by James Tow
rifle, and took one for his self. He tossed me a strap of grenades for the M203 launcher.
I glanced at the huge piece of black cloth that sat on Alyse’s mattress. I held it up to see it was her unfinished flag. Patches of black fabric was sewed together to where it was obvious this wasn’t one piece of cloth. In large white lettering ‘Sons of Liberty’ was sewed, in an arc, running along the top of the flag.
Gabriel put his scarf around his neck and over his face.
“What’s that?” he asked—putting his blade in his vest, against his back. I folded the flag, keeping it in a firm grip.
“Our calling.”
A clatter of sprinting footsteps stopped just outside the tent. Chris, Toni, Ebben, Keith, and the other members of the Omega Unit walked into the tent.
“You…didn’t think…you were going…by yourselves…did you?” Chris said through gasps of air.
“We’re…a team,” Ebben breathed.
“Yeah, where you go…we go,” Toni added.
I looked into their determined faces. “Get ready,” I said sternly.
They bumbled around the tent, in search for their equipment. Gabriel and I finished our preparations for the expected battle. Chris walked up to me, when he was ready, and took the flag from my hands. He held it up in the air to examine the craftsmanship. Then he walked off, grabbing a spare metal pole from the tent’s infrastructure which stood in the back left corner, and slid the loop of the flag down onto the pole. “Now people will know who we are,” he said.
Locked and loaded, we exited the tent and I hopped into the Mustang’s driver seat. We continued our way to the interstate, the two Humvees close behind me with the old pick-up in last, when a great wall of people and cars halted our advance. The mob in front of me held weapons, and was equipped much like we were—this put a smile on my face. I got out to greet the immovable barricade.
A group of men, including Justin Flowers and Hunter Watson, approached.
“Problem?” I asked the oncoming mob.
They stopped, feet from my position, when they looked over my shoulder and smiled. I glanced back to see our black flag, stickingOmega Unit out from the passenger window of Chris’s Humvee, flapping with the breeze—showing ‘Sons of Liberty’ in bold white letters.
“Recruiting?” Hunter asked.
I could only smile, “Follow us,” I told them. They turned and ran for their vehicles. I did the same, and the rumble of the crowd’s cheer that made me proud. This is our doing.
“Let’s do this,” Gabriel said as I got back in the Mustang.
We sped, at a constant 100 mph, up interstate 35 toward Austin. The image in my rear-view mirror is an impressive sight: dozens of vehicles followed us in a single file line. The ‘Sons of Liberty’ flag—our flag—continued to suspend in the air from Chris’s Humvee behind us. The pride swelled up inside me.
I glance over to Gabriel, who focused on the road, and ask, “What would you want to do before you die?”
“You expect to die?” he asked bemused.
“Everyone is expected to die, but it’s just a question,” I told him.
He looked out his window, “What I want is not important. What we need to do is what we should worry about.”
“Well let’s talk about what’s not important…” I said and he sighed.
“I had everything I wanted before hell started to rise. There’s nothing else I would want more than to have that feeling again: have a loving wife, build a house, watch my daughter go to prom… But I guess someone decided I had enough for one lifetime,” he said still looking out the window.
“That wasn’t depressing,” I said sarcastically.
“You asked,” he retorted then asked, “What about you?”
“Find a woman to spend my life with…I’m tired of being alone,” I admitted and thought, how unoriginal. “If not…then I wouldn’t mind going to Disney World one last time.”
“Ride the Tower of Terror?” Gabriel laughed.
“That and Space Mountain,” I said.
“Space Mountain?” he scoffed. “That’s kiddy stuff.”
“It holds the essence of Disney World. You can’t go there, and not ride Space Mountain.”
“…So, what do we need to do before we die?” I asked him.
“Free the people of this world from despair. Show them how to stand up and say ‘no,’” he replied.
“Do you think it can be done?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer.
“I think it can be done,” I said.
“Then show me.”
I just smiled as we turned onto Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard—running perpendicular to the stadium. I slowed to a 10 mph coast when the stadium came into view. Clark Field, in front of the San Jacinto Residence Hall, looked like a used car lot for military vehicles with the surplus of Humvees occupying it. There was no sign of Pollick or his Army—they must be in the stadium.
“Stop the car,” Gabriel said while examining the field.
“Plan?” I asked.
“There are roads surrounding this area on two sides with trees and brush around the perimeter of the field…” he started to explain.
“Split the group up…half on one side of Clark Field and the other half on the other side,” I said, cutting him off.
“Yes, but I was thinking you and I, with a few others, camp on that side,” he said pointing at the left side of the field, “And the rest camp on the opposite side.”
“Why not keep it even?” I asked, questioning his strategy.
“We will stay hidden, and sort of act as the diversion. When The Army has their backs turned, that’s when the others will jump in,” he explained.
I immediately got out of the car and ran to Chris’ window. “Take the rest of the crew…” I said, glancing down the row of vehicles, and was in awe at the sight of our long line of followers. “…And position them along San Jancito Boulevard,” I told him as I pointed out the road that ran along the right side of the field. He nodded in reply and he, with several of his friends, got out of the Humvee.
“Wait until their backs are turned,” I told him and quickly added, “and stay quiet.”
They sprinted down the line of cars, spreading the strategic plan. I ran to the second Humvee that Toni drove, and told her to follow Gabriel and me—I did the same for Keith and the pick-up he drove. We sprinted back to Gabriel, who waited in a crouch behind the Mustang—keeping vigilance over the field with his scope.
I stopped by his side, and he looked up at me. “You know the area better than anyone here—lead the way.”
Fluttering butterflies filled my stomach as I accepted leadership. I don’t really know this side of campus, but ok. I told the gang to follow—Gabriel held the rear. In a full sprint, I guided them further down Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. I turned right; running along the far side of the building adjacent to the field—which I believe was known as Brazos Garage. I slowed to a jog when I looked back to see everyone was out of breath, except for the caboose. Letting the group close the gap, we eventually turned onto Jester Circle—the road running along the left side of the field.
I stopped, and looked back at Gabriel. He stared back—awaiting orders. Shit, I’m no good at this. There was a series of thick brush and trees in front of the Jester Dormitories—sitting on the left side of the road.
“I want the…” I paused to count the number of members in our party, “six of you to scatter throughout this area, using the brush as cover,” I told them pointing at the area in front of the dorms. Toni and Keith lead them away—a straggler with an ‘I’m scared shitless’ look on his face wobbled away. I grabbed his tense arm and he looked up at me with frightened eyes.
“I’m not going to say, ‘you shouldn’t be scared,’ because I would be lying to you,” I told him. I put my arm around his shoulder and pointed to the other side of Clark Field—at the vast army hidden behind the trees. “You have hundreds of comrades watching your back. On top of th
at, we have surprise and numbers on our side,” I reassured. He nodded—still stiff.
“Yes Mister Reed sir,” he said and ran after the others.
“Jesus, I feel like an old man,” I muttered to myself after the kid’s response.
“So, where are we positioned?” Gabriel asked me—tearing me back to reality.
“At the tree-line—along the perimeter of the field,” I told him.
“Under their nose. I like it,” he replied and we laid in prone on the very edge of the field.
“That kid looked like a five year-old on Halloween,” I whispered.
“Or a sixteen year-old trying to prepare for war,” Gabriel pointed out.
Ron and his partner come into view from the right side of San Jacinto Residence Hall. They walk into the Humvee cluttered field with their hands behind their heads—the groups of Apocalypse soldiers follow close behind them. The soldiers are chattering and laughing amongst themselves with indistinguishable conversations. The two Freedom Fighters stop in front of the building—and Pollick approaches them.
“Any last words?” I could hear Pollick say, and Ron spits on the ground between them.
“I’ll teach you, along with the other factions, what happens when you act like that,” Pollick said and stepped back. Two soldiers step forward from the assemblage of Apocalypse soldiers. The soldier to the right kicks Ron in the chest and he falls back. The other hits the fellow Freedom Fighter with the butt of his rifle.
“I’ll take the one on the right,” I whispered to Gabriel.
“On your mark,” he whispered back.
I focus on my target’s head through the
