1Casualty of War
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a one-shot by Tatiana Knight
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A war had been raging in America for nearly two years. Mayhem filled the streets night and day, and people were not safe in their own homes.
The citizens rebelled against the government, bombing buildings and assassinating political officials. In retaliation, soldiers were ordered to raid homes of the leading anarchists, kill the adults and capture any children and teenagers. Those prisoners of war were trained ruthlessly to fight against the very people their parents once fought with. They were trained to be emotionless, to not feel anything; if someone stood in the way of their mission, they killed them.
Savagely.
Brutally.
These children were held until they either died or until they were no longer any use to the government. No medical treatment were provided for prisoners of war. If they were injured or sick, they were simply left to die.
The war never stopped for anything. Not natural disasters. Not the deaths of their military leaders. It kept going, the two sides defeating the other side and gaining territory, then losing territory with their losses.
The war finally came to an end when the president was killed. The government backed down and handed over their weapons in defeat as they realized that they were few and the Anarchists were many. The Anarchists released those who were captured and turned into the government's army. They were released into a monitored environment - released, but not free. They were forced to lived in a facility called the Half-way House. It was guarded by several well-trained enforcers, to keep them in line. Cameras were everywhere. They were forced to follow curfews and wear ankle bracelets which tracked their every move.
The released government prisoners had to prove they could be reintroduced into society; that they could be integrated with the normal citizens despite their government training and cruel backgrounds.
If they couldn't they would be executed.
Anarchist Military Official's Home – Long Beach, California; April 6th, 2056: 3:01 AM
The house was shrouded in darkness. Lights did not shine from the inside and no lights lit up the outside, but the soldiers knew that the family was inside. The file had proved so. They went unprotected, except for a very sophisticated security system and several Rottweilers. The soldiers gathered information through tedious study of the house and its occupants' coming and going in their armor plated Humvee.
The team leader signaled for movement and they slowly started to take out the dogs with snipers. When all the dogs lay dead, they began to move swiftly towards the house, being careful to avoid shape and motion sensors. All was quiet until the door was kicked in and the alarms sounded in a blaring wail. "The house has been breeched! The house has been breeched!" an animated voice warned.
The men bolted up the stairs, taking two or three at a time until they reached the second story landing. They began to kick in doors, their night vision goggles not catching any sort of movement or people. It wasn't until they kicked the fourth door in that they saw a large metal door slam closed and the alarm and voice stopped its repetitive warning.
The team leader didn't have to say anything to his team, they dropped a large bag onto the ground and took out several clay blocks, slapping them onto the lock of the several inches thick door. Wiring it expertly, they attached the detonator and left the room briefly to before detonation.
It took half a second to here the boom of the explosives and feel the house rock. A loud bang sounded as the door fell off its hinges and screams of a woman and child could be heard. The team swarmed into the room, weapons drawn and completely void of emotion. A woman cowered in the panic room clutching two young children to her as the man took up arms to defend them.
The leader nodded and two of the men changed the man with the gun, the man fired several shots but only hit their torso which was covered with dragon skin vests; not causing any damage. The man unloaded the whole clip before tossing the gun at soldiers and backing up towards his family.
The soldiers came forward and grabbed the man, struggling to bring him to the ground and secure his arms behind his back. Once restrained the men went after the woman holding the two children; one a young boy and the other a teenage girl. The woman screamed in outrage and fear, fear for her children, her husband, and herself. The soldiers restrained them all, hands behind their backs and legs pinned to the ground by the soldiers who knelt on them. All except the boy, who couldn't have been older than seven. He was dragged away from his family and forced to look watch as they were lined up and the team leader stood behind them.
The leader stepped up to his sister and held a gun point blank to her head. He pulled the trigger. Blood splattered all over the room. The boy screamed in horror and tried to hide his eyes as his sister's body fell to the ground lifelessly. The soldier restraining him grabbed his dark hair and forced him to look at his family. He squeezed his eyes shut.
When the leader didn't fire the next shot, the soldier holding the boy understood. One hard blow to the little boys unprotected side and the soldier hissed angrily, "Look at them. Look at them or we'll kill you too."
The boy's eyes snapped open in fear just in time to see the leader shoot his mother. Her blood sprayed onto his shoes and the bullet embedded itself into the wall a few inches away. The leader didn't give the boy a chance to react as he shot the father and holstered the gun into the designated spot on his waist.
He removed something else this time, a smaller gun, and came towards the boy, causing him to scream and struggle more at the prospect of his death. The soldier behind him yanked the boy's head to the side, tugging roughly at his hair, as the leader pointed the gun at him and fired.
He felt a prick, like a needle piercing his skin, before he was suddenly dizzy and tired. He struggled to get free but his eyes began to droop and all he could think about was sleep; getting away from these men and hoping, praying, that maybe this was all a nightmare. This had to be a nightmare.
Coming to that conclusion, he fell asleep thinking that he'd wake up in his own bed, in his own room and his family would be okay.
But when he woke up, he wasn't in the warmth and comfort of his bed. He was laying on a lumpy, small mattress with several other boys yelling and crying to be released.
Government Training Facility – San Francisco, California; November 20th, 2062: 12:53 PM
His breathing was harsh as he ran around the track of the training facility. The trainers watched him as the large timer on the side of the track counted down the time he had left. He jumped over a huddle that came his way and his lungs screamed at the lack of air. The timer buzzed loudly as time ran out. He cursed vehemently. He was only a few feet from the finish.
"Fast, but not fast enough," one of the trainers spat. "Run it again!" he ordered as he pressed a button to reset the clock to five minutes.
Sucking in as much air as he could he lined up at the start-line again. When the timer beeped, he took off trying to get around the track in under five minutes. This was his last try. If he didn't do it, he'd be forced to run around the track until he collapsed from exhaustion and dehydration. Sweat was dripping off his young face and his heart was pumping so fast suffering a heart attack would have been possible. His head was swimming, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
He crossed the finish line just a few seconds before five minutes. The trainer gave a curt nod and reset the timer but didn't start it. The rest of the boys in the enclosed track kept blank faces as they watched him walk towards them and stand on the wall next to him.
The trainer walked to the opposite wall and pressed a button, the floor opened up and a table rose to the floor level. It was filled with guns of various types and sizes. "Grab your gun, boys."
Soldier's Private Quarters – San Diego, California; March 9th, 2070: 2:34 AM
He laid on his back on the thin and lumpy cot that was his bed. He stared at the cracked cement ceiling as he listened to the plop, plop, plop of the small sink that sat next to his toilet. The door of the room was heavy and sturdy, made of thick steal and bolted from the outside. The walls were sound proof, he couldn't hear anything outside of the room and no one could hear him.
He knew the room well. It was the one he'd occupied for the last fourteen years; the one he wasn't permitted to leave without being escorted his Lieutenant or another officer.
Fingering the tags around his neck, he sighed. He could feel the raised words on the metal tag; words that meant nothing to him, but everything to everyone else.
395
569-54-5892
O-
Undefined
He jumped when the metal opening at the top of the door gave a loud squeak and two eyes peered in at him.
"Are you number 395?"
He didn't acknowledge the man at the door. Anyone of importance to him would know his number and wouldn't need to ask.
"Are you Byron Hayes?"
His eyes snapped up and looked the man in the eyes. "What?"
"You're Byron."
Byron stood and glared at the man. "How do you know my name? Who are you?"
The man looked away from him and down the hall before answering. "I am part of The Anarchists. We have taken over the government and obtained their files. We are releasing all of their prisoners of war."
"I'll be able to go free?"
"Somewhat. We will be putting you into a controlled environment until we feel that you won't be a hazard to those around you." The man said as he slid the large metal bar away from the front of the door and opened it.
Sacramento Men's Rehabilitation Facility – Sacramento, California; June 17th, 2070: 11:48 AM
Byron growled as he paced around the small room. They called it the Intervention Room but he knew it for what it was. It was a holding cell for when someone broke the rules.
He had gone out to the city like he was allowed, his ankle bracelet secured to his leg when he left. He had enjoyed walking down the street of the city, hands in his pocket and looking at the shops and the people. Except, the people avoided looking at him. They had glance at him and then down at his ankle. Once they saw the bracelet they'd quickly shuffle as far away from him as they could.
He didn't care what they thought of him. The looks they gave didn't bother him either because he knew he could kill them if he wanted to. He had the training and the know-how to kill anyone if he'd ever need or wanted to. The thing was, he wasn't allowed to think that way.
The ones walking the streets, the ones looking at him, were just people, not Anarchist. They were innocent civilians.
He growled and paced more, he wouldn't have been in this holding cell if it weren't for that stupid woman acting like she was better than him when he had entered the city library. He had gone to the front desk to ask where they archived newspapers and she had sneered at him, giving him a dirty look, before completely ignoring the question.
He had asked again and the lady continued to ignore, and he snapped "You can't judge people because of their past if they're trying to change!" he had yelled at her, angry that someone would even judge him because of what they thought they knew about him.
"Keep your voice down, you government dog," the woman hissed.
Byron hadn't realized he had vaulted across the librarian's counter and pinned her to the wall until the bystanders started screeching. He was holding her by the shoulders, yelling into her face, while the woman cried and the other citizens attempted to pull him off. By the time the police arrived, he had broken a man's nose, shattered someone's cheek bone, and probably broke or fractured another's ribs.
The police took Byron back to the Men's facility and threw him into the Intervention Room. There he would stay until the head of the Reintroduction Project was able to see him.
He walked to the back wall and let his head hit it with a sigh. He was restless, being confined to a small room again, but unlike his cell, this room only had a toilet.
Byron stayed facing the wall even as the door opened and he heard a small clinking as metal bounced off the wooden floors. He looked down to see his old tags laying at his feet. "Are you still a monster?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," he growled as he spun around the face the man in charge.
He was an older man, maybe in his fifties or sixties, with gray hair and a thin face. He wore a suit, an expensive one with a kerchief in the breast pocket. Thick rimmed glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose as he examined Byron with intense eyes.
"You attacked that woman in the library."
"She deserved it," Byron spat in disgust. "Maybe she'll learn not to call people dogs."
The man nodded in acknowledgment before speaking. "Well, while she had no right to speak to you that way, you had no right to attack her. Not to mention all the damage you caused while fighting the innocent men trying to get you off of her. "
"They should know never to grab a soldier from behind."
"You are no longer a soldier. You are a civilian now. You're not a government pawn. You need to stop acting like one."
"But I am trained as a soldier. If a man comes at my back and grabs me, then he should know I would fight back."
The room fell quiet after his remark and the man walked over to him. He bent down and grabbed the tags by the chain and looked at it. "395... Did you like being referred to as a number? Did you like the anonymity?"
He looked away.
"You did. You enjoyed not having people use your name; to know that this number was easily dispensable." The man grabbed Byron's arm and shoved the sleeve of up to expose the numbers tattooed into his skin. "These aren't so easy to get rid of, though. You'll always have to carry these with you."
He pulled away. "Don't touch me."
"You need to keep your anger in check. I cannot let you leave here without the ankle bracelet until I see you are no longer a threat." The man dropped the tags onto the floor again and left the room, leaving the door open behind him.
Sacramento Men's Rehabilitation Facility – Sacramento, California; December 2nd, 2070: 3:49 PM
His fist connected with the face of another soldier as they toppled to the ground. The two of them brawled as others watched the interaction. His and Byron's fists connected with eyes, noses, cheeks and mouths as they rolled around on the ground.
Byron felt bone crunch as his fist struck the other soldier's nose and he saw blood from his brow stream into his eyes.
"Everyone get down!" a security officer yelled as he armed himself.
The other soldiers hit the ground and covered their heads as Byron and the other soldier continued to fight. A gun was fired and he felt little balls bouncing off his body, sending shooting pains through his back, legs, and arms. When the two didn't stop another shot was fired and this time Byron had no choice but to roll off the other soldier and use his arms to cover his battered head and face.
"You two, off the floor," a sharp voice ordered.
Byron stood slowly, struggling to see and feel where he was placing his feet and hands. He wiped his forearm across his face, wiping the blood away, and saw the soldier he had fought with still laying on the ground. He was still, unmoving and probably unconscious…if not dead.
A security came over to Byron and secured his hands behind his back with cuffs, as another checked on the man on the floor.
"He's alive... barely."
"Take him to the medical unit... I'll take this one to Intervention." The guard yanked him towards the hall that lead out of the Recreation Room and towards the back of the facility.
Byron walked, not paying attention to the stinging cut above his eye or the blood coming from his nose and mouth. He let the blood drip off his face and land on his once pristine white tee shirt. Some dripped onto the floor.
He was shoved into the Intervention room where Carlton was waiting for him, "Once again we have to meet in here, Byron. I am getting very wary of seeing you." When Byron didn't say anything, he continued. "You lash out at everything that angers you, you don't even try to calm yourself. From what I've heard, Conner did nothing to deserve to have his face caved in."
"He challenged me. I accepted. I won," Byron stated.
"You sound proud," Carlton scoffed. "Being a trained killer is nothing to be proud of!"
Byron growled at him, "I was trained to fight. It was hardwired into my brain every single day! From the moment I watched them kill my family to day I was released by The Anarchist! I was beaten when I didn't win and I starved when I didn't do it fast enough!"
"That's no excuse. That's not excuse for you to continue being a violent monster." Carlton sighed and ran a hand over his face. "This was your last chance, Byron. I have no choice but to put you down."
Those words echoed in his head as he repeated them out loud slowly. "Put me down...like a rabid dog."
"It would be a mistake to release you back into society and this program obviously isn't working for you."
Byron felt a guard grab his shoulder and try to push him to his knees.
"Don't fight back," Carlton murmured, "just make it easier on yourself."
Kneeling down, he lifted his head up high and looked Carlton in the eyes. "Defusing rabid dogs isn't as easy as you thought it would be, is it?" He felt the barrel of the gun press against the back of his head and he squeezed his eyes shut.
When trigger was pulled, Byron didn't feel any pain. Blood sprayed across the room and tainted Carlton's fancy clothes as Byron's words sunk in.