An Orange Garnet

Normally the place was screaming with noise and randomness, but now no one in the café moved. No one ate, no one stood up, no one could break their gaze from him. Him, and the eight Marines surrounding him with their guns drawn. Each M4 Carbine had a green laser streaking out from the scopes. Five pointed at all sides of his skull, two at his heart, and one between his grey eyes. He just sat, crunching into his bright red apple, seemingly oblivious to the men. He took a sip of water, then finally he smirked, “What’s up doc?”

A short silence followed; the Marine standing directly behind him was the first to speak. He barked, “Get on your feet and come with us, now!”

He choked on his chicken as he laughed obnoxiously. He looked forward, asking, “And if I don’t?”

“I ain’t got no problem makin’ my gun a bit lighter,” the Marine with laser pointed between his eyes spat.

Again, he just laughed. “You need me alive. Now come on. You know the new exec won’t be too happy if I end up in a body bag, now will he?”

“Never really liked the new guy anyways.” the Marine replied coldly.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked smoothly.

“Major Nakikiramay,” the Marine scolded “Now get on your feet!”

For the first time, he stood up. He walked slowly and casually over to the vending machine, all the lasers following his skull the whole way. He put a dollar in, and a lemonade rolled out. He opened the lid and took a sip. His face cringed and examined the label. He made a face of disgust; something must have disappointed him. He walked towards the trashcan near the door. A shot rang out as the 5.56 mm round pierced the bottle, sending glass into his hand. Somehow this didn’t faze him though. Instead he just wiped the splash of drink and blood off his hand onto his jeans and walked up to the robust soldier. He put his forehead three inches away from the man’s. He stood there, staring into his eyes. Then, he reached into the holster of the soldier’s belt and pulled out a Beretta M9. A few people gasped, but most stared at him, frozen in both fear and awe. Without blinking, he fired the gun into the soldier’s foot. The Marine grunted in pain, yet remained motionless. This time, the soldier was doing the laughing.

“I survived two tours in the Siberian Tundra. Lost three toes on my left foot and can’t even tell I have a right from the stupid ice. You really think a little cut on my toe is gonna make me back down ya little punk?”

“Nahh,” he sneered, “but perhaps this will.” He turned the gun over, holding the barrel in his bloody left hand. He took the handle of the gun and connected it with the soldier’s head, an inch in front of his ear. He stood no chance against the blow and hit the ground with a thud. “Sorry Corporal, you just got a pay cut.”

He twirled the gun around his finger and blew the imaginary smoke from the barrel. He turned towards the Marines behind him, laughing, “Anyone else wanna take a shot?”

Not a single Marine raised his gun. Several looked around at each other, almost in terror. They were all dazed, as was everyone in the cafeteria. No one could move even if they wanted to. He strided towards a soldier whose laser pointed around his gut. With each step, the green dot seemed to shake and vibrate even more. He put his hand on the M4, looking emotionlessly in his eyes, and the Marine immediately let go. He turned the gun around and held it in one hand, his finger beside the trigger, the Beretta in his right. Then he began to walk my way. He turned at my row and continued down. He stopped at my chair and got down on one knee and looked deep into my eyes. He placed the Beretta near my quivering hand and released it.

He spoke softly, unlike before, and whispered “Stay safe.” and he kissed me on the forehead. With a single tear running down his left cheek he smiled and, in a trembling voice, said, “I love you Grace. Please, please don’t ever forget that.” He ran his thumb tenderly across the back of my hand for a few moments. He looked up at me and rested his eyes on the orange Garnet cross I wore around my neck. He reached behind me and delicately took it off. I nodded for him to keep it. He kissed it and placed it in his right pocket.

He dried his tear, stood up, and strolled back towards the awaiting Marines, leaving the Beretta lying beside me. Still holding the M4 in one hand, he looked at the Marine he took the gun from and said, “Give me your jacket.”

The soldier quickly complied. He reached into the pocket of the jacket and pulled out a small white earpiece. He placed it in his ear. He turned and looked at me one more time, with pure innocence and somber on his face. He turned back toward the Marines and shouted, “Move out!” and all followed him like sheep as he made his exit.

I watched from the window, sobbing. I saw a man in a black suit open the door of a Humvee, allowing him to get in. I swear he waved to me. I waved to him back. The vehicle joined a convoy of other Humvees and MTVRs. A helicopter hovered over the Humvee he rode in. He disappeared over a hill as SWAT trucks, police cars, and news vans came towards the school from the opposite direction. We all stayed glued to the window even as the police came into the building.

No one ever found out exactly what the government wanted with him, but three days later a revolution broke out throughout the nation. Nuclear silos were taken over and used on government buildings, warheads were returned onto Rebel bases. The government shut the Rebels down on the west coast within a week, the east in a month, but the plains maintain free yet today. That Beretta saved my life numerous times as anarchy took over what the new United Areas of America Government hadn’t suppressed yet. My town was one of those places. Eventually, an agent was positioned for every twenty people throughout the nation. They started collecting every weapon they could find, but it took them three years to clear both coasts.

A few days hours before an MMU agent came bursting through my door, an executive order from the Tower came through the mail stating I was allowed to keep the Beretta, the one he gave me, but no other weapons. During the raid, the agent read the document; he looked at me, then the letter. Back at me, and again the letter. Finally he called for my door to be fixed. He took my great-grandfather’s Remington 870 Shot-Gun and my knives, but left the Beretta.

It’s been four years, two months, and eight days since I’ve seen him, but I know he’s still alive. I still have the Beretta in my top desk drawer, though I haven’t used it since the MMU agents moved into the city. I’ve been counting the days since he gave me that kiss, and I know he’s gonna come around again some day.

 

I just know…

Author's Note

Please find flaws in plot, examine objects and names for symbolism, what you believe happened, and comment overall reaction

Reviews

[Mike Wolfe]

Wow...this was the beginning of something special. Your dialogue is phenomenal. I could really see the personality of everyone in the room based off their speech patterns alone...it may have been a little generic, but that's only a tiny issue. My only real critique is how rushed the end was. You just kinda did an information dump to finish it off. That was the only plotting flaw. You definitely know your military stuff, which is impressive. My overall reaction? Keep writing. I love this story, and I can't wait to see more