The garbled blaring of megaphones breaks through the thickness in the air as their line begins to stabilize. They stand in loose rows, tattered rags hinting at the gaunt faces below, eyes burning from behind locks of lank, grimy hair. For the first time today they are silent and only the occasional restless rustling belies the silence. The distant thunder of jet engines throbs through the air like war-drums, the shrill falsetto of police sirens swallowed up so as barely to be heard. The air is heavy enough to taste. Sweat, grime, fear, metal. My lips feel dry and cracked under my tongue. One man, a blood red bandana covering his face, raises a fist into the air; the gaps in their crude line disappear.
There is blood in the water. I’m not the only one who tastes it.
I hear static hissing in my ears before the radio comes to life. A cold, harsh voice booms over the intercom, relaying our orders; I see my fellow soldiers nodding to themselves as they hear what I do. My chest tightens, a cold pit of apprehension forming at the bottom of my gut. Our sharpshooters are in position. If the crowd turns violent, we have been authorized to open fire, to quell the mob using any means we deem necessary. Fatigue, not always there but never fully gone, settles into my bones. I dutifully examine my rifle, fingers numb and clumsy, and check my spare magazines. I feel the distant thrum of helicopter blades in my chest; I see them hovering overhead, dragonflies on the prowl. My finger twitches nervously, flicking my safety on and off, a dangerous habit I picked up God-knows-where. I don’t even remember the names of half the places I’ve been. But I never thought I’d end up touring back home.
Across the road, they haven’t moved. There is blood in the water and the sharks are closing in. I feel a trickle of sweat slither down the back of my neck. The air inside my helmet is stifling, boiling my skin. I want to tear it off. I continue standing, still as stone, just like the men beside me. I turn to look at their faces but of course they are hidden, just as mine is, behind the tinted visors on their helmets. I reach up and adjust my helmet, and the tint increases, the glare of the sunlight dimming. I always hide my face as I prepare myself to kill.
A flicker of movement breaks me from my thoughts. The red bandana wearing leader raises his fist again; this time the mob begins clapping, stomping their feet, making noise in any and every way they can. Some of the men around me nearly take a step back. My own ears are assaulted and I reach again to my helmet and the noise dims. One of them must have a boom-box, as a muted rendition of Iron Maiden’s The Trooper sneaks into my helmet. Slowly, they begin to watch forward, hands clutching crude steel bludgeons, kitchen knives, firearms. A soldier’s voice blasts over a megaphone, telling the mob to disperse. They continue forward, now at a brisk walk, hefting their weapons. I feel blood pounding behind my eyes, a half sick, half giddy feeling rising up in my stomach. As one, we raise our rifles, flicking off the safeties. The megaphone speaker doesn’t bother issuing a final warning.
A volley of rubber bullets cuts down the first row, barely slowing them. They’ve broken into a trot now, building up speed with each stride. We fire another volley. Another. Another. They’re running now, half crazed, feral screams bursting from their lips. The ones with guns fire back at us, bullets clanging off body armor. A Molotov bursts by my feet, streaks of fire brushing at the soles of my boots. I let my half-used magazine drop, reload my gun with live rounds.
The bugle sounds as the charge begins…
Overhead, the snipers stationed on the rooftops begin firing shots into the crowd. A few fall, but there are more to take their place. The rioters hurl a barrage of their own; bricks, beer bottles, more Molotovs. Beside me, a soldier’s head explodes as a shotgun round takes him in the visor. I don’t bother to check him; the bits of skull and brain plastering the asphalt behind him tell me all I need to know. I snarl silently as I scan ahead, blood both cold and boiling, breaths coming in labored gasps. I see her, fumbling to reload her shotgun, bandana having fallen askew. A burst of saliva fills my mout. I line up the shot, putting a five round burst into her belly. Time seems to slow down as I see her face twist in anguish as the lead pierces her abdomen. The spent casings from my rifle fill my vision, drifting almost lazily through the air, blanketing the ground. The cold burning in my gut eases as she hits the ground, blood pooling around her thrashing form. I don’t need to fire again, but I do, and after the next round rakes her body she falls still. My arms feel light, and the world is still spinning, everyone falling like a flake of snow in a snow-globe. I take a step forward, firing another burst which takes a man in the face. I can almost see the way his face is undone by the bullets, the way the flesh and bone warp and yield as they’re torn apart. My chest is aching as I line up another target. I gun down three more before my clip is spent. I turn my head to the side; a wall of black uniforms moves forward beside me like an oiled machine. Bursts of gunfire slice through the air like scalpels through rotted flesh.
And as we race towards the human wall…
The mob is crumbling beneath our barrage; their charge broken, they begin to fall back, leaving their dead in the street. As they slink away the burning starts to ease and my body finds its weight again. We take shots at them as they run, doing our best to gun the last of them down before they can melt away into the alleyways. I line up another shot, hesitate for a moment. There is something familiar in the shirt he is wearing. The man looks over his shoulder, his eyes meeting mine. A dim spark of recognition. Then he ducks into an alley and disappears. I feel sick, a tide of bile seething at the back of my throat. I fumble for my helmet clasp, tearing the wretched thing off my head just as the vomit bursts from my lips. I don’t know how long it lasts. When it’s over, I swallow hard, my mouth burning. A hand touches my shoulder; I hear a voice telling me that I’ll be fine. I shake my head as I lurch forward, breaking rank, pulling my helmet back on. I won’t be alright. Voices are shouting at me, but I can hardly hear them. I need to know for sure. I can’t rest until I know.
We get so near yet so far away…
My armor is weighing me down. At this rate I won’t catch him. I pull the clasps on my breastplate, feel it slide off my chest, clatter to the ground. I run faster, rifle slung over my shoulder, pistol in hand. A rioter moves to block my way, winding up for a swing with his crowbar. I put a bullet in his eye, see him crumple in a lifeless heap in the corner of my vision.
As I approach a corner, I slow my pace, waiting a moment until my breathing steadies itself. I holster my pistol, take my rifle in hand as I turn the corner. I see him standing there, issuing orders to a small group of masked men. His face is hidden by a mask; I cannot be sure. I scan each of the men standing in front of me, seeing no guns. Still, I regret leaving my armor behind now. But I have no time to get it. The longer I look at him, my doubts grow like weeds, slithering into the cracks. I try to speak, but his name catches on my tongue, sticking inside my mouth like glue. A long moment passes before I’m able to force the words from my lips. I call out to him, watching his group scatter as they see my gun. He turns slowly, fire burning in his eyes. I say his name, holding my hands up defensively. He continues to glare at me as he pulls a long knife from his belt. I repeat myself, louder. He advances on me slowly, knife glinting in the dying sun.
My helmet. He can’t recognize me. I reach to pull it off, but he’s too close. He could jump me, and without my armor his knife would gut me. I see the cold calculation in his eyes, and I know he means to kill me. I level my rifle at him. An easy shot. I hesitate. My finger brushes the trigger. I say his name again, pleading. He lunges as I pull the trigger.
We fall to the ground, gasping for breath. I reach down, feeling the handle of the knife which is embedded in my gut. It burns like molten lead as my fingers brush the handle, so I leave it. I turn my head, see him lying beside me, blood trickling from a wound on his chest. I feel my eyes grow wet, though not from the pain. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow and rapid. I crawl towards him, fire burning my veins. It seems like a lifetime before I reach him. I collapse, body wracked by pain and guilt. Around me, his gang has returned, cautiously gathering around us. I place my hand on his chest, wrap my arm around him. The bandana is still in place over his face. I am still unsure, and I always will be. But I choose to believe.
The last notes of the Trooper tingle in my ears as I lie, decrepit, defeated, dying.
And as I lay there gazing at the sky…
I look up, but all I can see is a veil of smoke and ashes, raining down gently like the year’s first snow. In the distance I hear bursts of gunfire, agonized screaming, and the roar of flames. Helicopters fly overhead, cannons blasting at foes unseen. Somewhere a child is crying.
My body’s numb and my throat is dry…And I lay forgotten and alone…
“I’m sorry.” I whisper as the gang descends on me.
Without a tear I draw my parting groan…
