The Sons of Liberty

by James Tow

just leave them,” she said.

  “My brother?” I asked while throwing the vest over my bare shoulders.

  “Yes. We assume he was captured before today’s executions, and is being kept in the prison. He was supposed to meet us in the field.”

  5. Escape

  A prisoner wasn’t in sight while crossing the caged threshold—I hope they’re escaping.

  We made our way through the familiar hallway of prison cells, following a series of turns of more stairs I missed my first time through. It’s not like me to miss anything like that. The sound of gunfire is more prominent as the female warrior guided us through the prison, and even more so when she communicated with her allies through radio. The folks at the other end of the radio needed help, and fast. They were jammed in a firefight and we were on our way to out flank the opposing team.

  I am still weak. I can feel the massive amount of weight I’ve lost. If a strong gust came rolling through I would have to grab onto something. But the idea of me eating made me queasy. I had to focus on keeping my composure when running up the flights of stairs, my legs were Jell-O and my hands were shaking. My aim will be off, but I’m hoping to use the blade over the gun anyways.

  This whole prison must be made of concrete. The gray hallways look the same throughout. Metal doors here-and-there interrupted the mind-numbing walls. Long, horizontal, light fixtures perfectly spaced along the ceiling. Dull and boring. But this is a prison, and not a five star hotel…I wonder what is considered as five stars now.

  We were half way down a hall when a frantic group of Russian soldiers rounded the corner ahead of us. They stood, facing us, hands in the air with weapons hanging at their sides, yelling. We yelled back, our hands up, and a rebel from behind approached the group of Russians. The Commies quieted down, and I realized the rebel was speaking Russian. Next thing I knew, the Red Army soldiers backed off and ran the opposite way, and we continued through the hall.

  My mind must be playing tricks. I really could use some food.

  Rewind.

  As soon as the Russians rounded the corner I pushed the female against the wall, flattening myself against the opposite wall, and blasting the first fascists I saw. My arm was shaky, and it definitely affected my aim. I fired three shots before falling to my knees, two of them nailing the lead man’s leg and the other nipping a shoulder. I got myself up to a squat position to better my aim before firing off two more shots, and the damage was done. They lost all six men, but at the cost of one of ours. I looked back and our small crew huddled around what used to be Alastair. Bullets found their way in and out of his head. There’s no time for this, I thought to myself as the St. Andrews crew mourned their friend.

  “We have to move,” I pressed. The two remaining rebels sniffled and stripped the corpse of its gear and pressed on.

  We rounded hundreds of corners and flew up several flights of stairs before running into our objective—the retrieval of several other rebels guarded by four Russians. Luckily, there were only approximately 100 feet from the position we upheld. Standing, partially, in the doorways we began our assault on the opposing forces.

  I only managed to shoot a leg before they adjusted their position and returned fire. I paused and took aim to land a bullet through the stunned Russian’s head. But I wasn’t quick enough to tag the others before the Russians took shelter behind a couple doorways. Luckily, the rebels fled down the hall and rounded a corner before the enemy took notice.

  This is ridiculous. It looks like a Star Wars scene: everybody hiding behind a wall shooting at each other, except nobody is dying. In Star Wars you get the occasional idiot storm trooper who runs out, thinking he can save the day for the Empire, then crumples to the ground when Han Solo’s laser tags him in the chest. These soldiers are smart: they know how to hide.

  We must have been in that position for a good five minutes. I finally ran out of ammo. I only shot once, every now and then, when I knew the bullet would hit living tissue—but they didn’t. My aim was still off and I knew this was pointless to carry on.

  “Where’s my brother?” I demanded to nobody in particular.

  “He’s somewhere on the next floor…Wait! You can’t go! You must help!” The female responded to my turning away.

  “I have to find him.” I said with my back to her, and I added, “Don’t worry about leaving us behind.”

  I trekked, hugging the wall to prevent stray bullets hitting me, back down the hallway toward the staircase. I skipped steps as I strode up the stairs, and as soon as I reached the next level the gunfire was muffled to nearly a full mute. I walked swiftly down the concrete hall listening for anything: yelling, laughing, an ice cream truck.

  The next hallway was running perpendicular to the first one. In an aerial view, they would look like a perfect ‘T’. Who the hell built this place?

  At each end of this new hallway were elevators. Thank somebody for that: a small floor with a limited number of doors. I took a left, and started my way toward the distant elevator.

  I heard some screaming and crashing of objects somewhere behind the steel mystery doors: a fight was close. I slowly approached the closest door, and it sounded to be the right one. I grabbed the doorknob and slowly proceeded to open. There’s no way they can hear the silent door over their yelling and bashing. My view of the room was limited. I could see a corner of a large metal desk and from the looks of things, that may be the only furniture in the room besides a few matching metal chairs. It was boring. The bland gray was the only color present. No pictures, no filing cabinets, no trash cans, no windows. Whoever designed this fortress must have hated windows—I haven’t seen a single one.

  One of the voices sounds familiar and I could only hope. When they crossed my view a muscular blonde man, in the ragged prison inmate outfit, held Federov by the collar of his uniform. Federov was doing the yelling while Mr. Blonde was doing the bashing. Then I noticed Federov wasn’t wearing any pants. What the hell is going on? But it doesn’t matter now—this was my chance.

  I threw the door open and strode toward the two. I reared back and punched the blonde man in the cheek bone—sorry, but Federov is mine. When the blonde man crashed to the floor Federov grabbed a gun from the desk he was leaning against. He was fast in pointing the gun toward me, but I was faster. As he brought his arm up, I brought my bolo blade down, chopping off his hand at the wrist. He grabbed his handless arm—there was blood squirting in several directions, and he was screaming at the top of his lungs. I grabbed the already wrinkled collar of his military dress jacket and yanked him towards me, and smashed the corner of my forehead against his nose. He then fell to the ground in front of the desk. His legs were spread so I took the opportunity. I created a perfect circle with my blade, first, bringing it in front of me, continuing my swing above my head, then behind and under. As the momentum built under me, I stepped forward and aimed the blade. The top of the bolo connected with my target and stuck in between Federov’s legs. I let go of the handle, and the blade assumed position in its upright state. I dropped my head to Federov, and his screaming pained my ears. I put my hand over his mouth and whispered, “Are you scared yet?”

  I grabbed the handle, pulling it out from what used to be his balls, and jabbed the tip of the blade into Federov’s throat. His screams quickly changed to gurgles. I took the blade out of him, yet again, and wiped it clean of his blood using his shoulder.

  I turned to look at the inmate, who was staring at me. His blue eyes were piercing up through his furrowed brows. His face is narrow and sharp. Though he was wearing the shredded inmate uniform, his skin is relatively clean. Instinct took over and I held the blade towards him and innocence spread over his face.

  “I was a prisoner here,” he claimed, in an American accent, with his hands in the air. “I was in the middle of my escape when I spotted him,” he was pointing at the corpse of Federov. He continued, “I followed him here hoping to take him out myself, but you…” he started to say but stopped as he stared a
t Federov’s mangled body.

  “I wanted him to myself,” I confessed. I was slowly shifting myself closer to him with my blade held upright. More Russian yelling ripped my attention toward the hall. I sprinted toward the doorway and peered out into the hall, finding the source of the yelling. Two Russian soldiers, their backs to me, were yelling at each other. Paul was facing me, his hands bound together behind his back. He was wearing Russian cammies.

  I hugged the wall, creeping toward the soldiers, with the blade in my left hand in a reverse grip. I met Paul’s gaze. His eyes were wide and followed me most of the way. I was about ten feet away from the two men when Paul started to yell. His ear-splitting scream distracted the soldier’s attention toward him. I quickly shuffled myself toward the two men. Feet away from my attack, the soldier, to my left, used the butt of his rifle to hit Paul in the corner of his eyebrow. Before Paul crashed to the floor, I started my attack with the soldier on the right. Using the butt of the handle, I threw a wide left hook and ran the butt into the soldier’s temple. Immediately, I reversed my left hook attack, extending my arm toward the other soldier with the tip of the blade leading. The blade ran through his neck as if it were butter.

  Blood streamed continuously down the right