|
Tomas grunted as his back hit the rusty car hard, but it was worth the few seconds of cover. His standard issue MP40 was still rattling from kickback, he popped it out and shot blindly a few times, hopefully landing a shot on an enemy. The wind picked up and carried the sand, creating a temporary shield for Tomas to advance to a cement pillar without being noticed. He swiftly dodged flying papers and blustering shrapnels and hurried to the pillar. They didn't even see me, he boasted to himself. It had worked perfectly. He continued from pillar to pillar, guarded by the low-hanging awning and the rising dust. Once he was at the last pillar, he was behind the front line of the enemy. This war had wreaked havoc on the small villages in his country. This was a civil war, and he was on the losing side. But this battle meant that they could occupy this village and advance on La Paz, an enemy-held city, also the capitol of Bolivia. It all started with a few angry politicians, and there were mob-conducted drafts. It was the mafia versus the state. The state was able to have a real draft, issue real guns, train their soldiers, while the mob tossed a gun into a farmer's hand and said "Kill people."
The MP40 was calm now, the kickback no longer vibrating Tomas's bones. He pulled the gun out and took aim on a chump with a state issued AK-47, too busy trying to unjam his magazine than to look over at Tomas. In three shots, the guy slumped over onto the mailbox he was using for cover, but a few other guys looked over to him. He noticed a skull shaped patch on one of their shoulders. A privateer. Those guys actually made money per kill, ripping the insignia from their patched up green vests and giving it to their employer, probably the president himself. After Tomas had been drafted, his wife Juanita and his little girl emigrated to the United States to stay away from the war. She wrote him once, and the money the letter claimed she had left him had been pilfered by the guy who checked the mail before it went to the troops. She wrote of good fortune, and that as soon as he could, he should come join her in the states. He had not been lucky lately, constantly being reassigned, even being forced to serve another tour of 6 months. Tomas looked back out to the road, the privateer staring back, smiling. It was the strangest thing Tomas had ever seen. All of a sudden, the privateer rushed to him, a long combat knife in hand. These guys are cocky, Tomas thought, moving back so he was still behind the pillar but could see the privateer. He shot the man, several times, but he kept running towards him. It would only be a second before he was upon Tomas, so he shot him again. He threw the MP40 at the privateer's head, smacking him across the face with the barrel, knocking him to the ground. Tomas jumped to him and grabbed his head, and twisted it one way. Twisting it fiercely the other way would kill him, or paralyze him. A sharp pain emanated from his stomach, spreading to his entire torso, then a ghost force into his face. Tomas fell over, the privateer staring at him, Tomas staring back. "I need to get to the United States. I need to escape this war." Tomas blurted out, a mixture of blood and syllables coming from his mouth. "I need to get to the States also." the privateer shot back, his bloody, fat lip making it hard to understand the words.
They were both there for the same reason, and it was to get out. The last thing going through Tomas's head was the question: Why do soldiers fight patriotically for countries they don't even believe in? The privateer was thinking the same thing as he tore the insignia from Tomas's patched green vest and ripped it to shreds.
Copyright 2008 Nate Stanford
|
via Email
