The Sons of Liberty

by James Tow

to be posted here.” He replied.

  I wasn’t going to press any further. He probably revolted, or tried, and got thrown in here. If I were him, I wouldn’t want anybody reminding me of my failures.

  I guessed they were both American, by their accents. This bothered me, especially with the man to my left. An American soldier of the apocalypse posted here means that either we were back in America or all three sides of The Army were here. I assume the latter.

  “So, where are we?” I asked.

  “Nobody knows really, it’s the escaping that most people worry about.” The cheery man to my right said.

  “Not even soldiers posted here know where it is. They’re blindfolded, sworn to secrecy, the whole nine yards.” The left man told me.

  I didn’t want to sound like a moron, but I wanted to know.

  “Who is the third side of the pact? I know of the Russian Federation and the American mercenaries, but who else?”

  “Tch, you’ll soon see. They’re the ones who greet you with a pistol on your time in the field,” the left man sneered.

  Everyone I’ve asked has given me bullshit answers: they’re Muslims, Nazis, Christian’s gone crazy, Sasquatches, zombie soldiers, and an army of rednecks who just wanted to shoot somebody. But now that I’ve run into someone who actually knows, he still doesn’t tell me. I wanted to punch this guy in the face. The anger was heating, but the man to my right broke in before it reached boiling point.

  “Hey guy, what’s your perfect woman?”

  This wasn’t difficult to explain, but I still staggered at the random question. I never liked conversation with people I don’t know, but I’ll participate given the fact I will never see either of these men…ever. It’s like talking to me, really. How would I describe her? All I had to do was describe her because I already found my perfect woman. Memories of her and I always tore me from the chaotic. She was the beauty of this world. It was easy not to look at other women. She would turn the heads of anybody she was around; man or woman. Her dark hair flowed inches past her pale shoulders and fit her face perfectly. She had the perfect slender body. There wasn’t a flaw in her, physically. Personally, she could make you smile on your worst days. She brought forth the best in me, and I was the luckiest man to have her. I’m sure every other guy who knew her would agree. ‘Perfect’ was the only word to describe her.

  I realized I was speaking aloud when the man to my left responded, “She doesn’t exist.”

  4. Fortunate

  The inmate to my right mentioned they only fed us filthy water through the sliding hole in the door. They knocked once and dumped the water on you. Hopefully you were ready, with your mouth open, and caught most of the water before it splashed to the floor. This would explain why the floor to my cell is soaked.

  I heard the knocking, followed by the familiar splashing sound and occasional coughing, from the other side of my cell door. I was ready for it; I needed something in my body. The knock came from next door so I sat up a little, positioning myself. My chest and shoulder seared with pain and reminded me of my interrogation session with ole Federov.

  I was weak. I could barely manage to pick myself up. My arms were severely shaking as they held my weight. Even though I was expecting it, the knock startled me. But I got nothing. I waited with my mouth open, hoping to God nothing worse than dirty water came through that hole.

  The slide opened followed by a hushed ‘psst.’ Something hard hit my nose and I fell back on my backside. I shuffled my arms around to find what it was. Bottled water-and it was soaked in condensation. Something hot then flew from the hole and landed on my stomach: a slab of beef. Not even a minute passed before I gobbled the steak and guzzled the water. The beef was unbelievably delicious.

  I lay my head against the back wall, and I tried to sort out what the hell just happened. It couldn’t be Paul. Infiltrating a place such as Seventh-Gate takes weeks of planning. Thanks to the food I could now think without being preoccupied with hunger, but the sudden heaviness in my stomach put me into a food coma. I slowly drifted to sleep as I tried sorting out any possible solutions.

  The slamming of doors, scurrying of feet, and constant yelling brought me to consciousness. This went on until the sounds were muffled in distance.

  Several pairs of shuffling feet came to a halt on the opposite side of my cell. The unlocking of the door was a satisfying sound. The heavy metal swung open and it took me a second to get my bearings. There were four high ranking officers—at least I think they were officers. I know the Russian badges and medals well enough to know what rank they are but my eye sight is still trying to adjust. Not to mention the fact that Russian officers really like their dress uniforms. You can spot them in the middle of a battle because it’ll be the Russian officers who are in dress uniforms while fighting. Federov stood behind them. The general whispered to the two officers to his left. They walked over to me, each grabbing an arm, lifting me to my feet. I couldn’t help my legs from shaking.

  One of the other officers looked into my cell, glared at me, then bent down to pick up the empty water bottle. He handed it to Federov. He looked at it, then at me, then back at his officer and incoherently mumbled to him. Bottle in hand, the officer strode down the long hall without another word.

  Federov glared at me then nodded toward the long hallway. I felt the barrel of gun dig into my back. The other two officers tightly gripped my upper arms and marched me down the hallway. The walk seemed to take forever, and my mind was, for the most part, blank. I examined the building we occupied. The building was small, but the cells were tiny. I could see the end of the hall, but the cells were so small there had to be at least one hundred cells down each wall.

  We finally reached a door at the end of our march. Light was seeping from the top and bottom of the door in front of us. Chatter could be heard from the other side. I glanced to my left and saw there were doors leading to a stairwell. The doors were held open by a cinder block so I could see the stairs which only led downward.

  Federov unlocked the door in front of us and swung it open. The light burned my eyes. The sun was directly overhead—not a single cloud in sight.

  The walkway I was now facing was much shorter than the journey we had just made. The ground was concrete with massive cages to my left and right. Pressed against both sides of the cages were hundreds of captives. Men, women, and even children, of every ethnicity stood behind the fence. We continued our march.

  Federov must have announced who I was. I stared at the horrified faces as we passed by, occasionally hearing my name being whispered. Some tried to reach for me through the fence. This was, by far, the most emotional trek I’ve ever made. Their faces were filled with a sort of hope I couldn’t understand. Blood, sweat, dirt, and tears covered all of these peoples’ faces, yet they looked…optimistic. As if I could do anything to help them…did they not know I was walking to my death?

  At the end of this walkway was a massive stairway leading down to a large field, blocked off by concrete walls. Outside this, lay a gorgeous green landscape. Hills and luscious brush over-ran the scenery. I’d be satisfied spending an eternity just outside these walls, but I guess I belong in hell instead.

  The field was home to several torture and execution devices.

  I wonder which one I’ll have the pleasure of testing out.

  I was accompanied by fifty other captives to this hell hole. All of them lay face up in five lines with each line behind another. The officers marched me to within five feet of the first line of captives.

  I peered across the lawn of the damned. They looked like the people behind the cage: dirty, sweaty, and bloody. Yet the people in the cage had hope…the people in front of me didn’t. The circumstances, I suppose.

  We set foot onto the field and we walk twenty paces before they put me on my knees. The two soldiers who carried me out now stood behind me with rifles pointed at my head.

  I have to keep my head clear, especially in situations such as this. I take a g
lance around the area to take quick note of my surroundings. The structure behind me was simple and bland. Connected to the metal staircase I just walked down was a large concrete cube with tall watchtowers at each corner, complete with a smaller concrete cube sitting on top of the larger one. The only windows were at the very top level of the smaller cube. The structure clearly played to their favor. The only way out was back up the stairs. Even if I made it up those stairs, I wouldn’t know my way around inside the damn place.

  Peering over the field, opposite of the structure I was examining, stood a behemoth steel platform with two dark figures. I assume they’re two of the three leaders. Pollick, with his undeniable pose, and the anonymous leader were later joined by Federov. I was trying to focus on their faces when the executioners came from the stairs behind me. There were ten of them. All strapped with KM2000 knives and Heckler and Koch USP pistols. They were all wearing protective masks over their mouths. A few of them were laughing, carrying conversations, having a jolly ole time. Their reveling didn’t annoy me in the least, though the badges around some of these executioners’ arms were what caught my eye. A red band, with a white circle in the middle, complete with a black swastika. There were four of these “Nazis”, and they were the ones enjoying themselves. I wonder if they