by James Tow
consider themselves ‘new’ Nazis or if they’re just wearing the insignia for shits and giggles.
When the executioners reached the crowd, only five of them drew their weapons: the four Nazis and an American. Uniforms were hardly worn by the Americans. Usually, they wore what they saw fit. This one wore raggedy jeans a white tee shirt. They tried to blend in with crowds, but I can still spot them from a mile away. The rest of the killing squad is Russian with the exception of another American. The Russian stood back by me and the mystery American walked behind me. I then felt a large barrel press against the back of my head. It had to have been a shotgun.
Each executioner picked an end of each line to start, and began to spill blood. The gunshots shook through me as if I was the one being shot. I could only close my eyes, and grind my teeth. The victims are hysterical at this point. Some are screaming, hopelessly flopping around, crying, sobbing, praying, anything to let their minds escape the moment.
I am a steel rod of anger. My body is rigid, fists clenched, eyes tightly shut, and I quaked with tremors. I want the power to stop them. I want to tear off their limbs. I want to rip out their hearts. I want to take a pair of pliers to their teeth and listen to their precious screams. I want to burn them and watch their skin boil. I want the power to stop them. I want to be God.
“Momma! Please momma! Help me!” The young British girl, lying in front of me, was yelling. I snap my head up and look into her tear filled eyes with horror. A soldier with a swastika around his arm walks in front of her and points the gun to her forehead.
“You see this?” He asked her with humor in his voice. An American, I thought, and from the Deep South no doubt. Nobody can miss that southern accent. Getting down on his hands, crawling toward her, he was now hovering inches away from her face. She cried even harder. The child put her hands on his face in an attempt to push the soldier away. All the while he continues to laugh and snap his teeth.
He spit in her face and I quickly got to my feet and lurched forward. Two pairs of arms grabbed each side of me and something hit the back of my head. I stumbled a bit, but managed to stay on my feet. It must have been the butt of the rifle, which the barrels are now pressing hard against the nape of my neck. I felt the barrels shake a bit as the soldiers behind me trembled. I turn to look at the Russian officer to my right and saw his eyes: they look terrified. I took note that it won’t be hard to disarm them when the moment arises, though I wasn’t sure about the soldier at my six. I was frantic at this point. I need a plan…I need something.
The American executioner was now doing some sort of clown dance in front of the girl, and she cried harder.
“Don’t worry love, this will all be over soon,” the British woman, next to the girl, comforted her.
The soldier stops his dancing and stares at the woman. In a split second, he raises his gun and shoots her twice in the chest. Blood poured from her chest as I watched the innocent woman take her last breath.
“Did you say something?” he asked her body.
The American turned to the girl asking, “Was that your mum?” in a mocking British accent and continued his laughing. He pulled the gun to her face once again and yelled ‘bang!’ But the girl began to control her emotions, and her crying died.
“You’re no more fun,” he pressed. And shot her forehead.
“NO!” I yelled and fell to my knees.
“You like that, do you?” he turned to ask me.
Two of the Nazis walked to the American’s line of victims to finish the rest off. They were talking in their deep Germanic language and laughing—deep bellowed laughs. I actually understood the Alemannic language they spoke, but I wish I didn’t—these two were as sick as the American.
One Nazi lays his gun down next to the last captive, barrel facing his head. The victim just laid with his eyes closed.
“See how many I get,” he said in his deep ugly voice.
He shot, getting two heads with one bullet. They both laughed and said something about his gun being defected.
“Look at this,” the other Nazi said.
He walked to the last victim, shooting her in the chest, the back of her hands, and her feet. He outstretched her arms, putting her hands a bit above her head. He then crossed her legs so her feet were on top of each other.
“Whores can be Jesus figures too,” one said laughing. The other than fell to his knees and started praying next to the corpse.
While I am watching the Nazis have their fun, the American is staring at me with his crazed eyes and his gun. His face was emanating a sense of smugness, but soon turned to horror.
Everything goes quiet. All of us remaining in the field squint up in the sky to see a Dark Angel soaring by the sun. Time felt as if it slowed when the angel fired upon the prison with deafening precision. Concrete and brick rain down as the two eastern prison towers collapsed. Everything quickly falls into my favor or our favor as I realize I’m not alone. The two officers at my side pull out side arms and sloppily take out the two Nazis. The mystery man behind me takes his gun off my neck and blasts a hole in the American’s chest.
After a series of more gunshots, and deaths, the anonymous team took over the open field. They scurried around each other, regrouping. I found myself staring at the girl’s limp body. Her face stuck in a horrified position that made my skin curl.
These rebels could have saved her. I could have saved her.
Three rebels made their way toward me. The man in front held his hand for me so I took it, and he pulled me to my feet.
“Gabriel Reed, ma name is Alastair Baker. We are part of the St. Andrews liberation front, and we would like you to come with us,” he announced in his heavy, difficult to understand, Scottish accent. In one powerful punch I knocked Alastair on his ass.
“You could’ve been a little quicker on the attack,” I said in a quiet voice as his rebel mates surrounded him and helped him to his feet. Their bewildered looks made me want to punch all of them.
“Now all of these people are dead because you couldn’t act sooner,” I said with disgust.
I turned and walked to the American executioner, and took the large bolo blade from his belt. He started to choke on his blood as his eyes stared up at me in horror. Anger rippled through me even as I watched the life slip through the bastard’s fingers.
I bent down by his head and said, “Do you see this?” as I fondled the blade in front of his eyes. “Of course you do, because you only care about your own useless self.”
I stood up and reared back with the blade in my hand and hacked at his neck. Blood slung, covering my face and body every time I pulled the blade out of his flesh. I stopped until his head disconnected from the rest of his body. I bent down, taking all the head gear off his head, to look at his all too familiar face.
The face of a dead man is all the same to me…just a lifeless object. I smiled at the shocked expression. I grasped the head by the hair, lightly tossing it in front of me and punting it a good thirty yards with my left foot. I watched it soar into the air and bounce an extra five yards before it stopped. I turned around to meet the group’s gaze, consisting of wide eyes and dropped jaws.
“I’m not going crazy,” I told them. “Any of you happen to have any clothes?” I asked before taking off the ragged top of my prison uniform and wiping my face of the blood.
They continued to stare until one broke their trance, holding out an assault rifle for me.
“You keep that, and hand me your side arm,” I demanded as I pointed at his M1911A1 pistol. He handed it over, and I held the handgun in my left with the bolo in my right.
The hammering buzz of four props tore my attention to the sky. A black AC-130U was encircling the prison making its way around for another attack. The Dark Angel, I thought. And I was hoping for something divine. My gaze trailed to the high rise that once held the three leaders. It was now empty.
Alastair, pointing at the gunship, pushed, “High heid yin is gaein tae the extraction. We hae tae gang.�
��
I stare at Alastair as I attempt to piece together what he just said, for I have no damn clue. Walking down the metal stairs, which surprisingly stood intact, were several heavily armored rebels. When they made their way too us, the closest, and smallest, rebel grabbed my arm and marched me back toward the stairs.
“Our bird is on its way to the extraction. We need to hit a few spots within the prison,” the female stranger said with a Scottish accent. I watched as her long black hair fell from her helmet as she took it off.
A woman. A young woman. A very beautiful young woman. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five years old.
It isn’t uncommon to see a woman wielding a gun and fighting nowadays. It’s worse for them in this day and age. They have all the problems all the guys have plus there are a lot of freaks out there. It seems every Apocalypse soldier is on the prowl for any type of woman. It’s terrible. Of the five years my brother and I had engaged this lifestyle, most of the women we have seen were dead, or seconds from death…never going down without a fight. And yet, it’s amazing to see this beauty holding a gun and fighting next to me. She looks as she can hold her own too. I’m sure my sister would be the same if she were here.
“Why do you need to go back into the prison?” I asked as she handed me an extra vest.
“We need to get the rest of our people out, you know? Including your brother. We can’t
