Taken Over

Something I wrote and submitted and was published for back in 2011.

TAKEN OVER.

 By Brad Baker 

Written on November 5, 2011--

 

--Everything is clear to me now. It was no war. Saying it’s a war implies that both parties had a fair chance at winning. If it was a war, then it was one we could have never won.

I slowly and cautiously push aside corpse after corpse as I crawl away from the skirmish, trying desperately not to be spotted. Finally, I free myself and stand up. The horror my eyes catch nearly throws me right back down. Blood is everywhere. It is the lifeblood of my people. What I see is horrendous, but for reasons unclear to me, I cannot look away. Several weeks of constant bloodshed transformed a once beautiful meadow into a putrid field of rotting flesh. I gaze over at a river once revered for its purity, now a river of the deepest red.

Looking down at my side, I watch as a steady stream of dark liquid flows from me. I’d been stabbed, but when had it happened? Not once had I felt a blade pierce my skin. No sharp pain had erupted. No pain at all. Shouldn’t I be feeling something? In fact, I feel no pain at all. A sudden rush of sheer tranquility hits me as I hear a voice in my head whisper, “All will be well.” As I begin to feel my life slowly begin to slip away, out of my grasp, more words come to me: “You will not escape this war. Tell them your story…” Overcoming my nearly lifelong fear of death, I shoulder my pack and begin walking.

It was a war we never could have won.

I’ll never forget my first week in battle. It was the first time I had witnessed such immense bloodshed. Unaccustomed to the hardships of war, I vomited for hours. Everyone I knew was dying before my very eyes. My brother, the leader of the rebellion, watched as I fled the fray to grab the corpse of my best friend, intending to grant him the proper burial he had earned. After several moments, he finally found an opportunity to walk up to me. By the time he came to me, I was crying uncontrollably, dragging the lifeless body of my childhood friend. He stopped me and quietly but forcefully said, “Leave him. There’s no time for this.”

          “But… he… this isn’t right, Lars,” I whispered between sobs. “…he deserves better…”

Hours later I watched as a small group of birds landed near his fresh corpse. For quite a while they nervously hopped around, waiting for us to carry on. Then the feast began. I watched as the bodies of my closest friends, men and women I had grown up with, were slowly devoured by a great variety of scavengers. Angered beyond reason, I flew into an uncontrollable fit of rage and lunged with my blade at the closest bird, only to have it fly to another rotting corpse. This was an effort I repeated countless times, but to no avail.

Back once again to the present; I notice that I am the last man standing; the last of my people. I drop my blood-stained sword and begin to leave the battlefield. As I stumble over the corpse of my once brave and powerful brother, the last hope our rebellion had, my mind once again reverts to the past and I recall the brief conversation we had had that morning.

Once prepared for the day’s onslaught, he began berating me for always shirking away from battle.

“You must have anger, brother! Is this not so?” He asked me, growing impatient.

“Yes, but I also have fear. It prevents me from acting upon my anger.” And as I reminded him of this, he strode away.

His last words to me were not intended for me to hear, but nonetheless I heard them. “Damn fool…” He trailed off, never again to speak to me. I took his last words to heart and began that day, our last day, with a renewed vigor. I wanted to prove I was no fool.

It was all too little, too late.

I then think back to when this had all begun, back before the “peaceful invasion” and our inevitable enslavement. It was a time almost five years before I was born.

We once had the planet Terran all to ourselves. After many years of war and poverty, my ancestors had agreed that we would live as brothers and sisters in peace. And it worked. As a people we prospered and slowly Terran became a land free from tyranny, free from rule. Then, during a mighty storm nearly twenty years ago, a great flying ship arrived. Out of it came a race of people far advanced beyond my own. A promise was made by a king, King Ysmault. Ysmault proclaimed that he’d come in peace and promised to live in harmony. He told of a civilization on a planet a great distance from Terran. Even after a mighty struggle so save their home world, it had been destroyed. The cause was never revealed, however. Predicting the worst, a small evacuation had been successfully orchestrated. Narrowly escaping extinction, they sought out a planet with inhabitants as similar in physiology and development as possible. The task was difficult and took many decades, but eventually, and unfortunately, they found Terran.

Due to the advanced technology of the settlers, the people of my planet were enamored, and soon Ysmault proclaimed himself King. Months passed and over time my people became aware of his true intentions. He had no desire to live among us as equals. Instead, he expected my people to worship him. My people, the true natives of this planet, became subclass. There were many attempts to revolt, but eventually, and discreetly, they were silenced. The years passed and the natives became little more than slaves, forced to help the king build his empire.

Since before I was born, my people trained in total secrecy. They believed that this corrupt new Empire was weak, that we could beat them if we all worked together. Swords were forged and strategies were planned. Men, women, and children, all trained for the war we would one day wage on the tyrants who had enslaved us. Hiding in plain sight, we slowly prepared for a war we could never win.

Back again to the present, I finally escape that field of death and sorrow. As I make my way up a hill, I look around. Behind me, I watch as my enemies methodically search the piles of corpses, checking for survivors. They find a few stragglers and finish them off as well. Someone spots me and I proceed onward, ignoring the screams of agony. In the distance I spot the cave I had played in when I was very young. As I crawl through its narrow opening, I laugh to myself; how very fitting that this will be my tomb. I take out my two most prized possessions, my notebook and pen, and begin to write my story.

Written in the language of my conquerors, I leave this message not for my people, but rather for those that have robbed me of my rightful home. Sadly, I am the last of my people. My dying wish is that someone will read this and usher in a change. Hopefully this tragedy will not be for nothing.

But for now it is over. The Humans have won.

Author's Note

Thanks for any comments.