The Sons of Liberty

by James Tow

cracked lips—he’s a mess.

  He wore what a typical mercenary wore: his own clothes to his desire. He wore camouflage pants with a tank top and a vest. Over his heart, pinned to the tactical vest, was a small silver eagle. The eagle with a shield badge signified a captain or colonel of the U.S. Armed Forces. What it was called among the Apocalypse soldiers, I didn’t know.

  What does a man of his rank and stature, think in this position? No better way than to ask.

  “What’s going on in that head of yours?” I asked him.

  He looks at me for a few seconds. “You my fucking psychiatrist?”

  I laugh aloud. “Funny you should mention that…I hate psychiatrists. But is that any way to speak to a stranger?”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” he said glaring at me.

  “Well that’s not very fair now, is it? You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are.”

  “You’re going to have to hit me a few more times for that info. Which is pointless because I’m not gonna tell you anyways.” He spit on the ground between us.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. Besides I just wanted to know more about you so we could have a more in-depth conversation…”

  “I don’t want to talk to you,” he snapped back at me.

  “Yeah you do,” I told him in a stern voice. “I bet you rarely get to talk about yourself nowadays. Which sucks for you because before the Apocalypse came along, that’s all anybody did. I bet you fit right in.” He sat in still silence. “I’m sure you miss the old world,” I said after a few moments and he spit in my direction.

  “You should save your fluids,” I instructed him.

  “The old world got humanity nowhere. We just went around in circles with no form of ingenuity advancing anything,” he refuted.

  “That’s a little vague isn’t it?” I replied. “In that sense though, I give you kudos. Most people who didn’t agree with the established order simply told others not to believe in it. Not believing in anything is just as useless. Antagonizing old ideas and not creating anything of their own…”

  “Enough of your rambling,” he said, cutting me short.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “That talk puts me in a bad mood anyways.”

  “So what branch of service were you in?” I asked.

  He continued to glare through furrowed brows. “If you were in the service that is. Knowing where you are now, I’d assume you were,” I told him. He still glares—I haven’t softened him up enough.

  “I was in The Army, not sure if you knew that or not,” I told him.

  “Special Forces,” he confirmed. “We know more about you than you think.”

  “I feel like a superstar,” I tell him. I was more focused on the emphasis he put in ‘Green Beret.’ It had me thinking.

  “You were in special warfare as well?” I said in more of a statement than a question. He broke his glare and hung his head.

  “Ah,” I said. We’re getting somewhere. “SEALs? Some other special operations?” I pushed. He said nothing—still hanging his head making it impossible to read his face.

  “You go to Iraq?” I asked him and he flinches. “I spent most of my time over there, but I’m sure you already knew that.”

  I close my eyes and reminisce. “We went through some crazy shit. One I’ll always remember is when we were trying to get locals to come forth and give up some hostiles living within their ranks. Well, they were scared shitless. So, naturally, they never came. When our L.T. decided to go to them, you could imagine our group was a bit concerned for our own well-being, but I mean it’s our job to be the diplomats. You don’t sign up for a job and not do it.” I open my eyes to study the prisoner. He seems intent on hearing more, so I continue. “Anyways, we made it there—bearing gifts. And all seemed well. They were ecstatic to see us—none of us knew it was because they did their part in our destruction. A couple of them were strapped with heavy explosives. Within a couple of seconds, half of my team was dead.”

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  “Pretty much,” I replied. “The rest of us didn’t run just then,” and he looked up at me confused. “The anger got the best of us,” I admitted. He seemed a bit upset, which pissed me off—squeezing the fruit in my hand, nearly making a handful of pulp. I get to my feet, “You’re upset?! Are you oblivious to the shit you partake? Or are you just that much a hypocrite?” He hangs his hand, but with my free hand, I put his face in a vise grip, “Don’t look away from me soldier. Is this what you learned in the military?” He snatches his face away.

  “Don’t call me that,” he snarled. That struck a nerve.

  I take a step back, sit down with my legs crossed, and bite into the orange peel. “Why not?” I ask him as I take a chunk of peel off the orange.

  He takes in a large breath and sighs, “I was a lieutenant myself—marine recon. But I did my time as quickly as possible and joined the FBI. I wanted to get out of the shit as soon as possible.”

  “Not proud of your service to your country?” I ask while taking the last bit of peel off the fruit.

  “Are you?!” he snapped back.

  “Of course I am. It’s why I joined in the first place,” I tell him with a smile. I tear apart a couple of slices and toss it in my mouth. “But our experiences obviously differ,” I tell him with orange juice oozing from the corners of my lips.

  “Lemme just say that my story isn’t as noble as yours,” he explained. I popped in a few more slices.

  “I don’t know if I’d call it ‘noble,’ but I’ve got time,” I tell him through a mouth full.

  “Time I don’t want to spend sharing my lift story!” he snapped. I feel the anger rising.

  “Does it make sense, that someone who is ashamed of their military life because of some ‘unethical incidences,’” I put my hands up and signaled quotation marks, “would join The Army of the Apocalypse?” Though I’m a little upset, I keep my calm.

  “You wouldn’t understand,” he said.

  “Your right, I wouldn’t.” I close my eyes and eat the last couple of slices—enjoying them to their potential. I began to think of our conversation so far. And all I really got was that Pollick’s reach in recruitment wasn’t limited to just military—he was an FBI agent before he turned.

  “So how was it that you were recruited into this damned army?”

  “I joined out of hate,” he told me. “I hated the idea of peace running amuck within the world leader’s minds. My life consisted of me standing still playing with my balls.”

  “What’s your point?” I asked—beginning to get annoyed. “The world was, finally, at peace.”

  “Don’t be naive,” he grinned. “I stood around; knowing something like Project Apocalypse was going to happen. There will always be tyrants. There will always be evil. Peace is just a blindfold people like to wear to shield them from reality,” he said.

  “So you join the tyrants on the side of evil? Because of this blindfold?” I asked

  “Hate,” he repeated.

  “Hate,” I scoffed. “I don’t understand your logic. Hate is just a burning itch in the back of your head. An annoyance if anything. You should know from first hand that acting on it will get you nowhere.”

  He started laughing, “Oh, you couldn’t be more wrong. You have it in you, I can tell.”

  I think about her. “I’ve hated plenty of things before; I’m not going to lie. But then I grew up.”

  “It’s still with you,” he said laughing. “Something like the death of a fiancé doesn’t just go away.”

  I snap my head up, and he’s wearing an annoying smirk. The door behind me starts shaking within its frame. But the flowing anger through my body has my mind elsewhere.

  “Like I said, we know more than you think,” he said. He’s getting to me, and he knows it. I want another orange. Take my mind off things.

  “Did you get to see her before she died? Because I know they took their time with her,” he pushed. This couldn’t be true. For wh
en I found her she had one injury, and it was fatal. I can’t let him crawl under my skin. I close my eyes and try to control my thoughts, but I can’t help them from wandering toward her.

  I remember the destructed state of Pensacola when I arrived. I remember the horror I felt as I drove down the street to our home. The neighboring houses were destroyed, with people outside mourning their dead. I drove up our front lawn, and entered through the front door—it was already knocked off its hinges. I ran through the house—frantically checking the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. I stopped when I entered our bedroom. She was motionless on the floor—lying in a pool of her own blood. Shot in the heart.

  His laughing broke me from my trance, and I realized I was thinking out loud. “That poor bitch. Did you fall to your knees and cry?” he said mockingly.

  “You will never see me on my knees,” I said with my eyes still closed.

  “Maybe you should’ve checked closer for any other wounds. I remember some of the guys talking. How she had the nicest ass they’d ever seen.”

  I open my eyes.

  “Ouch, that hit something,” he said smiling. Something did ‘hit me’ but I’m not sure what. I feel…different.

  I look at him smiling, “You know, I haven’t seen the sun in,” I pause and think, “actually I don’t remember the last time I saw the sun.” I get to my feet and pick up a chunk of orange peel. “But I don’t know why I wish to see it. Because when you look at the sun, the damn thing burns your eyes.” I put my left hand on the top of his head and held his eye open with my thumb. I