“‘Made’ to function?”
“Oh, please. You think boot camp’s a vacation? Yes, Colonel, ‘made.’ Warriors are meant to fight, thinkers are meant to think, but they can never be the same. That’s why you’ll always belong to war, not peace. Without war, you’d lose your purpose, Colonel.”
“You don’t know me as well as you think.”
Paul smiled. “I’ve seen your uniform. I know enough.”
“I have family, Paul. I fear for their safety and wellbeing every day. I want each of my four children to grow up in a peaceful world. I taught them to make sure they leave the world better than they came into it. My wife and I both are responsible for the lives of thousands. Never tell me again that I’m a mindless cog in the machine.”
Paul shook his head, then looked up, directly into Colonel Corwin’s eyes. “If I was wrong about you, you’d disobey this execution order. You would let me live.”
“Open rebellion isn’t the only way to cause change.” Paul now wasn’t replying. Corwin peered through the window, at the table being set up at the far end of the warehouse. “Noon tomorrow. That’s when it will take place. You may be my enemy, but we are both human. I don’t believe in hating my enemies. I believe everyone should die with dignity, particularly those who fought for their principles. I would like to offer you a shower before we leave. You may join my men for dinner right now, if you wish.”
“…Dignity,” said Paul under his breath. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine.”
“We would appreciate it. Once a Marine, a Marine for life.”
“Colonel… Give it up. Your courtesy is noted. You were good to me. I get it. I’m sure it’ll make for a great story to tell the grandkids.”
The Colonel hesitated, but ultimately left Paul alone without another word.
Long after the troops had cleared from the mess hall, the prisoner fell asleep. Sometime late in the night, his cell door opened, and in poured five operatives with handcuffs and ankle chains. Slowly, they escorted him outside for all the regiment to see. Few civilians were present, Fallon being one. Paul looked around for that little girl who avidly interrogated him earlier. He couldn’t remember her face; there was no certainty he’d recognize her anyway. Fallon had a blonde-haired little girl standing beside her, but it wasn’t the right one. He gave up. It was her passion and intelligence that made him desire to speak to her again. Whoever she was, she was driven to do what’s right, too. She was no typical child with an excess of attitude, he knew.
As he was being loaded into the transport chopper, nobody among the crowd shouted anything to him, as he had expected. Apart from the spinning blades above, it was as silent as a cemetery.
Well, I wouldn’t miss me, either, he thought.
Portland was polar opposite to the dead silence of Woodburn. The crowds were larger, the people boisterous. Making sense of their screams was an impossible feat. Listening closely, he attempted to hear if the noise was in support of him, or of his impending death. He heard Colonel Corwin, the pilot, and others complaining that word had spread of their transporting Paul. Word travels fast, from sources you’d least suspect, he mentally replied to them. Since nothing was being thrown at him, he assumed the crowds were protesting the troops, not him. I won’t die as lonely as I expected.
He was brought into a building operated by Corwin’s wife. A former school, he deduced. After being dragged into the gymnasium, the guards that brought him exited. Not to worry, there were plenty of guards still inside watching over him and the others. A simple mat was his bed; no pillow or blanket. The lights weren’t going to be shut off until daytime. Paul wondered who the others were. He didn’t bother trying to socialize with them since they were asleep. At least, until the next morning after the Colonel came inside and woke them all.
Corwin knelt down beside Paul while the guards were assembling the other inmates. “That one,” he began, pointing with his eyes. Paul turned his head, seeing a dark-skinned man calmly allowing himself to be cuffed and chained at the ankles. “His name’s Marcus Solomon. We captured him last December. We found him guilty of trading and utilizing children for military and economic gain. That little girl who so adamantly wanted to speak to you… She was one of his victims.”
“What’s her name?”
“Theia. Her father belongs to the mob. For a time, he was an ally – our spy in the criminal underworld – but now he’s M.I.A.”
Paul was pleased to learn the girl’s name before he died. He cherished that knowledge. He asked Corwin, “So, what about Marcus Solomon?”
“That one…” The Colonel pointed behind himself, toward the loner in the corner. “That’s Dante. He belonged to the Verbeck family here in Portland.”
“And when did you capture him?” sighed Paul.
“We didn’t. He’s been an ally since the death of his boss.”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but why are you telling about who’s a prisoner and who’s not? Are you offering me a job spying on someone? No, I get it. You’ll let me live if I rat on other Reformists.”
Corwin gestured to have Paul stand with him. He adjusted Paul’s sleep-muddled hair, then said while looking toward Marcus again, “This room is full of valuable prisoners. Men… and one woman … with a cause. A following. Respected leaders, like yourself. Apart from Dante, who’s only been granted clemency because we, admittedly, need him, you’ll all be executed today. There’s a crowd gathered outside. Half of them want you dead, the other half insists you live. Even now, after surviving the brink of total collapse, everyone still finds reasons to be divided.”
“What do they care if I die? Or, whoever else.”
“Some believe in forgiveness, some want punishment. Many people committed atrocities before we restored order. If–”
“Your kind of order,” rudely interjected Paul.
Corwin continued. “If you’re executed, I see all this falling apart. Everything. It’s exactly the excuse our enemies need to start fighting again. But, it could fall apart if you’re kept alive, too. I want peace, Paul. If our collective intel says executing you is the right course of action, then I am willing. I would not obey this order if I believed it to be a senseless order. I don’t suspect the mob has feelings toward the matter. No intel strongly suggests that. The Reformists have been driven out. This might be the first step toward peace.”
Confirmed again. His death was truly imminent…
“You’ll have an opportunity to speak. I promise. People will be listening, so make it good.”
He could fathom that the Colonel wanted to phrase that more elegantly, but he forgave the bluntness and apathy. Clearly, there just isn’t an easy way to tell someone you’re about to kill them. If one has a heart, that is. Tyson Corwin had a heart, no doubt. It showed in his sunken face. But it wasn’t obvious. A price for being a soldier is crossing paths with death. You see it befall others, until, in time, you hope it finds you. Only a soldier could learn to see the despair behind the mask of apathy. Our whole job is to not show weakness.
An hour later, it was time.
Paul and eight others were brought up to the platform in the midst of the street. An army of soldiers behind him, a crowd of anxious citizens ahead. Nine nooses for nine traitors. Paul’s was the center one. Everyone calmly stood beside their rope. The man Corwin called Marcus Solomon was to his right. Truly, it was stirring – agonizing even – to look to his left and right, seeing the faces of men all about to meet the same end. Each of them accepted it. Not one had an expression of planning escape. The troops didn’t need to aim weapons. Nobody would be attempting escape today.
The Colonel personally applied the noose around Paul’s neck, then handed him a photo. It was Nicole. Paul’s eyes watered.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your bunker, the night you surrendered. I couldn’t bring your wife here, but at least I could make her face the last thing you see.”
Tears streamed down his cheeks. He thanked Corwin with a nod.
Corwin checked with the others. Everything was ready, they signaled to him. “All right,” he began, taking a step back. He addressed the crowd. “These men have been tried and convicted of some of the most heinous crimes imaginable. Many hate them, many believed they had just cause, and many provided them support. It is the belief of my superiors, and of the Citizens’ Court of Portland that these men be put to death. One of them, the one I now stand beside, was a leader of a political movement. I believe he had good intentions for all he did and all he commanded others to do. I believe he will be greatly missed by many. Unfortunately, crimes are crimes. I have given him permission to speak before his soul leaves this world. Paul…” His voice quieted some. “You can speak now.”
Looking out over countless faces of various ages, all Paul could think of was how they were all the same. Some differences in head shape, skin color, height, whatever. All desired the same thing. Freedom, safety … peace. Shame, he thought, that what we also have in common is our inclination for violence.
He didn’t want his legacy to be about him. He wanted to be a piece of what brought real change and hope, not recognition or remembrance. As for final words, he always thought saying “Long live liberty” sounded catchy and memorable. Perhaps in a different life, he would have said that. Here and now, though, he chose to remain silent. He merely looked at those faces, loving all of them as brothers and sisters – fellow humans, neither above nor beneath him.
Corwin had waited a minute, but after Paul had said nothing, the signal was given. Two violin players began their sad music meant to soothe everyone’s hearts, as if that would do any good. “Nicole,” he faintly said, audible only to himself. The lever was pulled, and every man on the platform dropped.
The crowd erupted. From within its center, at least a dozen simultaneously lit Molotov cocktails, throwing them at the soldiers both on and behind the stage. And, of course, people from all amongst the crowd pulled small firearms and shot toward the soldiers. Curses and threats were screamed. Forced to defend themselves, the troops shot back, but it did nothing to lessen the crowd’s advance. Within a minute, the troops were surrounded from all sides, not just the watch crowd. From behind the stage, despite the street blockade that had been established with tanks and trucks, several cars slammed through to make a clearing. Once the opening was wide enough, one last car sped through, straight at the soldiers gathered. Its driver was covered in explosives, and once he struck the stage, the car exploded, blasting fragments in all directions, covering the street in caustic shards.
War had returned to the city.
THEIA
How do you make thoughts disappear and never come back?
As was Theia’s thinking all through the night. She managed to keep her eyes closed, but never fell asleep, as far. She had endured past sicknesses and injuries, but memories were ever present, though. No medicine could cure harassing thoughts and the heavy emotions they wrought, no bandage could heal emotional pain, and no treatment could put her anxiety about the future to rest. She knew her brain controlled all those things, from consciousness to bodily functions, to thoughts, to emotions. All which made her, her. Though she wished it, she couldn’t ask someone to open up her head and take away the experiences that wore her down. The horrors were part of her being now, she helplessly realized.
Older and older she got, and more and more she learned about the world. It wasn’t like weekend cartoons, or great tales about happily ever after. People were complicated, and therefore life. If life’s this hard when I’m eleven, how hard will it be when I’m grown up?
Suddenly, Theia was looking at Matt and Benny. They had been hiding in some kind of round building in downtown Portland. They pulled her inside because everyone outside was crazed and mutilating each other. More than anything, she was delighted to see the boys. Both said they never died, just got a little scratched up; news which brought her tears of joy. Then, she remembered: she wasn’t in Portland, and those boys were certainly gone…
Theia jerked herself awake, reemerging in reality. It took a moment before she remembered where she was. Woodburn, she needed to consciously remind herself. For the life of her, she had no recollection of what building she had slept in. The carpet’s nice, though, she thought. After a moment, she reckoned, A hotel. At least twenty others were in the room, too. Mercy slept on the adjacent mattress. Breathing in deep, relaxing after violently waking, she told herself, Even when I’m dreaming, nothing changes…
Quietly, she rose, passing between the beds, stepping out to the hallway, then exited the building, finding herself a few steps away from Woodburn’s Interstate 5 overpass. While her part of town peacefully rested during that early hour of sunrise, she walked to the overpass, the highest point in sight. Standing at its center, she peered around for a sign indicating the direction of north, then faced that way, gazing into the far distance. Parts of the Willamette Valley edges were visible even then, including Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens. She wondered if anyone retreated to the mountains to escape the war. If so, They must be pretty peaceful up there, she thought.
For an hour at least, Theia enjoyed the soothing wind blowing through her hair. The chill brought goosebumps, but she didn’t mind. As she gazed at the colossal natural monuments, she envied their majesty. Hills… mountains… they’re not afraid of anything, she thought. I wonder if they watch humans and think we’re sad, pathetic creatures. Despite knowing mounds of dirt and volcanoes lacked emotions, or any cognitive ability, she liked pretending they did. She wished to talk to them; gain their wisdom. Then, she thought of her father. He would have loved to sit there with her, soaking in the beautiful sights, too. I wonder what he’s doing right now… Probably sleeping.
“What are you doing, honey?” came Mercy’s soft voice. “It’s not safe to be alone out here. How’d you get past the guards?”
“What guards?”
“…You didn’t see anybody? That’s disturbing. Looks like I need to have a word with them.” She stared at Theia a moment. “I knew I’d find you here.”
“Did I wake you up?”
Mercy sat beside her, pulling her close. “I don’t sleep well these days, either. After your last incident, I always have to make sure you’re not wandering off. You sure like doing that.” Mercy wrapped an arm around Theia, who rested her head on her shoulder. “I know you don’t do it for nothing. What’s wrong? Miss your father?”
“I always miss him. It’s getting harder to believe I’ll see him again. But… I keep having these thoughts and these nightmares. I can’t forget anything. Am I sick?”
Mercy kissed the top of her head. “Theia… We’re all sick.”
–––––––
Nine was the designated hour to pack up and leave. Everyone barely had time to wake up. Fortunately, Theia and Mercy had little to pack, so they spent most of the time after breakfast to help others. The cars were lined up on the road in front of the building, being packed to the last modicum of space. Whenever she stepped outside, Theia couldn’t help herself being engrossed at the sight of the Valley edge; her mind obsessed on the thoughts the view brought. Effective distractions from her inner turmoil.
“Honey, can you ask the doctor for some ibuprofen?” asked Mercy, assisting an old woman in a wheelchair. “This lady has a headache.”
“Sure.” Theia skipped across the street to the gas station, where she had last seen a doctor. Skipping often helped get the blood flowing when she didn’t have things to do. Someone her size wasn’t of much help packing luggage. Talking to herself helped; pointing out every little obviously thing that caught her attention like she was narrating her every step. It was all for the sake of not dozing off while waiting for everyone to move out. Perhaps boredom was the great cure to her insomnia. When she reached the doctor, she forgot the name ‘ibuprofen,’ so she opted to simply request headache pills. Then, she skipped back to Mercy. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, honey. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
Now, the packing was done. All that remained was the go-ahead by Fallon to depart. While Mercy pushed the wheelchair lady onto the bus lift, Theia sat down in the nearest patch of grass, observing everyone engage in casual conversation. She folded her arms around her knees, then leaned her head against them. This ultimately turned into another effective distraction from worse thoughts. Everyone looked happy, or at least content. I could use some of that, she thought.
Across the street, something caught her eye. A girl with black hair, equal height as Theia. She stared until the girl turned around. She recognized that face.
Theia sprang up and ran. The closer she came, the more familiar that girl appeared. For only a moment, nervousness nearly caused her to turn back. Without completely intending to, she spoke; tapping her foot nervously. “Hey.”
Turning around, the girl paused, then replied, “Hey,” rather apathetically.
“We met at the … the, um, church. We met at that church.”
Nodding, the girl replied, “Yeah, I remember you. New girl. Came just before I escaped, right?”
Theia was impressed with how casually the girls said that. “Yeah. Sure. Well, I mean, I think.”
Several seconds of awkward silence fell between them until the girl asked, “Who are you?”
Somehow, Theia nearly forgot the answer to that question. “Um… Theia.”
“I’m Sophie.”
“I’m Theia,” she said, smiling.
“I know. I literally just learned that,” said Sophie. “So, you got outta there in one piece, huh?”
“The church? Yeah, the Army captured Marcus. My dad helped them.”
“Cool. So, how’d you end up out here?”
Not going to ask about my dad? Though offended, Theia reminded herself not to expect an acquaintance to know who or what was important to her.
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