Travesty (SolarSide Book 1)

by Austin Aragon

  She stares at me, loss with words, and her expression quickly turning into one of concern. I must be laying my personal shit too heavy on her. She wanted to know.

  “I change my mind now. Guess what the real worst part of it all is? I hate sleeping, but out here, all I want to do is sleep. Because even though my nightmares can be more frightening than real life, I know it’s not real. That hey, at least my mind is telling me I don’t belong here. Because, we don’t have nightmares over things we like, or are normal to us, right? So the second I stop having nightmares about this place, is the second I truly died. Not when a bullet hits me, not when I collapse bleeding the last of my blood out there, but when I stop dreaming, the good and bad. That’s when I am dead.”

  I look up again. She stares intently at me. Unadulterated eyes of beauty. “Peter…”

  I realize my hands are shaking uncontrollably and the coffee cup has spilt over because of it. The fear and panic comes back. The anxiety that crushes my being, that invades from every direction. The horrible images. “I have to go now.” I push my chair back, and walk away quickly holding my hands against my chest. I can’t escape them. They are inside of me. A part of me.

  As I walk down the street rapidly, I hear screaming behind me.

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  What the hell? What is going—BOOM!

  I am knocked over from a loud earthshaking noise. All of the car alarms on the street go off. People scream and run away. I crawl towards a lamp and hide behind it. “I need Buzz!” I push my hands to my ears to block the yelling. “Buzz! I can’t fight them without it!” I start cradling my head to escape the screaming and dying. “Somebody! Buzz!”

  Oh god, Alison.

  I get up and turn around towards the commotion as people push pass me. The café is covered in black smoke, and fire whips out violently from the terrace.

  Alison!

  I run as fast as I can back. Police cars beat me to the scene. People crawl about begging for help, holding their guts together, like out on the field. “Get back!” says a policewoman, as I try to push past her to the café. More police come and beat me back.

  “Get back or we’ll arrest you!” warns another officer.

  I squish back into the crowd. “Alison! ALISON!”

  Firefighters arrive, charging the smoke. More injured people crawl out of the café. One woman is completely covered black in smut, her right arm missing up to her elbow. In her other hand as she staggers about screaming, is her severed limb.

  “Alison!” There is no response. The police force us back farther to make room for the paramedics. Eventually, I turn away. I don’t know where she went. Maybe she wasn’t there.

  I find a quiet park away from everything.

  This world is too much noise.

  I told her my honest feelings. But I stopped short of the other aspect that even I have being hiding from. From what I should have told her—now she’s dead! And that’s why I am with Cloud, why I use the drugs. They don’t work on me like they do on the others. So I take more to try and catch up to the state of mind they’re in, because I can’t handle the reality of it.

  I don’t think anyone could.

  XIX

  Nova Carthago shrinks behind through the port window as our C-130 jet rises higher and higher into the sky. Blake grabs our attention, “Alright. So you all know what has recently happened. Private Peter was near one of the suicide bombings himself. I will let our General elaborate more on the recent events, and on our next detail.” He places a holotablet onto the center hull of the carrier and we lean in to watch.

  An exaggerated size of Jack’s face appears, and he gets right to speaking, “At thirteen hundred hours, Muslim terrorist under the authority of Imam Alleto, committed dozens of suicide bombings throughout occupied Coalition territory and allied lands. The attacks were meant to be a counterstatement to his failed arrest. Thirty four hundred hours ago, a spec ops team was set in to bag and grab Alleto for instigating a rebellion against the Confederate City states—our closest ally in the war here—and for massacring allied troops, including posting beheadings of some of the captured operatives we sent in after him online. These videos have been verified as authentic, the fate of the remaining men is uncertain.

  “Your task as a returning platoon from leave will be to form up with fellow outfits of your regiment into an assault battalion, where you will lead a siege against Khaf’Jadeed, the capital of the newly rebelled territories. These lands were once the autonomous regions of the northern Confederate States, called Thaanin Filasteen. Now it is under an autocratic theocracy lead by Imam Alleto himself. I don’t need to remind you of the grave offences it creates against the UN Human Rights declaration, or to Party Ideals. Your commanding officers will inform you on any other needed information. Good luck boys, God bless America and the Party.”

  We land deep into the heart of Thaanin Filasteen at a recently captured military airbase by allied forces. We form up as a motorized convoy heading straight to Khaf’Jadeed. I never thought I would be fighting humans when I was enlisted. Riding high with Cloud, we continue trekking through the countryside to the siege. It has just finished raining and the ground is slick and muddy. A mess of burning farms and huts greets us. I watch as a group of locals are piled up and guarded by marines on the side of the road, as others torch their shack. The family cries out in protest. I take out Rosa the hawk, and wrap it with an elastic camouflage band around my helmet. It perches on the left side right above my ear. I watch streams of refugees, burdened with their belongings, pass us by on the roadside as our convoy moves the opposite direction near the capital.

  We reach the rally point for the battalion, a hastily made base with the capital visible in the distance. The city’s glistening oval white roof tops made of tile reflect the few sun rays breaking through the overcast. It is truly a sight to behold, contrary to the burning countryside we rode through. I see that the battalion has put up barricades and trenches about the outskirts to keep the city under full siege, so that no one can escape.

  The Commander of the attack force approaches our arrived group. “Hello marines, welcome to Operation Screaming Fist,” he grins. “We are parking it here for now, Command’s orders till we find out if those sons of bitches really have any more chemical weapons left. If the siren goes off you’re ordered to wear gas masks, and I would recommend biohazard suites as well.” The Commander moves off with his retinue to the next group of marines in the convoy.

  We join the rest of the battalion sitting idle in the trenches. Some who already have their masks on are vaping through them by placing a vapstick in their respirator tube that should be connected to the air filter.

  “Hey,” says Isaac, handing me a folded paper. “I forgot to write in it till the plane ride over here, since I was drunk the whole time on leave.” I grab the paper nodding to him. The last word was Suddenly, and I read what he wrote.

  Sinister understands detached devotion, even normalcy lacks you,

  I rest against the earthworks deciding what to write. For a siege this is rather peaceful.

  “What do you write in there?” says Isaac to Vance.

  “This thing?” Vance looks down at his red notebook, placing his pen between the pages he was on and closing it. “I don’t know, whatever is on my mind.”

  “Like a diary?” says Vick, grinning.

  “No, dick, a journal,” says Vance.

  “Read us something,” says Tommy, staring out at the city.

  “Yeah, what he said,” says Isaac.

  Vance pats the notebook. “Why do you care?”

  “Anything is better than this,” I say.

  Vance opens his notebook, flipping through pages and occasionally smiling.

  “So?” says Isaac.

  Vance leans back and raises his notebook, taking a deep breath. Commissar Herus and a Party Rep approach our trench. Vance quickly closes it and places it within his vest. We all flip
him off underneath our waists and Isaac whispers, “Pussy.”

  Herus leans over our trench. “It is a pity, that some populations let themselves become blinded by irrational belief systems, like religion, to the point where they enforce violence onto others.” His fellow Party Rep laps up the words. Herus continues, “Remember brothers, these radicals have sacrificed their humanity by forsaking the Cause. They rather indirectly aid the Herculean vermin by using our trust in humanity, as a ploy to cause deceit and suffering from within. They deserve no sympathy.”

  Herus heads back to the commanding officers and we sit bored in the trenches. Nothing happens for a few hours. I figure out what I want to write back on the paper.

  You only underestimate,

  Some refugees run for our front line where they are seized and searched by intelligence officers. I fold the paper and hand it to Isaac quickly, then watch as the locals and the officers communicate, since the refugees are speaking in Arabic. One of the officers interprets back to his superior, “They have the whole city on lockdown. No one is allowed to leave. They risked their lives to get out. They’re afraid that Alleto will either kill them or we will if they stay.”

  The Commander looks at them, grunting. “Alright, let them go on their way with the rest of the refugees. I am still waiting on Command to confirm if our agents in there are done with their job.”

  A few more hours. A few more vapsticks exhausted.

  Sirens go off and we raise our heads out of the trenches to see what’s going on. The Commander makes his rounds alerting every one of the situation as his orders are echoed into the officer’s radios. “Alleto has just executed our men on the inside. Get your masks on! We are attacking! Airstrikes first, no one leaves the city. We’re gonna watch ‘em roast!”

  Blake retrieves a mask from his backpack and stretches the straps around his neck and helmet. I grab mine and look at it. The biohazard masks have been specially designed with our combat helmets that they fit in perfectly, sealing our entire head into a closed respiratory system. “You heard the orders, mask up as a precaution,” says Blake into our earpieces, as his mechanical toned voice repeats it out loud through the mask. Throughout the trenches marines place on masks and slap on air filter canisters. Tommy dips his scarf underneath his neck guard and it disappears inside his mask.

  Tarnus leans over to Blake taping his wrist, then Blake tabs his control panel. The men in my unit slap the parapets and howl robotic muffles at the city, but all I feel is a headache. But I also came prepared. I quickly inject a syringe of extra Buzz into my thigh by pretending I am grabbing something from my sack. I refuse to go through the misery of a split arguing mind again. Especially since it’s actual humans this time I am fighting. I just can’t handle the thought.

  War is back! Peter is rightfully outraged at the news. They killed some of his brothers. Those cowards, doing it in secrecy without giving a real fight. Without satisfying me.

  Peter watches the images unfold in his mind as if he was just there. His brave brothers sit gagged and cuffed before a line of strangely clothed men. A drenched UN flag is wrapped around each one of them, and one of the terrorists step forward with a lighter. He ignites the cloaked man on the far left, and the flames lick up the entire line of bound comrades. They scream for justice as they burn away.

  “Fuck you Alleto!” says Peter. “Herc lover!”

  The others roar and yell. They are a pissed animal that wants revenge. Tarnus leads them in an arrowhead formation towards the capital. Enemy fire streaks out from positions around the city. The marines duck and crouch, responding with their own. Tanks and vehicles fire their turrets into enemy fortifications. Large clouds of smoke and earth rise from artillery rounds pummeling the city from afar. Next, volleys of cruise missiles descend from the sky crashing wonderfully into the city. Gigantic explosions erupt as waves of dirt and flame rise into the air swallowing the capital. Ah, I can smell the tithings. The marines robustly praise and cheer at the earth shaking effects. Sirens ring out from the capital as their frontline advances.

  Waves of aircraft zoom over firing missiles. The Commander orders the encircling force to pause; they’re now only a few hundred meters away from the city. The marines watch with utter joy, as payload after payload of bombs and incendiaries are dropped into the sea of smoke over the city in a fantastic display. The entire area becomes an inferno as spouts of fire blow hundreds of meters into the air from the falling ordinance. The city is completely desolated, blanketed in fiery smoke. The red diamonds on Peter’s visor informing him of targeted enemies disappear one by one. The marines fire form their hips wildly into the abyss of the burning blaze, yipping and cheering more at the onslaught. No traitor can escape punishment.

  Commissar Herus leads the force onwards. “This is the wrath of justice being brought upon them!”

  The entire sky is darkened by the smoke. Ash falls like a rainstorm onto the marines bathing them in my glory. All enemy fire ceases, not even the sirens ring. The Commander applauds the Air Force for successful effect on target, and halts the artillery salvos as well. There is silence after the chaotic noise moments ago. Out of the smoke walk terrorists covered in debris and ash, their clothes tattered and arms rose into the air. Marines from the line fire immediately at them, and the men fall over from the multiple rounds back into the dark smoke.

  “Hold!” says Blake.

  Tarnus comes to the front, “Do not order my men, Sergeant. Continue gunning them down!”

  “They’re trying to surrender!” says Blake.

  Kill them anyway for their apostasy! The weak die fastest in my congregation.

  The Commander comes forward this time, Herus with him. “What is going on here?” Tarnus repeats the situation, but before the Commander replies another group of terrorists come running out of the smoke shouting and screaming.

  “He’s got a grenade!” says a marine as they open fire at the group. One man makes it to the frontline exploding and taking down several with him.

  One of the marines tries desperately to get out of the mud. “I can’t see! I can’t—GOD, FUCKING HELP!” He lifts his face out of the mud, but it is a mess of gore from the grenade blast, where his eyes should be a multitude of dark purple and pink gashes. Medics rush to assist him. The rest roar in fury at the loss of a brother.

  A line of screaming and hurt civilians slump forward, behind them men grabbing them by the arms and necks. The marines form a line and aim guns at the approaching crowd. “Do we shoot?” they ask.

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  “They have weapons!”

  “Allahu Akbar!”

  “Do we shoot!”

  “Allahu Akbar!” The armed men kick down their hostages to their knees and fire, hitting marines in the front line.

  Herus’ revolver ignites. “They are nothing but fucking savages! Kill them all!”

  That solves the earlier dispute. No prisoners. Good. Peter’s trigger finger wasn’t satisfied yet. I am not satisfied yet.

  Herus and Party Reps lead the marines in a Creed chant. The initial line of terrorists is blown away with rifle fire. More terrorists appear exiting out of the smoke. The marines yell and howl as they gun them down. The front line advances, firing away at any rebel dumb enough to leave the smoke. Herus carries the banner of the UN across his left shoulder, and flails his revolver out into the smoke. He shouts the first line of the Creed, “No man is as strong or capable as they can be when not part of the whole!”

  Groups of terrorists flee towards the marines from the smoke, but again the marines return my wrath and shoot them down.

  “These traitors are going to pay!” says Peter.

  More of the terrorists exit the smoke. More bullets rip them apart. They fall onto the ground. Their hands up in the air begging for mercy, as if they forgot that they are the offered ones—my tribute. They grab onto one another to try and shield each other away from the punishment of their sins. A woman is hit,
and falls to the side, her child lies on her bloody breasts screaming out into the air.

  The line of marines makes a steady advance against the horde. Peter notices a terrorist straggler that was hit earlier crawl about in the mud meters before him, trying to hide under a dead traitor. Peter lowers the XM and releases a burst as he walks by the terrorist. A spurt of blood splashes across Peter’s visor, the blue electrical wiper zips from side to side to clean it off. It’s delicious.

  Herus shouts the second line, “Find strength in the whole. This is your community of brothers and sisters!”

  The marines advance. Their boots splash around in the blood and mud. Spent bullet shells jump out of the sides of their instruments of praise, smoking metal cylinders that land on the estranged corpses of the dead. The terrorists stop running towards them, realizing that only my supremacy will meet them. Some try to run the other way causing more chaos as the fleers smack into each other.

  The marines burp bright flashes of yellow from their barrels. Their blue helmets signifying they are Peace Keepers—but now my faithful apostles—bob about as they aim and reload. Bullets zip out striking the filthy rebels in their backs, the departed blood and gore of those hit showering those before them. One terrorist running away is lined up by Peter’s gun. He fires and the boy falls into the arms of an older man, his white beard stained red. He collapses holding him in his lap, and is trampled over by other cowards.

  Herus roars the last line, “Never let the revolution die! Fight valorously for the ideals created by the Fathers!”

  Soon, piles of the dead stack up on each other from their failed escape—as my growing offerings. The marines kneel before the mounds of mutilated bodies, waiting for more figures’ silhouettes to appear through the smoke so they can waste the traitors again. Some marines start firing away into the corpse piles out of boredom, eager for more prey. Whenever a terrorist finally appears they shoot it down. They shoot at its body ripping apart its shape into an undistinguishable piece of gore. The bullets skip through the smoke and flesh as a lake of blood forms around their boots.