by Joseph Storm
“God forgives you,” Father Tyme strained his voice, fighting to get the words out.
“What?” the guard asked.
“Last words! God forgives you,” he squeezed from his throat.
“Ha,” the man laughed in mockery.
Tyme gazed back into the woods. He could see Joe Striker taking aim, clouding in and out of focus. He lined up the long barrel with the main guard’s head.
“Unfortunately for you, the men in the woods...are not as forgiving as God,” Father Tyme said cryptically. The main guard alarmingly drew his weapon, spinning around to search for the hidden men. Suddenly, a bullet struck the guard’s forehead with precision, ripping through to the other side.
“Bulls eye,” Striker proclaimed. He and Gunner rushed to aid the hanging Father Tyme.
The two men were greeted by the remaining guard, who had Becky in a headlock. “Move closer and she’ll die,” he threatened.
“Forget me...save him!” Becky yelled, motioning toward Francis.
“Save him...she dies. You choose,” the guard said with a smirk.
“Kill him! He took the chip from me!” Becky called out. “It’s all we have...our only proof to the world!”
Striker grabbed the barrel of his gun, aiming the large butt at the guard’s head. His intentions were a mystery. Suddenly, Striker tomahawked the heavy pistol, missing Becky’s face by an inch, striking the guard between the eyes.
The masked man crashed down. Becky ran towards Father Tyme, trying to undo her plastic restraints so she could untie the tight tree rope. She was unsuccessful.
Striker ran at the downed guard, as Gunner went to free Francis. Shoman’s strength was no match for the gnarled and twisted rope, which held the priest’s weight in full. The father’s eyes were starting to roll back into his head, as his consciousness slipped away.
Gunner propped up the struggling Francis. He lifted him into the air, providing a moment of lifesaving breath.
Joe Striker went to check on the guard, who appeared to be knocked out cold. He opened the man’s hand, retrieving the microchip, returning it to the safety of his pocket. He saw his gun on the floor, but decided to head towards Father Tyme first.
“Would you care to join us?” Gunner asked, as Striker turned his back on the guard. Suddenly, the downed enemy leapt from his fake slumber, striking Joe in the back of his head, sending him to the ground.
He gripped Striker by the back of his hair, turning him over, witnessing the faint scar, which ran across his neck. The make-up used to conceal the mark had faded in the water. The guard’s eyes lit up with delight, as he had been instructed to find a man of that description. The reward would be one of the immaculate, vacated homes.
“I was told to take you alive...but I can’t resist,” he said, pulling a dagger from a secret pocket within his boot. He prepared to reopen Striker’s neck wound. Gunner had no choice but to drop Father Tyme, ending his moment of recovery. The hanging started again. Becky, who was still bound, tried to boost Francis on her shoulders, though it was to no avail.
Realizing that she couldn’t help him in a bound state, Becky used the sharp bark of the poplar tree, rubbing frantic friction against the plastic cuff ties. She was starting to make progress, but it would clearly take more time than she needed.
Gunner lunged at the guard. He knocked the man off Striker, just moments before his throat could be recut. As they landed on the ground, each one wrestled for control. The guard regained his position. He still had the dagger in hand, gripping it even tighter, lunging it towards Gunner’s heart. Shoman caught the knife, fighting with all his might to ward off the forward movement. However, the guard was trained in such maneuvers, bending Gunner’s wrist to weaken it of all strength.
The knife sunk deeper, as the tip of the blade began to pierce Gunner’s skin. Joe Striker shook off the dizziness, charging the guard. The enemy in black momentarily stopped the progression of the knife, using a sweeping motion to take Striker down to the ground. He trapped him with a steel-toed boot against his neck.
Gunner tried to cover his chest, though the guard thrust the blade through the fleshy part of his hand, sinking the knife’s tip back down towards his heart. It was clear that these guard members were far from the typical mercenary. Their grasp of the English language and fighting skill were far superior.
It seemed over for them all. Father Francis Tyme counted his last moments of consciousness, preparing his soul with a silent prayer. Joe Striker was about to have his throat crushed, and the guard’s blade began drawing blood on the journey to Gunner’s heart.
All hope appeared to be lost, as suddenly, the hard butt of Joe Striker’s Smith & Wesson bashed the guard’s skull, causing him to stop all pressure on Joe Striker’s throat. He released the knife’s momentum into Gunner’s chest.
The guard keeled over. Gunner yanked the tip of the blade from his chest and hand, flinging the unconscious guard to the side. Becky ran to each of them, “Are you hurt?”
“There’s no time to hurt!” Joe called out, noticing that Father Tyme had just lost consciousness. His face turned blue, and his body went limp.
They both pushed away their pains and injuries, hurrying over to the large Poplar. “This knife would be better served cutting the rope...than lodged in my chest,” Gunner said, handing Striker the dagger. Gunner returned to hold Father Francis into the air, allowing the breathing process to return.
Striker approached the tightly tied trunk knot, sawing a slice through the rope. The fragile Father Tyme spilled to the ground, though Gunner caught him, and laid him down gently. He unloosened the noose from the priest’s neck, allowing the blood to leave his head, and bringing the veins in his neck down to size. The moment that Francis was freed from the choking restraints of the noose, life returned to him. He slowly regained consciousness.
They tended to the old man, as the steps of a fleeing guard member filled the air. They turned to see the guard escaping through the woods, heading for his vehicle.
“Shit! He’ll get help! They’ll be on us any minute,” Gunner yelled.
“Let him,” Striker said. “We’ve survived for four years with this man’s help...let’s help him survive a few more years with ours,” he said.
Tears entered Becky’s face, as she leaned down and kissed Tyme on the forehead. “Are you, ok? Any lasting damages?”
“Minus the preexisting ones,” Gunner said.
Striker helped Father Tyme into a sitting position. “Take it easy...you’ve been through a lot.”
Francis looked around in a confused manner. “Is this heaven?” he asked, as he turned to look at Gunner. “It obviously is not.”
“Are you happy to see us?” Gunner asked, as Becky wrapped Shoman’s injured hand with the nun’s head wrap.
“Some of you...more than others,” Father Tyme responded in a lighthearted manner.
“Hey, ungrateful old man...there’s still enough rope to hang you back up!”
“You’ve done enough favors for one day,” he said.
Becky handed Joe his gun, as he returned it to its place. “Who needs bullets?” she asked, as he smiled at her.
“Are you able to walk?” Striker asked Father Tyme.
“I can make it,” he said, struggling to his feet.
“We’re all banged up...but we still have our lives...and we still have the chip,” Striker said, holding the microchip into the air. “Now...all we need to do is get out of here...and find a new home.”
“Easier said than done, kid. Easier said than done,” Gunner assured him.
Chapter Nine:
The River
The time was only 5:00 P.M., though the lights were off in the windowless underground bunker of the Pentagon. Eight-year-old Emma pretended to be asleep in her bed, comfortably at rest after the endless training session, which started the night before. The long, harsh hours were common place in the dojos, as it was preparing the young army for a future battle against their own countr
ymen.
Emma’s female government minder checked her closely, syringe ready in hand. If the young girl wasn’t asleep by then, the minder would aid the child with a dose of medicine to help end her consciousness. However, it didn’t appear the shot would be needed, since she seemed to be out cold.
The female minder was satisfied with Emma’s status, having no reason to doubt her. The young girl had been nothing but cooperative since the day she arrived in custody. The minder exited the room, quietly closing the door, and leaving Emma to dream beneath a faint red light.
Since all the disciplined children were checked, the minder felt the freedom to exit the bunker, heading down the hall to smoke. It was something she was forbidden to do, though did often.
Hearing the sound of the outer-doors close, Emma tossed around in her bed, trying to comply with nap time. She could not rid the previous night’s trauma from her innocent brain. In fact, the young girl had not achieved a full night’s sleep since being taken for “reeducation” purposes. She missed her home, and couldn’t adapt to the stale white-washed walls, stiff mattress, and thin sheet.
She missed her dog, a pug named Mimi, which used to snuggle with her at night. The loving animal would get so close, it practically became a loving thorn in her side. The warmth, which radiated from the dog made her feel safe, like someone was looking over her. It was the complete opposite of the 59 degree temperature, which filled the air she currently breathed. Emma longed for the day, when she would feel that warmth again. However, she had no idea that the laws had changed. The promise of a return to her parents was crushed by the second phase, making her official government property. At least the young girl had hope to hang onto, as the newly removed children would never have those beliefs to cling to.
Should I do it? She wondered to herself, as her demons and angels went back and forth. They weighed the severe consequences for disobeying an order. Emma examined her sprained wrist, getting a taste of the abuse that the boys received daily.
You’ll be punished, she assured herself. Minder will never find out, the other half of her brain assured her. Is he worth it? They both asked her. He is, she assured herself, as the girl sat up from her bed, and crept towards the door.
She quietly peered out into the hallway, confirming that darkness was its only inhabitant. Confident that her government minder was absent, she slowly shut her door, tiptoeing the short distance to the adjacent room.
Emma took another look towards the bunker entrance. She placed her hand on the neighboring door knob, turning it slowly. What if he wakes? Will he tell? She asked herself.
Throwing caution to the wind, Emma opened the door, entering Rock’s room. She had decided to take a chance. The thing which fascinated her about the boy, who was half-her-age, was his kindness in the face of such brutality.
Emma delicately approached Rock’s bed, studying the soft, red light on his face. It revealed soft skin, and gentle features. He was sleeping hard, exhausted from the vigorous and emotional day that had taken a toll on him.
She sat beside him, gazing at the young boy like a work of fine art. The patient girl had always been one that was easily entertained, though she never thought that watching someone sleep would lead her to such content. However, Emma was more than just content. Rock had caught her interest since the moment she laid eyes on him.
The peaceful look upon Rock’s face quickly turned to one of angst. The boy’s brain flashed between images of a mysterious, blood-covered woman reaching out for him, begging for the return of her son. She was unknown to Rock. Though the sadness in her eyes, and the cruel state of torn flesh inflicted upon her, had wracked his young heart. An image of such horror scared the four year-old, as he trembled in his bed.
The more defined image was of Emma, being thrown to the ground by the beastly, eye-patched Commander Xavier Sin. The tears in her helpless eyes angered him, though much like his father, it was his inaction to save her that caused him such pain.
Minutes of Rock’s nightmare seemed to stretch for hours, as the slow-motioned twisting of Emma’s wrist replayed in his mind. It brought his doped blood to a heightened boil. Suddenly, the angst turned to rage.
He leapt up, causing Emma to gasp. She headed back into the hidden shadows of a corner. Rock, who was stuck in between a state of REM sleep and consciousness was about to experience his first bout with steroid rage. It would not be the last in his young life. His muscles burned beneath his skin, making him want to stomp out the fire with his fists.
Both nightmares stayed burned into his mind like the screen of an old plasma television, left on one repeating scene. He rolled off his bed, bashing his small fists into the steel frame. Next, he moved to the bare walls, giving them a sudden splash of small, red blotches
Emma watched in horror. She couldn’t believe such sweetness could turn into such destruction. What she didn’t know was that the unnatural power and anger of such a young child was created in a lab, and injected in a syringe. It wasn’t part of his nature.
Rock continued. He was so focused on his dreams that he didn’t even detect Emma’s presence. To him, he was surrounded by nothing but darkness, as his anger spilled out onto the wall, in a fury. He neared the breaking of his fists, as Emma called out, “Rock, stop!”
The tearful, sweet voice broke him from his trance. The young boy turned to face her, trembling in fear. Tears spilled from his eyes like a saltwater fountain, as he had experienced his first cry since infancy. Acts of weakness were forbidden for a solider, in training or not.
Rock collapsed to the ground, as Emma rushed to his aid. She cradled him in her arms, bringing the boy close to her. He cuddled in, squeezing against her, almost absorbing her compassion. In mere moments of feeling her healing touch, the trembling and sobs stopped. The two children had never spoken to each other, minus words of appreciation at the water table, though they were as familiar as a broken-in pair of shoes.
The exhausted boy laid in Emma’s arms, basking in emotions he had never experienced. Before Emma could say anything to him, Rock had drifted back to sleep. She rhythmically rocked him back and forth, humming a soft lullaby in his ear.
On the flip side, Rock wasn’t the only one to benefit. Warmth filled every inch of Emma’s body. She reclined on the hard, cold tile floors, as Rock slept soundly on her chest. It was the first time since the young girl left home that she achieved a few hours of real sleep.
Upon awakening, she returned Rock to his bed. Emma kissed the sleeping boy on the forehead. “You probably won’t even remember this,” she whispered to him. “But thank you.” She exited the room.
The hallways were still quiet. Emma assumed that the minder was absent from the area. She crept to her door, quietly opening it, and shutting it equally as quiet. She turned towards her bed, as a voice startled her.
“Where were you?” the minder asked, in her raspy, cigarette stained voice. She was sitting in the dark, waiting on the bed.
Emma gasped, trying to think quickly. “I just...just needed to use the restroom, minder...I promise.”
“You wait for permission to relieve yourself.”
“I know...it won’t happen again.”
“You’re right it won’t...because you will be asleep,” she demanded, holding the liquid-filled syringe in her hand. “That will be the last time I trust you,” she said coldly, rising from the bed, approaching the scared girl.
“Please...I was sleeping...I just woke up.”
“This will stop that,” she assured her. “Now...take your medicine like a good girl,” she said, placing the needle at Emma’s arm.
“Did you enjoy your cigarette?” the young Emma asked.
The government minder stopped the needle’s progression, angrily asking, “What did you say to me?”
“I can smell it on your clothes. My mother smelled like that too...hers not as cheap. I’ve heard the door close...almost every night now, for a while. I know you leave us alone...unattended.”
“
You wouldn’t dare tell...you little brat!”
“I’ll tell the master if you ever try to give me that shot!”
“They will never believe you...just a child’s lies.”
“Maybe they’ll believe us both,” the intelligent girl said in a defiant, threatening manner. “They like to punish people around here.”
“Get to bed,” the minder demanded. She removed the shot from Emma’s arm, quickly exiting the room.
Emma took a deep breath, and ran back to her bed. A big smile filled her face, as she learned a valuable lesson. In order to survive around such bad people, you must sometimes give them a dose of their own medicine.
******
“Did you get the damned chip?” Commander Xavier screamed from the top of his lungs. He was inside his newly appointed Potomac office, as the escaped, out of breath, Guard member stood before him.
“We located the chip...it is in their possession.”
“I didn’t ask if you located it...I asked if you got it!”
“It was in my grasp...but, they got it back. They can’t be far! They’re on foot...in town! Just a mile away!”
“I’m beginning to think I should just hire Striker for myself...since you retards can’t seem to do a damn thing right! Release a full squadron. I want that chip...and by the way...there’s a change in the order! I want the congressmen delivered alive...kill the rest of them.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard said.
******
The setting sun blasted a blaze of light from the horizon line, coating the large, thick clouds in a marinade of orange and red. Joe Striker helped Father Tyme onto the edge of rubble that used to be his church. He looked on the scene with heavy eyes.
“I’ll give you a moment,” Joe said.