Liberty Or Death! 4/4

Author’s Note:

Story contains scenes of violence. Reader discretion is advised.

-0-

Through binoculars, a cavalry charge is a stunning and gruesome thing. Spotter One watched as horses went down, or took fright and threw their riders, none of them were really war animals. They were all for show and the stench of death and presence of violence mixed with their rider’s fears sent them over the edge.

Not all. Not even many. But some, and that some managed to encourage the uniform infantry. They turned loose the uninjured animals and put down the wounded. Whatever happened to the riders, if they survived the fall, was invisible behind the wall of shields. Save the for orange blossom of one grenade going off.

Howling war cries drifted to him on the wind hand in hand with the echoing crack of weapons on shields. It was all very distracting. Blood and bodies, the rising and falling of weapons, and the ringing screams of wounded. The carnage kept dragging his attention and his eyes back to it. Leaving gaps in his observation.

Chiding himself, he looked back at the far end of the street and steadily swept up, down, across, and back. The Massacre had been a wake up call for him, and that wake up call meant two things. First, that he had been able to gather some fellow veterans; and second, that he was there.

Machine guns into a crowd of protestors.

He spat, then pressed the binoculars to his eyes again. Those uniforms were barely human to him anymore. His shoulder itched where the flag was tattooed in the same spot it would sit on a uniform.

They were all traitors.

Without taking his eyes from the binoculars, he groped for then seized his radio. “Spotter One, check.”

“Reading clear, Spotter One,” the countermeasure’s driver sounded bored.

From the radio, “Spotter Two, check.”

“Reading clear, Spotter Two.”

So, everyone was all still where they were supposed to be. All he had to do was wait.

Nothing guaranteed that his plan would be needed. Nothing said that the government hadn’t learned a lesson same as anyone else. But there was the chance that they hadn’t learned, or that they had learned it was a way to win if they chips were down.

Allowing himself to rake the skirmish line again, he saw that the chips were definitely down. A flash had caught his attention, something bright and red caught as a reflection of a reflection. Before his amplified eyes, the horses plunged back into the turmoil but from the same direction as before. Different standards floated over their heads, different heraldry adorned the armour of different hobbyist jousters. And different uniforms adorned the re-enactors.

The charge vanished to his left and he thought that would be the end of the show. The infantry again began to surge, drawing uniforms back to the line lest it break. Another blast from a bugle and more distant thunder of hooves. A third charge through they now thinned and dispirited ranks. A man in flowing, tournament regalia drove his lance into an opponent, dropped it and drew a long saber with which he hacked at other uniforms before fighting free and fleeing.

Others of the squadron followed his lead, breaking free and vanishing from view. The protestor infantry stormed forward in their wake, fresher troops who had not just faced three consecutive charges.

Remembering himself, Spotter One swung his attention back to the end of the street and held his radio close by his mouth. Sweat gathered, making the textured radio more difficult to hold. This was the worst of the waiting; from the screams of triumph that now drifted down the street to him, the shouts of “liberty!” as the protestors drove forward, he knew they were winning. He knew that uniforms like the one he had once worn were dying.

Serve them right. Fascists.

But he could not watch, nor did he particularly want to, but the old saying about train wrecks holds true. It takes an effort to look away.

Whistles blew but he ignored them. More shouting, the sound of struggle, the sound of people and uniforms dying. He ignored it, eyes never ceasing their constant survey of the nearly empty street. Nearly empty.

Uniforms with rifles, full combat gear and gas masks, were where they should not be. Speaking into his radio, he called Spotter Two’s attention and got confirmation. The uniforms were clearly waiting, their postures showing tightly coiled action ready to release. And behind them, poking itself out of hiding was his target.

“Señor Bradley has arrived.” Then, into his radio, “Bradley spotted. Say again, Bradley spotted.”

“Spot confirm.” Reported Spotter Two. “Bradley spotted. Say again, Bradley spotted.”

“Roger Spotter One. Roger Spotter Two. Deploying countermeasure.”

-0-

Telling her dad that she was going and what she was doing had been a good idea, it had been a while since active duty, and she had nearly forgotten her mouthguard. The technical was a fast but bumpy ride, especially considering the hazards left over from previous protests. Briefly seen and quickly vanished, a cluster of moaning somethings in olive green flashed by. Volunteers with huge red holy symbols on their backs flitted from uniform to uniform.

The technical bumped hard and she tried to pretend that it was not a body.

“Contact one minute.” The driver’s voice came through clearly. “Bradley sighting confirmed. Single Target.”

Clenching her teeth hard into the mouthguard, she tried not to remember the scenes the massacre. Tried and failed not to imagine herself as one of those protestors mercilessly gunned down. It was impossible not to imagine that everything she had ever been was about to end. To cease. To blip out as though she had never been.

Running down the checklist in her head, she scanned the bed of the technical. Toyota made some impressive equipment, and everything she needed from specially-mounted launcher, her loader beside her, and ammunition all within easy reach. Right arm of revolution for a reason. Her loader tapped the ammo crate beside him and grinned. He was ready, she was ready.

A quick glance to her right showed her that the second technical, this one with three additional guards crammed into its bed, was only feet behind them. Not quite Fallujah where they had learned this, yet, but convoy drivers never forget how to move fast.

The other gunner caught her eye and pointed at her. SOP said that she would get the first shot either way, considering that he had to unload their infantry, but it also demanded they confirm. Equipment checks before deployment said that she was ready, but a frightened voice in her head insisted they had forgotten the ammo. Or that the weapon would jam. Or that they would be too late.

Instead of squashing the thoughts, she simply counted breaths and allowed each one to pass. “I must not fear,” she whispered around the mouthguard. “Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little death…” Herbert’s mythic litany as it always had, helped.

Steamers of smoke wafted past, pulling the burning stench of pepper and tear gas behind it. Layered beneath the stinging smoke, blood and bowels made the bouquet’s body. Sweat and the tangible, unnameable scent of fear and pain joined in.

“Masks. Masks. Masks,” the driver’s voice was steady. “That’s the smell of fascism, boys. Breathe it in and then mask up. Contact 30 seconds. Single target confirmed. Range estimate two hundred meters. Orders stand, fire when ready.”

She closed her eyes and repeated the litany against fear. Forming each word behind her mouthguard and counting her breaths. “I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer…”

The technical slowed and, using its momentum, she and her loader surged to their feet stopping at action stations in time with the vehicle.

Listening as the locks popped off the ammo case, she set her feet and heaved the launcher into position and kicked the locking bolts into place. Swiveling it, she put her eye to the sight and started muttering about wind. Her loader ignored her, swinging the rear breach open and sliding one of the massive shells into place. Locking the breach again, he slapped the gunner on the helmet and turned away, automatically grabbing up their second and only spare shell.

“Clear back blast,” she shouted, despite knowing from the head slap that he was in position. Then, lining the targeting reticle up right where she wanted most to hit, she breathed all the way out. Her finger squeezed the trigger just at the moment when every last gasp of air was gone. The shell roared out of the launcher and she was already bellowing for a reload.

It wasn’t necessary.

-0-

The order to fire came, and the uniformed gunner hesitated. He could not shake the feeling that what was unfolding ahead of him was only the next step in a long and bloody climb and he was on the wrong side. The Massacre had been a travesty, he knew people who had lost friends and family that day. And now he was being ordered to do likewise.

Ordered to fire indiscriminately at a crowd reacting with violence when treated with violence. His shoulder itched. There was a flag there, reversed so that he was always advancing. A scrap of fabric that might as well have been a brick.

“Technical!” shouted the spotter. “Technical! Range two hundred and seven meters dead ahead!”

“Belay fire order,” their commander’s voice was always calm. Always in control. “Take aim at that technical. Now!”

And the gunner did take aim. The vehicle’s cannon was more than enough to handle a Tacoma with a launcher pointed his way… He smiled then. Smiled because he knew that was on the wrong side. Smiled because even if he had made a different choice, it would already have been too late. He could feel the projectile already in the air. Smiled because at least he would die right.

“Fire!” The order came and he disobeyed.

Then the shell hit.

The last thoughts of the man who wore the gunner’s uniform were of his father. That he would be proud if only he knew how his son had died. That he had believed to the end that no matter what his son would do the right thing. And that thought comforted him as the high explosive shell detonated and his world became an instant of fire.

-0-

Ahead of her something only seen in memories, nightmares, and on screens since 2023 took place in beautiful colour. Still loud, at two hundred meters the blast was not deafening. Orange rippled up from the vehicle as the shell penetrated armour and detonated.

Jagged shards of metal flew outwards, knifing into a couple of its escorts and littering the asphalt around it like smoking, deadly snow.

She would never be able to explain it, and the truth of that would eat at her as the memory of a sensation slowly faded into near myth. The other gunner had made a choice. She could still feel the cold certainty that meant a sight was trained on her, but the enemy was gone. They could have shot, but chose not to.

No one would understand. They would nod and smile and call her a hero. They would insist on therapy if she lived through, and that was ok. She knew how it worked, that it worked. But some things, she suddenly understood, can’t ever truly be shared. The sight of a full, orange moon low over a lake, and the sense of mercifully exchanged death are similar in that regard at least.

“Kill confirmed!” The driver, the vehicle commander’s voice cracked with excitement. “Kill fucking confirmed! Viva la second fucking amendment!”

Moving as though through honey, she helped her loader unload the second shell and stow away the kit. Knocking on the roof as she sat, she tried to find her mouthguard. Lingering anxiety from the brief, terrible contest latching onto the thought and stampeding it up her throat in a rising wave she started to claw at pouches and pockets.

It had to be there.

Had to be.

She needed it.

A hand fell on her knee and she froze, looking at her loader. He smiled, eyes bloodshot and hand trembling, then pointed at her mouth. She felt the rubber between her teeth then, and slowly calmed her breathing, forcing the rising ride down.

Looking out the back of the truck bed, she could see uniforms throwing their hands in the air. And the telltale flashes of sunlight off of drone rotors. The veil was drawn back and the world exposed to the truth.

She smiled.

-0-

The above is an account from an unnamed mid-western city. Veracity is questionable, though it holds with other accounts of similar incidents. Source is contemporary to setting, it is a self-admittedly embellished publication. The events recorded are estimated to have occurred on the thirtieth day of the Los Angeles Insurrection.

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Part One

Part Two

Part Three