The Last Marine : Book Two (A Dystopian War Novel)

by T. S. Ransdell

  “Pigs go home!” someone heckled.

  “This is what democracy looks like!” a rioter proclaimed.

  “No more Marine Corps!”

  They don’t care who they hurt, Gates answered himself.

  Khari Z embraced his rage and was thriving on it. For himself to have been assaulted by these Marines, and now to have Cuppell gunned down in the streets, it was too much. It was time for retribution. He walked through the crowd with a bag of road flares in one hand and a bag of paint bombs in the other. His comrades lobbed chunks of busted concrete and bricks at the fascist crowd. It inspired him.

  “Come on, people!” he cried. “We gonna fuck some shit up today!” As hard as he tried not to, Khari Z couldn’t help but smile.

  Why is no one doing anything? Staff Sergeant Kruschinsky wondered, fighting his apprehension. They ain’t going to bring the president into a riot. I can see keeping the Marines here to help out, but why not let the civilians leave?

  Crusher looked over at his wife and son. He heard Marines complaining from the ranks. Many of them had families in attendance as well. None of them had broken ranks, yet.

  But how much longer? Kruschinsky asked himself.

  “Dude, that cop is getting jumpy. I think we can set him up,” Bella Bradford proposed to a radical wearing a baseball helmet spray-painted black.

  Thumper looked down and was immediately captivated by Bella’s blond dreadlocks and bright blue eyes.

  “Yeah?” he coolly replied. Then he threw a chunk of concrete into the parade’s spectators in an attempt to show off his physicality.

  “Yeah.” Bella smiled, sensing he was attracted to her. “See the guy next to the burning American flag?”

  “The guy with pink glasses?”

  “No, the fat guy wearing the skirt. Giving that pig the bird.”

  “Yeah, that guy right in the oinker’s face?”

  “That’s him. The cop’s getting edgy. I saw it when somebody set off firecrackers next to him. You shove the fat guy in the skirt into the cop. Get the cop to shove back. I’ll record it on video. Even knock the fucking pig on his ass, and we’ll call it self-defense. I’m a witness.” Bella smiled seductively. Thumper smiled back. She had him. Under her jacket she rubbed the pistol in anticipation. She had no intention of recording the police officer.

  “No justice! No peace!” Thumper shouted with his fist in the air. He had the fat guy wearing a skirt in his sights.

  “No more! Marine Corps!” the fat guy shouted, holding his middle finger out towards the cop. Suddenly, Thumper felt very visible. He wished for more protestors.

  Relax. You’re safe. This is YOUR tribe, Thumper told himself. He stepped in, went low, and exploded, shoving the skirt-wearing fat man into the police officer. He quickly stepped to the side, positioning himself to the cop’s blindside, and waited for the inevitable shove back from the cop.

  “No more! Marine Corps!” shouted a fat guy wearing a skirt.

  Matthew Murphy was losing his patience, fast. He’d looked forward to this day. The unveiling of the Marine Memorial, the president’s speech, remembering lost friends. All that had been taken away by a bunch of dingy, black-clad radicals tearing the city apart.

  “Ow! Goddammit!” his buddy Svoboda yelled. He’d been hit with a chunk of brick in the forehead. Murphy picked up the brick and beamed it at some guy with pink sunglasses burning the American flag. Itching for more, Murphy and Svoboda stood behind an officer facing down several middle fingers. A radical wearing a black baseball helmet caught his attention.

  That motherfucker’s up to something, Murphy thought. Do it! I’ll crack your skull wide open!

  He watched as the helmeted protester shoved the skirted man into the police officer then stepped aside, cocking his fist back.

  Murphy rushed forward and low kicked the helmeted protester on the side of the knee. The protester went down to his knees, screaming. Murphy followed up with another kick to the man’s jaw. His teeth shattered onto the pavement. Another protester came at Murphy with the sharpened end of a protest sign. He blocked the thrust, grabbing the pole with his left hand, and then stepped in smashing the radical’s face with his right fist.

  Invigorated with battle lust, Murphy threw another hard right and yanked the weaponized sign free from the radical’s grasp.

  Murphy heard the firearm before he felt it. Initially, he saw no blood when he looked down at his stomach, but he knew he was bleeding. Taking a step back from the crowd, he stumbled and fell. He felt dizzy. Murphy reached for the back of his hip and pulled back a bloody right hand.

  Fuck. After everything, Murphy thought, seeing dark humor in his fate, I get it in San Diego.

  He attempted to stand up.

  If I’m going to bleed out, Murphy thought, I’ll do it fighting.

  But his legs went numb. He fell back to the ground and lay still, exhausted from his effort. Murphy was surprised by his lack of pain. A police officer hovered over him. Murphy could see his mouth moving, but there was no sound. He looked beyond the officer to see Svoboda beating a protester with a sign. His head rolled to the other side and saw a blond dreadlocked woman smiling. His thoughts went to his mother and his dog.

  They’ll be sad I’m not coming home, he told himself. Then those images began to fade.

  Gates stared as life left the young man’s blue eyes. It was a look he hoped to never see again.

  I was naïve. I’ve seen too much of this life to have thought that, he reprimanded himself. Clutching his baton, Gates exploded to his feet. Most of the onlookers had already scattered into the chaos around them. Violence was everywhere now. Gates spotted a radical beating a middle-aged man. No longer caring about policy nor politics, Gates ran up and cracked the radical’s skull open with his baton.

  The moment caught Khari Z by surprise, almost as if a secret signal had been given that he was unaware of. Everyone moved with an increased intensity. But more than that, it was the way they looked. Everyone, whether they were angry, afraid, or hateful, looked more intense. He turned around to see that protesters had broken through the police line and were assaulting the crowd of spectators. The police were unable to stop them.

  It’s started! Khari Z stood and watched for a moment. He wanted to take it all in and make sure it was safe before he committed himself. We can’t be stopped! We own the day!

  Spinning around, looking for a weapon, Khari Z picked up a discarded protest sign that read USE WORDS, NOT WEAPONS.

  Shit’s gonna get real now! Payback’s a motherfucker! Khari Z told himself, tearing the sign off the club it was stapled to. He then charged into the crowd, looking for people to hurt.

  Staff Sergeant Kruschinsky had never defied an order once in his entire time in the Marine Corps. Nor had he ever hesitated to act without orders when he thought it necessary. At that moment, the look of terror on his wife’s and son’s faces were the only orders he needed to break ranks.

  He shot from the formation straight for his wife and son. They began running towards him, but the boy lagged behind. His wife stopped to pick him up. With each step Kruschinsky saw more violence from the protesters. With each step he pumped his legs harder to reach his family. They were less than two seconds away. A man in black, his face covered with a red bandanna, with a raised crowbar broke from the crowd, heading towards his wife and son. At full speed Crusher slammed into the smaller man. The only reason the protester wasn’t sprawled on the ground was that Kruschinsky had grabbed ahold of his right wrist. The giant of a man pulled him up by the arm with one hand, and he reached down for his throat with the other. Kruschinsky squeezed the tiny man’s neck and broke his trachea. Wide-eyed and fearful of death, the protester convulsed on the ground, trying, in vain, to breathe. Kruschinsky kept the crowbar.

  Kruschinsky turned around to see a downed Marine getting kicked. A female protester extended her arm down and let loose with a can of pepper spray into the Marine’s face. Crusher brought the crowbar down hard, snapp
ing the woman’s forearm. On the upswing he nailed the kicking protester in the jaw while grabbing the radical by the shirt collar with his left. The social justice warrior spent his last moments on earth in horror, watching the Marine plant the crowbar into his face.

  The red flag of the People’s Republic of China caught Kruschinsky’s attention next. The devotee of communism rammed the flagpole down, breaking three ribs of an elderly veteran who’d been knocked down in all the scuffling. Crusher planted the prying end of the crowbar into the back of the flag-waver’s skull. With the swiftness and grace of a choreographed dance, Kruschinsky planted his boot onto the assailant’s back, kicking the corpse free of his weapon.

  Like an old friend he’d hoped to never see again, Kruschinsky’s eagerness to fight returned upon him in full force, along with the rage. Temptation begged him to capitulate to the chaos. None of this was what he wanted; none of this was what he’d planned. But then, nothing about the war ever had been. He looked back to see his wife and son moving away from the riot, but there wasn’t much left for them to back off to. They were literally on the edge of the country; there was nowhere left to retreat.

  He turned back to the crowd to see a large black man, brandishing a large club, beating a police officer down. With a loud cry, Kruschinsky charged at him.

  “Get a load of this!” Dash Vogel squealed to the video technician. “Is this live?”

  “Oh yeah, it’s live alright. And we’re recording it.” The tech gleefully smiled. “Those cameras for the president’s speech are coming in real handy right now!”

  “Oh shit.” Vogel laughed so hard he could barely speak. “Look at that big white bastard! See him beating that black guy with a crowbar?”

  “This is gold!” the video tech confirmed.

  “You bet it is! We need to go live with this now!” Vogel ordered.

  “Limen’s interviewing witnesses of the Cuppell assassination. We’re supposed to focus on him.”

  “Screw that sanctimonious son of a bitch.” Vogel went from gleeful to venomous. “This is breaking. I’ll take responsibility.”

  “You got it, Dash. I never liked Limen anyway.” The video tech complied.

  Vogel let out a deep breath and smiled. This is my big break, he told himself.

  “I know this is a difficult time right now.” Story Limen spoke with his most empathetic voice. “Can you tell us how you’re feeling right now?”

  “I…I just…” A woman holding a sign that read STOP WAR, PEACE NOW stammered and sobbed into Story’s microphone. “Why did they have to kill him?” she unexpectedly screamed. Limen reflexively grimaced at her display of hysteria. Hannah Tse zoomed in on the woman’s tearful face.

  “Can you tell us who is the ‘they’ you’re referring to?” Limen asked the dazed woman. “Was it local police? Could it have been one of the Marines?”

  You lying bastard, Tse silently screamed. You saw who shot him. We got it on…

  “Story,” a voice interrupted over their earpieces, “you’re no longer live. We broke away to the riot down by the pier, where the president was going to speak.”

  “How come no one told me?” Limen screamed, frightening the woman he’d been interviewing. “I’m supposed to be the one breaking the goddamned stories here!”

  “How does something like this happen!” Rivett struggled to comprehend what he was watching. “Seriously. The President of the United States was going to be there today. That’s the best FedAPS can do?”

  “Fuck FedAPS.” Harris battled the desire to kill. “They couldn’t find their ass with both hands.”

  “They’ve got to have snipers down there,” Morgan said to Rivett, ignoring Harris. “They’ll start shooting if they get a clear shot.”

  “Clear shot, my ass,” McCurry yelled. “You see this shit? It’s a goddamn melee!”

  Rodriguez remained silent and turned the volume up on the TV.

  “We warn our viewing audience that what you’re about to see is extremely violent and may be disturbing and inappropriate for sensitive viewers,” Dash Vogel announced in a well-rehearsed tone that conveyed sympathy while implying excitement. As he spoke, his network broadcasted scenes of violence from downtown San Diego. “Sadly, those who marched for peace today were met with violence from the United States Marines, who, ironically, were to be honored by President Tang today.

  “We have Senator Wilson on the phone with us, from Washington, DC. Senator, thank you for joining us on what was supposed to be a day of remembrance, but has turned into a day of sorrow.”

  “Thank you, Dash. I wish the reason for my appearance today wasn’t necessary.” Like Vogel, the senator spoke in a plaintive tone he’d often rehearsed. On the other hand, Wilson spoke with an air of authority Vogel lacked.

  “Senator, if you can see what is on your monitor, we are broadcasting live the violence erupting in downtown San Diego. You have long been a critic of the US Marines’ training and indoctrination process. What goes through your mind as you watch these horrific events unfold today? Do you have any sense of justification or vindication from your critics?”

  “Well, Dash, it’s not a matter really of vindication. It’s a matter of morality. Years ago, President Leakey had the courage to buck American tradition in order to bring us in line with the global conscience. In something akin to a national gag reflex, President Clark not only rescinded global oversight of our military training, he allowed the United States Marine Corps to actually embrace its archaic warrior culture. We can see the tragic results today.”

  “Senator Wilson, you have long advocated the disbandment of the United States Marine Corps, even before we saw countless atrocities committed by Marines during the Sino-American War. How much longer are American people going to have to witness this…this sort of masculine toxicity? After today, do you think Congress is ready to do something about the US Marine Corps? Are your fellow congressmen finally ready to legislate a solution?”

  “Dash”–with all the skill of a talented performer, the senator made his voice break in a show of emotion–“if the death of innocent Americans won’t convince the people to once and for all reject our patriarchal, hateful American heritage responsible for this outbreak of violence, then I truly fear for the survival–”

  “Senator, I’m sorry to cut you off, but almost as if on cue, we have live footage of the very thing you’re talking about,” Vogel interrupted. That’s it, you blond gorilla, Vogel silently cheered, you just beat his head in on national television. This could not be any more perfect!

  The news network cut to video footage of Staff Sergeant Kruschinsky beating the skull of Khari Z with a crowbar. It was violent, bloody and grotesque. It was everything the media wanted to show the American people about the United States Marine Corps. It was everything the media wanted to show the American people about themselves.

  Edwards stared at the TV, holding an unlit cigarette. He offered one to Harris standing next to him. Harris took the cigarette and offered Edwards his lighter.

  “Thanks,” Edwards flatly replied.

  “That’s bullshit!” McCurry cried. “If we started all this, who set the fucking buildings on fire?”

  “Where the fuck is FedAPS? Why don’t they stop this shit?” Morgan was incredulous.

  “Fuck FedAPS. If they wanted to stop this, they’d have done it a long time ago. It’s the same kind of bullshit we saw in the war.” Harris spoke aloud but looked directly at Edwards.

  “Senator, you’ve criticized the recent acquittal of General Ragnarsson. Do you foresee President Tang taking any further action on this issue?”

  “Dash”–Senator Wilson exerted all his self-control not to smile; he’d been waiting for this very question–“I’ve advised, privately, and now I publicly encourage the president to turn General Ragnarsson over to the People’s Republic of China to stand trial for his crimes. In fact, Dash, you’re the first to break this news. I was given confirmation before coming on here that the House and the Se
nate will vote on a resolution tomorrow, demanding the president do just that.”

  Protesters began to flee. Kruschinsky could not see his wife and son through the crowd. Through the scatterings of wounded and dead, Kruschinsky started to look for his family. At the start, his search was halted by the blaring sirens of armored FedAPS trucks rolling onto the scene.

  What the hell took you guys so long? Crusher thought. The armored trucks screeched to a halt. Geared-up FedAPS agents poured out of the vehicles. Kruschinsky dropped his crowbar and threw his hands up to show he wasn’t a threat.

  “No trouble here,” he said. “I’m one of the good–” Kruschinsky dropped to the ground in convulsions as the volts from a FedAPS Taser ran through his body.

  On television Americans were able to watch armored vehicles arrive at San Diego’s chaotic scene, which the media described as “US Marines attacking peaceful protesters.” They saw water cannons opened up and FedAPS agents descend into the crowd with Tasers and batons, to arrest anyone wearing a Marine Corps uniform. Protesters were seen running away, but viewers were not shown the burning block they had set afire.

  McCurry shot up from the sofa. Enraged, he flipped an end table through the air and crashed it into the wall, then he stormed out of the TV lounge without a word. Rivett and Edwards stared at the TV in silence.

  “That’s fucked up.” Morgan sounded sad rather than angry.

  “Yeah, it is.” Rodriguez wanted to say more, but was at a loss for words. Harris walked out of the lounge and stared at the wooded hills surrounding Horno. A large crow cawing from atop a light post caught his attention.

  “You mock me, crow?” Harris mumbled. “Or warning me?”

  He dug another cigarette out of his pack and lit up. The bird swooped down and tore flesh off a dead rodent in the road. Then it flew away.

  ***

  “You’re saying there was no collaboration, that you know of anyway, between the Marine Corps and the San Diego Police Department?” Levine asked.

  “None,” Harris answered.