JACKBOOT

The night was cold and oppressive, with a light drizzle falling between the dark and broken building s surrounding the trash strewn alley way. The moon was hidden, the street lights barely illumining the main road through the misting rain. Inquisitor Jacob Wellman snuggled in deeper to his light grey trench coat, eyes fixated on the apartment building across the street. A bum laid out near him next to a festering dumpster snoring softly. Under his coat the heat of his body was trapped by his black tactical gear while the cold rain slid down his back. A light submachine gun was strapped across his chest, hidden in the folds of his coat. A cigarette burned softly, the light haze of smoke drifting away into the night.

Wellman nodded softly as another group of furtive men slipped up the street and to the door of the building. “Fireside Seven, this is Coffin Six. How many is that now?” Wellman muttered into the radio mike on his ear.

“Ten now, with five already on Objective.” The voice in the radio whispered back from the tactical surveillance van. “On your order, Coffin Six. Educators ready on mark.”

Wellman sighed, and dropped the cigarette on the street and ground it out beneath the tread of his boot heel. Three months he had been tracking this group. Waiting and watching to catch not just an informant or community organizer but the whole cell. The lucky break came just two nights before when a sting yielded a young political who would rather talk then be made to talk. Wellman didn’t judge. He knew how it felt to be on that side of the stainless steel table. After all, he had been a rebel once.

The Reeducation Camp had been a quick lesson in picking the winning side. Wellman knew he was a tough man. He had been a soldier in the old United States Army before the collapse. Captured by one rebel group and turned to fight in the civil war then captured by the Second Founding Fathers. After turning your coat once the second time wasn’t difficult.

Wellman shrugged off his coat and laid it over the snoring bum. He pulled on his gas mask and then buckled his helmet underneath. Hefting his gun, he moved silently towards the mouth of the alley. The three men were briefly illuminated by the light breaking through the cracked door as they were lead inside. Wellman waited, briefly studying the graffiti sprayed onto the wall. “Down with the Fathers! How Many Must Die? No God Here!” the bright red letters proclaimed with x’s sprayed over the government propaganda posters. It made no difference. He had a job and was finished fighting for lost, righteous causes. “Fireside, mission is a go. For the New Order.”

Three black armored vans came screaming down the street, turreted machine guns training on the windows as black clad Educators swung out of the back. The blood red crosses proclaiming their allegiance to the Inquisition shined in the night as the loud speakers mounted on the vehicles proclaimed in a cheerfully screeching female voice “This is an operation of the Holy Inquisition sanctified by the Second Founding Fathers. Do not interfere. Lethal Force is authorized. This is your only warning.”

Wellman jogged up as the three teams moved towards the door. Two teams of black armored men split to the sides and fixed assault ladders to the front of the apartment building. Several Educators hefted grenade launchers, firing tear gas canisters into the first, second, and third story empty windows. The light of the windows suddenly vanished as the power was cut. A cry of fear and panic erupted from inside of the building while the third team moved towards the main door. The element of surprise had been achieved but was quickly fleeting.

Wellman jogged to the door with his submachine gun tucked into his shoulder. Behind the building sniper teams were locking down any escape routes. The drag net on this operation was tight. The mission was about making an example in the slums and not about gaining any intelligence. Arch Deacon Jerimiah was very firm on this point.

A man blew the lock on the door and the team flowed in with weapons up and tactical lights flashing from silenced muzzles. Ten men moved in to the hallway, gas masks and body armor devoid of any insignia. A man stumbled through the smoke, coughing and sputtering. The lead man fired three quick rounds as the target entered the light which cut him down with barely a sound. Teams broke apart sweeping rooms as they advanced through the house with barely a step out of sequence. Above them the sharp retort of a hand gun broke over the sound of labored breathing and the loud speakers followed by a furious exchange of gunfire.

The walls were covered in posters now riddled with bullet holes which had proclaimed the return of freedom and other nonsense. Wellman moved past strewn corpses, weapons just out of reach. Most of the terrorists had panicked when the lights were cut. The Educators had slaughtered them almost to a man.

A gas masked Educator walked up to Wellman and reported “Sir, all three floors secured with no casualties. Only eight terrorists accounted for. The rooms are empty.”

“All teams, search pattern Alpha. Look for a basement. Watch out for booby traps.” Wellman snarled over the radio. A lot of assets had been committed to this operation and he would be damned if any managed to escape. Besides, the Arch Deacon would be very disappointed. The fact that his disappointment tended to come with pliers and sanctimonious preaching wasn’t far from Wellman’s mind either.

In a pantry on the first floor one of the Educators discovered a hidden walkway cut out of the wall and leading down to a metal trap door illuminated by a single red bulb that pulsated sickly. Wellman rushed down the stairs with the educators in tow. In front of him the faceless, nondescript storm troopers were forming to rush the basement with a four man team already descending the rough stairs.

Educators were blank books, with no personality or nonessential individuality. They were the surgical tools of the state, precise and violent. Even now they still made Wellman nervous. Those chained dog could just as easily be released on him some day if the Arch Deacon decided he still had sympathy for his erstwhile brothers.

Wellman stayed at the top of the stairs with a second team. He knew that the chances of a booby trap on the door were high and he wasn’t going to gamble. After all, part of the secret policemen routine of the Educators was that it was hard to generate any sympathy for them. “Breach!” The lead man yelled.

The door blew out in flames and smoke which ripped through the four men and washed the stairs in debris. Wellman flinched away from the explosion and then charged down the stairs. It was now all instinct. Fill the breach before the enemy prepared to receive you. Wellman tossed a short fuse flash bang grenade out through the now broken doorway as he rushed through the chocking black smoke. Flames were catching the wall and it was only a matter of time before the area became impassible.

The burst of light and sound deafened him as Wellman emerged through the smoke. The basement was unfinished with bare bulbs illuminating a stark room in a harsh, bright light. Along the walls computers hummed softly while rifles and Molotov cocktails sat next to stacks of propaganda posters. A gasoline generator puttered in the corner surrounded by jury rigged wires.

Wellman ignored the details as the Educators flowed in behind him. The harsh bark of rifle fire slashed into disoriented shapes. The smoke was getting thick and it was hard to breath even with a mask. Finally the rebels turned and blindly fired back, red eyes teared up and filled with hopelessness. They knew there was no escape. Wellman sympathized, but he knew this was the almost certain result of standing against the Fathers.

Wellman dropped his magazine and reloaded with a satisfying click while the other Educators dropped around him in the viscous, close range exchange of gunfire. Wellman stood, his weapon in hand as he aimed at the last terrorist. She was roughly his age, in her late twenties with long black straight hair framing a heart shaped face. She was dressed in a tattered green army jacket, blue jeans, with black combat boots. The traditional urban guerilla wardrobe. Wellman thought there was something familiar about her, but it wasn’t really important. He was going to see the mission through. He didn’t have a choice.

What struck him was her eyes. Almond shaped and dark, they were red rimmed and dry. They weren’t filled with hate or fear as was expected. They were brimming with sadness like she was just profoundly tired and heart sick. Like she couldn’t even find the energy to hate anymore. It was obvious she had been running for a long time and she knew that now it was the end of the line.

She wasn’t armed, but she had her hand buried in the jacket around her neck. Wellman could just make out a chain wrapped in her fist. Probably an explosive vest to be used as a final fail safe. Wellman hesitated, staring through his gas mask at the girl. “Don’t do it. Please.” Wellman said softly, almost pleading.

The girl just shook her head slightly, breathing hard like a cornered animal. “Don’t make me do it!” Wellman almost screamed, “Please!”

She smiled, one last final sad little smile as he hand began to move. “I’m sorry Jake, I’m sorry for what they did to you.”

Wellman fired, and dived to the side. Hands over his head he waited for the explosion that would finish him. Nothing happened and the silence almost deafening. He rose to his knees and ripped off his gas mask off. He thought he might be sick. The girl was sprawled across the ground, red now staining her jacket. Still, she carried that last little smile.

Wellman stumbled over and opened her jacket. There was no vest, just a heart shaped locket gripped in her hand. Wellman uncurled her fingers and grabbed it. Up close, with the mask off he was sure he recognized her. He opened the heart shaped locket and inside it was a picture of him. A head shot tucked in the frame, ten years old and before he wore any uniform.

Wellman felt hot tears prickle his eyes. Racheal. The only girl he would have ever given this locket too. The girl he was sure he was going to marry before the world collapsed and new masters arose. During the wars and camps, he had almost made himself forget her. He had consumed her memory to sustain himself and survive. Now, he had killed her. Finished the cycle.

“I’m sorry Jake, I’m sorry for what they did to you.” Her words echoed through his head. So am I Racheal, Wellman thought as his hands began to shake. Wellman figured that Arch Deacon Jeremiah had known who she was. A final test of loyalty. Tie up your old life and belong fully to the state, the cause, your new God. He felt sick and wasted.

“Sir, the Arch Deacon wants you upstairs.” An Educator said, as his comrades began searching the room. Wellman detested him, hated the blank faceless look and the robotic efficiency. Maybe it was his reflection in the glass of the masks they wore that he hated. The machine men were placing all items in evidence bags. Wellman rose and after glancing at the bags of items made his choice. He stuffed the locked deep in a pocket and retrieved his mask. It didn’t fit, and Wellman doubted that it ever would again.