The Heartbroken Locket

Major Humberto Gilead sighs as the courier bag is dropped on his desk. Normally he enjoys his work; that’s why he insists on doing this himself, instead of delegating it to one of his many underlings. He has a talent for this kind of thing; putting together pieces of a puzzle to develop a bigger picture, including all the undisclosed peripheral pieces. He was able to put aside the sad human aspects of the job; this evidence was generally collected from the bodies of dead resistance fighters, or from those unfortunate enough to have been captured alive. After all, his work was important: By identifying the rebels, he could piece together their families, and that often led to capturing rebels before they even got a chance to do any harm.

He is proud of his work; he’s been fortunate enough to actually be aware of some of the actions that resulted from his forensic work, and he’d been congratulated and recognized by superiors; even the old President of South America shook his hand at a press conference, just two weeks before the woman’s assassination.

He has grown frustrated with the campaign; why do these backwards nationalists insist on resisting progress? All over the world, Continental Leadership Entities were forming; six bodies instead of 195, working together to unite humanity. Wars like this will soon be a thing of the past! The CLE’s would work together to solve health issues, social problems, educational worries...all of the things that divided people and led to conflict could soon be in the past.

But first, though, these backwards Neanderthals, clinging to their “freedoms” and their antiquated spiritual beliefs and such; well, they simply had to put that behind them, so that everybody could step forward into an age of mutual acceptance and respect. He understood that people had differences, and that was alright - to an extent. But when that freedom kept others from experiencing advancement...it was time to put that concept behind them and step up into the “Age of Globalism,” as the world-wide campaign proclaimed.

At first, Humberto was sympathetic. He loved his country, which had been called Colombia in the Old Way. His people were strong, courageous, creative… When he was young, he was in church; THE Church, as the people referred to it. He understood national pride. And that was why, as he was explaining to his sixteen year old daughter Celeste, he believed Colombia should embrace its future as a supporter of a better world.

Celeste, a headstrong and foolish teenager, vehemently argued with her father. She had inhabited the fiery temper of her mother, Maria, who had died three years ago when one of the missiles intended for a rebel holdout had overshot its mark, killing her and five others in a supermarket. And like her mother, she was beautiful, even when she was furious. Perhaps even more so, he thought, as she argued with him.

“Peace? You think these people are going to bring peace? Tell me, Papi, when did governments EVER bring peace? Tell me that! You globalists are blind fools, Papi! We were fine as Colombia! We knew our people, we knew our ways, we knew our history, and we knew our God! Some of us remember, and we are proud to be Colombians! We will never embrace these...these lies!” And with that, she had stormed out of the house into the darkness of the streets of Cali.

That was two weeks ago.

At first, Humberto resisted going after her. He had pride in his veins, too. He would wait her out, wait for her to come to her senses, and come home, where she would submit to HIS rules. No more of this nonsense!

Then, after a few days had passed, he grew concerned when he heard nothing from her. Still, it would not do for a father to be seen chasing after his wayward teenager. And the way she was talking, if people who hear her associated her with a locally prominent officer of the SACLE forces...well, that wouldn’t look good at all. No, she’d come back on her own, when she’d learned her lesson, he decided.

The SA organization definitely needed to avoid any bad publicity right now, anyway, he thought. Some of the pockets of resistance had grown, in spite of escalated SA efforts to weed it out. Worse yet, even the general population was beginning to rumble about the force used. Humberto knew that his late wife would have been one of those voices. She was a proud Colombian, and she loved her people. The idea of harm coming to them, even for a righteous crusade like this… That would not settle with her.

If this resistance isn’t stamped out soon, the effort to globalize South American might be delayed for years, causing the SACLE embarrassment before the other 5 entities, all of whom, Humberto had heard, had pretty much crushed all of their enemies.

“All the more reason my work is important,” Humberto thinks, as he empties the contents of this latest bag on his desk. He reads the brief description on the report included.

From raid on terrorist cell in Palmira 6/17/2028. Suspected of involvement on explosion in fuel depot in Buenaventura. 4 Dead (3m,1f) 7 captured. Several escaped, fleeing into the national forest to the east. Search continues.

Humberto lays the report aside and begins to go through the contents. Two wallets are first. ID cards go to a stack on his left; those are obviously the easiest to track. They might also contain membership cards to associations; not a concrete tie for the other members, but it made them worth investigating. He pulls his notebook out and logs in each piece. He is very diligent to keep records; you never knew when things might tie in and connect one person or clue to another.

Next was jewelry. He picks up a man’s ring; it is an engagement ring. Inside is an inscription; Humberto opens his desk drawer and pulls out a loupe to have a closer look. “JS and JT Forever.” Humberto grunts. Not much there, but he dutifully writes it down in his notes.

A chain and another ring yield no help at all.

And then Humberto’s blood runs cold.

He quickly looks left and right to make sure that nobody is observing him. Or notices his trembling hand as he picks up the heart-shaped locket on a gold chain. Humberto wishes the universe would swallow him up before he opens that locket. Ice water and fire run simultaneously through his veins. It is all he could do to open the locket, his hands shake so.

His breath returns, albeit cautiously, as he looks at the contents. On the left side is a tiny cutout of the Colombian national flag. It is unevenly cut and trimmed to fit, as if a child did it; the flag more like a square with rounded corners, instead of the rectangular original. And the yellow stripe, which normally occupies the top half of the flag, is now about the same size as the blue and red stripes below it. Still, it is unmistakable as a representation of the old flag.

On the right side sits an equally badly-trimmed picture of a handsome young man. The picture is recent, and only barely contains his face. But as he looks closer at the picture of the boy, he notices something odd. The picture being new, and ill-fit for the tiny prongs that held it, means that it bows up slightly, revealing something beneath. Retrieving a pair of tweezers from his desk, with the loupe in his other hand, he carefully extracts the picture.of the boy and sets it aside.

Beneath, looking up at him, is a decidedly older picture of a young lieutenant, in his uniform, looking back at the camera with a look of determination and confidence. Humberto doesn’t need a microscope to read the nametag; he knows that face. He had worn it for 45 years.

Tears roll down Humberto’s face as he turns the tweezers towards the other side. He knows what he would find beneath that snippet of the flag, but he also knows he has to look on it in full. It is his destiny, and he has to face it. It is part of the punishment he will bear to the grave.

A quiet sob escapes him as he looks into the eyes of his beautiful Maria. At 18, she was the center of his universe, and she occupied that role until her death. As he looks at her, one of his tears falls and lands partially on the image of the flag. Beside it lays the image of the young man. Humberto pockets the locket, then the picture.

*****

Humberto has never been around this part of the war; the part where the suffering is real. For that matter, he has never been inside of any prison or jail, and he was proud of that. But today he needs to get answers to questions he still hasn’t even framed clearly in his mind.

The place stinks. Sweat, filth, urine, excrement; it is a foul mix. Humberto composes himself as he works his way through the bureaucracy, explaining who he is, what military action he is here to investigate, and what, or rather who, he is looking for. Finally, it is a corporal who leads him down a hall to a dark cell.

“I don’t know if they told you, sir, but of the four men captured that night, two have died. One was sick, and the other one...well, sir, you know, life in here is tough...and we can’t afford to be soft on them, so...I took him to interrogation one day, but, they said, he had a heart attack or something. I guess he was scared. So here are the two that are left. These two are scheduled to be executed tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Corporal. I can find my way out.” The corporal salutes, then ambles back up the dark corridor. Humberto looks into the cell. One of the men is older; he couldn’t tell for sure, but he appears to be about the same age as himself. He had a fresh scar on his face, and his lip was busted, but that is not the worst of it. He has a look on his face that told Humberto that he has already checked out of this world.

The other man is younger, but Humberto can not see his face. He does not look up at Humberto. After an awkward silence, the Major speaks, trying to carry the weight of his authority.

“My name is Major Humberto Gil-”

“I know who you are,” the young man speaks, his voice low.

For a moment, Humberto thinks to establish his authority again...but it is apparent to both men the full dynamic of this situation does not leave room for artificial social constructs.

“My daughter...Celeste…” his voice trails off, cracking.

“My girlfriend. And you are not fit to speak her name,” the young man snarls. “She died because she believed in something. Can you say the same thing, old man? Will you die for something bigger than you?”

Humberto has no answer. He turns, and begins to walk away. The young rebel’s voice reaches him as he walks.

“If it is any consolation, old man...she did cry when she put that flag over her mother’s face. She loved her. But she did not shed a tear when she put my face over yours.”

Hollow footsteps follow a hollow man down a dark corridor.