have hurt my back going down the 
stairs.  Staggering heavily to the outside doorway, the shattered door 
itself lying on the floor, I look outside and up four steps to a 
sidewalk at the level of my chest. 

I'm in luck.  I see two real security guards stagger into Intricia
lines, along with several females that are probably secretaries.  I 
remember that we were ordered to release a few of them.  I must not 
look out of place, bloody and torn as I am and wearing this shirt. 

I stagger up the steps and outside, making my way to the enemy lines
while waving wildly at where people are starting to show among 
still-firing vehicles. 

As I reach them and a solicitous enemy officer reaches to help me, my
right hand probes inside my shirt to pull and hand him a grenade-pin.  
I see a look of total shock on the bast--. 

The End.


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