The Broken Shield

by J. J. Carlson

  As far as I could tell, a massive explosion struck our vehicle from below. My head slammed against the back of my seat, and I felt butterflies in my stomach. There was nothing to see out the windows but dust, and I had the sensation that we were flying. A moment later, we impacted the ground and my head jolted toward my knees. Everything went black.

  When I woke up, I felt a burning sensation in my lower back. I tried to look around, and pain shot down my neck. I could see the truck about thirty yards away. It was upside-down, bent and twisted nearly beyond recognition. There was ash and debris everywhere. The front side of the building to my right was completely demolished. I could hear gunfire all around me. Farther down the street, one of my teammates was struggling to crawl toward his weapon. As I was watching, a man in a black ski-mask ran up and shot him in the face. That brought me back to my senses.

  I was being dragged along by the shoulder straps of my body armor. I managed to lean my head back far enough to see who was pulling me. It was two more men in black masks. They must have thought I was unconscious. My primary weapon, a shotgun, was gone. I grabbed for the sidearm on my belt, and felt a rush of elation when I realized the weapon was still there. I ripped it out of its holster and shot both of the men in the back. One fell straight to the ground and the other landed on his knees. I plugged him in the head. To my left, someone started yelling. I looked over to see him raising a rifle in my direction. My .45 hit him high in the chest, pitching him backwards. Closer to the truck wreckage, two men dived for cover. They shot at me with AK-47's—which were a lot more accurate than my pistol. A round hit me in the side of my left leg, but I barely felt it. I screamed in pain, playing it up as much as I could. It was enough to get one of those idiots to stand up. I hit him in the pelvis first, then put two more rounds into his torso. He buckled forward and collapsed in a heap.

  His buddy was not happy about that. Crouching behind cover, he took more care to put his shots on target. I'm not sure how many times I got hit. The flashlight on my helmet was ripped off, I had at least six rounds hit my chest plate, and four more found red meat.

  I squeezed off another shot, and the slide on my Colt 1911 locked back. I swore and tried to grab for another magazine. My left arm had been hit, and I couldn't move it. I tried to reach around to grab one with my right arm, but the gap in the shooting was enough to bolster someone's courage. I heard fast footsteps behind me. One of them ran up and kicked me in the head, and everything went black.

  ********************

  I'm not sure how long I was out, but when I woke up I was in the back of a cockroach-infested trailer. The whistle of the tires and the occasional bump told me it was being towed down a paved road. My head was pounding. I couldn't feel my legs, but all of my other body parts felt like they were on fire. I tried to sit up, but pain shot up my left side and I felt like I would pass out again. So I just laid there, trying get my bearings. It was an old, hard-sided camper. I could make out the shapes of a kitchenette, a table, a sofa, and a tiny shower. Garbage covered the floor, and it looked like someone had started a fire in the center of the trailer at one point. The mattress I was laying on was worn out, filled with mouse holes, and smelled like cat piss.

  A smile crept across my face. I didn't know what these scumbags wanted, but I figured I would probably die of sepsis before they got it from me. I looked down to see how bad my injuries were. My body looked worse than the trailer. Gunshot wounds in my arm, side, leg, and back had been treated—very poorly. Medical tape was wrapped around every wound in a tangled mess. Bloody gauze pads lay all over the floor. Someone had started an I.V. in my right arm, but the dried blood leading all the way to my fingers told me it had taken more than a few tries to get it right.

  We made a right turn, and the road started to get bumpier. I tried to keep track of the turns we were making. Two minutes one way, then a left. Another five minutes, and then a right. Ten more minutes, and we made a right. That road was rough. I don't know how long we were on it. We hit a pothole so hard I bounced all the way off the mattress. When I slammed back down, the pain was almost unbearable. Darkness started to creep around the corners of my vision, and then I was out.

  When I awoke again, the trailer was stopped. There was less light filtering in through the windows, but there was still enough to see a man kneeling in front of me. He was about my age, maybe a little older, but the way he was dressed reminded me of my grandfather. He was wearing a navy-blue sweater over a white, button-up shirt and jeans that were just a little too tight. His shoes were brown loafers, which he wore without socks. "Shaggy" was the best way to describe his hair. His whole appearance was unkempt. I don't know, he would probably be considered stylish in some circles.

  He started peeling back some of the medical tape, and replacing the gauze. "I'm glad to see you awake," he told me. "I was very worried that you might not make it, and this whole thing would be for nothing."

  Images of the attack flooded my head. Dust and debris, blood and gunfire. The memory of my teammate being executed played across my mind's eye in perfect detail. My jaw clenched, and I wanted to punch him in crotch. "What exactly is this whole thing?" I asked him.

  He stood up and looked down at me sympathetically. "The start of a revolution. It has been violent, brutish, and distasteful. However, my comrades and I consider it to be absolutely necessary. I would never have agreed to it otherwise."

  "A war?" I scoffed. "You have no idea what you and your kronies are getting yourselves into. You may have some nice toys and some dedicated thugs who are willing to get themselves killed, but you don't stand a chance. You think it was tricky taking our truck down? You have no idea what my agency is capable of."

  "Perhaps not," he sighed. "But I never said anything about a war. A war is a conflict between two or more nations or states. We do not recognize the authority of the State, and therefore could not declare war against your agency or any other government entity."

  My head spun for a minute. I blamed it on the loss of blood. Eventually it came to me. "So you're one of those communist nut jobs, then?"

  I spit the words out, showing no fear of any retaliation my captor might give. To my surprise, he just smiled warmly. "Absolutely," he said. "And I am very impressed that you recognized me as such. So perhaps you can understand that I do not seek to overthrow anything, or begin a violent conflict. I only seek to end the inequality brought about by a classist society. Our...attack on you and your friends was unfortunate. I hope it is the last bloodshed that is necessary to meet our goals."

  I had been trained what to do in the event that I was taken hostage. I was taught not to engage a captor in debate. Anything I said could incite physical abuse or potentially be used as propaganda.

  But I was in a lot of pain, and I was pretty sure I was going to die, and I was really pissed off. This guy was spouting off about how he was going to change the world, and how he hoped he could do it without shedding too much blood. Who was he to decide which victims would be sacrificed for the cause? What did my teammates, my friends do to deserve execution on the street? If I was physically able, I think I would have choked the life out of him right there. I imagined tightening the collar of his stupid sweater around his scrawny neck. The thought made me smile.

  After a long moment, I decided the only way I could truly resist was with my words. If there was nothing I could do to fight my way out, I would challenge his sentiment until my heart stopped beating. I took a few deep, painful breaths and tried to calm myself. "Why are you treating my wounds?" I asked. "I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure I'm a lost cause at this point."

  He looked away, and I thought I saw tears starting to well up in his eyes. "They—I don't think it is best to tell you exactly why. You need to be alive in order to be of any use to us."

  I looked him straight in the eye. "I'm not trying to complain about your hospitality, but I get the feeling that you flunked out of medical school. So unless I get treatment by some real professionals, I probably w
on't make it another day."

  "Tomorrow," he responded. "Things will be settled tomorrow."

  "Look, if it's ransom money you want, you won't get it. If you try to negotiate with someone for my release, it will not end well for you. In situations like this, they track the perp down and deliver a bullet to his brain. I should know, I've done it before."

  My captor started to look even more rattled, but I got the feeling it wasn't because of my threats. He started pacing the room and wrung his hands. "I'm sorry, but I have to step out for a moment." With that, he opened the camper door and walked outside.

  I definitely didn't expect to get under his skin so quickly. It was a little unsettling. I think I would have liked it better if he had punched me in the face for being so mouthy. I closed my eyes. Escape was not an option. I was pretty sure I'd been paralyzed, at least partially, and trying to move around would probably tear open some pretty big holes. I was no expert, but I'd had enough medical training to know it was better to keep my blood inside of my body. I figured sleep was my best option.

  GERALD

  I let the camper door fall shut behind me. Several other members of Relentless Autonomy were nearby, standing in a cluster. They twisted open a bottle of vodka and started passing it around, celebrating their hard-won success. A few hours ago, I might have celebrated with them. At the moment I just wanted to be alone.

  I was not present during the ambush. The dirty work was done by men with tougher grit and better aim. My role had mostly been in the planning phase. I certainly did not expect to be assigned to the care of our prisoner. Treating his wounds as he lay there helpless, barely clinging to life was almost more than I could take. I tried to tell myself that he was the enemy, that he deserved everything that was coming to him. And yet, how could I know? I had never known this man, or any of his slain teammates. Perhaps he was an oppressive, despotic agent of the state. But then again, maybe he was just doing what he thought was right, brainwashed by the expectations of cultural norms.

  What sickened me was the similarity that I saw between this man and my comrades within Relentless Autonomy. He was a warrior, just like them. He was willing to fight and die for a cause that he had been taught to support, just like them. What if this broken, bloodied man had been one of my students? Would he have joined our cause, rather than opposing it?

  I shook my head to clear my thoughts. These were metaphysical speculations better suited for an ethics classroom. This man and his teammates could never have reached their positions of authority without oppressing countless innocents along the way. I did not become a staunch defender of freedom and social justice overnight, and this man did not become a violent weapon of the State overnight. This guilty feeling in my stomach was completely unwarranted. It was merely a manufactured response based on previously held, uneducated, childish beliefs.

  I glanced at the back of the trailer. I had nothing to fear from this man, or his death. He was a puppet of the nobility, nothing more. Then an idea sprung into my mind. My companions had warned me not to converse with our prisoner, just to keep him alive until the execution. However, I saw an opportunity that I was uniquely suited for. I would expose our prisoner as a totalitarian, using his words to prove his guilt. I could sneak in a small camera to record our conversations. The footage would allay any of my doubts that this man deserves his execution, and bolster the efforts of Relentless Autonomy along the way.

  ISAAC

  Sleep was nice, but trying to stay asleep while riddled with bullet holes was not. Whenever I woke up, I could never tell if I'd been asleep for five seconds or five days. I had a feeling it was the former. Laying in pain, powerless to do anything, was the worst part of my captivity. I just wanted to make the time pass faster. Sleeping seemed like a good way to do it, but chasing the sandman over and over again was infuriating.

  I was actually relieved when my nerdy-looking captor opened the door and came back into the trailer. Maybe I'd get lucky and he would slit my throat. He bustled around with a worried, maybe even fearful demeanor. I sighed; probably not.

  He had his back turned toward me for a long moment. When he finally turned to face me he looked a little more confident. He brought a folding chair from the front end of the trailer and sat down. “I know you are in pain right now, beyond that which most men have ever experienced, I'm sure. But do you mind if I asked you a few, pointed questions?”

  I actually chuckled at how polite this guy was. “Go ahead, I've got nothing better to do.”

  He clapped his hands and crossed one leg over the other. “Excellent,” he beamed. “Do you mind telling me your name?”

  “Isaac.”

  “Very good, Isaac. My name is Gerald, and I'm a member of an organization known as Relentless Autonomy.”

  “Cute,” I told him.

  He fidgeted in his seat. “Err, yes. We try. Isaac, how long have you been a police officer?”

  “I joined the academy when I was eighteen, so about eleven years.”

  “And why did you join the academy in the first place?”

  An image of my mother's trampled body flashed before my eyes. “For kicks and grins.”

  Gerald leaned back in his chair and watched me for a moment before speaking up. “It's alright, we'll come back to it. Let's just bypass the pleasantries and move on. Isaac, there are many people in this country who view law enforcement officials as violent, discriminatory bullies. How would you characterize the majority of individuals you have worked with?”

  I paused for a few seconds before responding. “Protectors. Most of the people I have worked with just want to keep their cities, their streets, and their families safe.”

  “That is an excellent description. It certainly paints a noble picture. As a protector, do you think it is necessary for you to enact violence against criminals, in some situations?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That sounds dangerous. Your duty places you in direct contact with some of the most savage members of society, is that right?”

  I eyed him up and down. “That's right.”

  “I don't know how anyone would view people like you as anything but heroic, given that characterization. So how many criminals have you killed in the line of duty, in order to save other people?”

  “Enough.”

  “I see. And how many lives do you think you have saved, by taking the lives of violent offenders?”

  “I couldn't tell you. That's total speculation.”

  “Of course it is. But I would guess it is a great many. How about something a little more concrete? Could you give an estimate of the number of speeding tickets you have written?”

  “I dunno. Maybe seventy five or a hundred.”

  “Have you ever written tickets to people for having overly tinted windows?”

  I was starting to see where he was leading me. “Yes, several.”

  “I believe it. I've seen some very dark windows in my time. But tell me, Isaac, how many lives do you think you saved by writing those citations?”

  “Probably none.”

  “If you are a protector, what is the rationale for burdening non-violent citizens with fines and oppressive regulation?”

  “It's called law enforcement. It's not my job to write the laws, just to make sure they are obeyed. If you have a problem with the laws, take it up with your congressman.”

  “I completely agree, and no one is blaming you. Perhaps our points of view are not as widely disparate as you might believe. Was there ever a moment when you witnessed a crime, perhaps something minor, and you did not write a ticket?”

  “Of course. You can't write a ticket for everything, and a lot of people will do the right thing if they are just reminded of what it is.”

  “We find ourselves in agreement again. I hope you realize what you have told me. You have repeatedly disobeyed the laws created by our ruling class. You, in open rebellion, decided not to enforce the statutes they placed over the proletariat.”

  “It's not
that serious. I'm a human being just like you, just like everyone in the legislative and judicial branches of government. All anyone wants is for people to get along. Sometimes they don't.”

  “It is a simple concept, isn't it? But I would be remiss if I did not tell you that it is completely unnecessary. In fact, the approach our country has taken in governing its citizens has led to the violence and lawlessness we observe today. Partiality, coercion, selfishness, subjugation—we are taught to tolerate such things from the day we are born. However, our minds and wills can only endure a finite allotment of injustice. We reach a tipping point and we rebel. But it does not have to be so. What if I told you that crime is just a symptom of the environment our society has created?”

  “I'd tell you that you are full of crap. People get in fights over the kind of clothes they wear. I have seen mothers murder their children. I've collared wealthy rapists and homeless rapists alike. The thing that these scum bags have in common is that they have done something wrong, and deserve punishment.”

  “But who decides what is wrong and what is right? If we consider our brothers to be our equals in every sense, the need for labels of right and wrong disappear. There is no need for the oligarchy to tell us how to behave. In truth, they merely wish for us to submit.”

  “And in what universe is this possible? If a government is selfish, it's because people are selfish. Man can't be trusted to do the right thing. When given the chance, people will just...” I wasn't sure if I should say it, but I did anyway. “They'll stomp on you without a second thought. And you can bet they won't stop to help someone in need, not for a second.”