Inventions of Man

Inspired mostly by "Dirty Hands" by Jean-Paul Sartre, and other atheistic existentialist thoughts. Originally posted in a different form at Full Metal Wrestling.

Randal sat at the head of the table, as his advisors droned on about their days. Their stories were all of days gone by, and he had grown weary of dwelling on the past. They were better days, days that Randal was beginning to suspect would never return. He stared longingly through the window, to the constant sea outside of them. The sea hemmed them to the shore, keeping them safe but restrained.

 

At first, Randal had liked it here. The sea smelled of salt and freedom. The forest around them provided a sense of security. Out here, he and his men were free to be themselves, and could safely scheme the downfall of autocrats. The only contact they had with the outside world was a radio, constantly switched on and ready to receive their next orders. Perhaps the rebels would regroup and take back some portion of their fallen empire. Perhaps that day would never come. It had been several months in isolation for Randal and his 6 advisers.

 

Randal caught his reflection in the glass. He felt his stomach knot at the sight of his quickly graying hairline, the emerging lines in his face and the penumbra that fell over his blue eyes. Randal focused his vision back to the bucolic coast. Randal thought that the only way to fight was to fight with a clear mind. Soldiers cannot dwell on their failings, their mortality or their insecurities. That life would be trying for a failed revolutionary was something that was to be understood. It was an ineffable kind of suffering in any case, so no good could possibly come of complaining, of agonizing.

 

He had tuned out the conversation, but his men had either failed to notice or failed to care. They had immersed themselves in their stories of better days. There were no stories worth re-telling from this cabin. They were all known intimately, as the group scarcely experienced anything resembling solitude. They all hated this place, Randal thought. He couldn’t blame them. They were human beings in rat cages, penned in and waiting for their masters to set them on their way.

 

Randal saw a glimmer of unfamiliar light on the reflection of the sea. It was new, and it was foreign. It immediately set him on edge, and inside his mind he began to plot his scurrying away. A fleeting hope raced across his brain, that perhaps these were some other survivors, looking to regroup. Just as soon as that hope had come, it vanished with the sight of their opponent’s flag. That audacious symbol, painted proudly on the side of what looked to be a repurposed fishing ship. A large machine gun was mounted and pointed towards their cottage. The time had come to escape the cage.

 

Randal scrambled his mind. The back door was pointed directly at their gunboats. The men were only armed with pistols. Their hunting rifles were in the cellar, accompanying the waiting meals that the rifles allowed them. The cellar had to be reached outside. The only way out was through the front door, to the porch where surely they would be easy targets. It was their only escape.

 

“Front door! Move!”, Randall yelled. The men fumbled for their pistols as Randal picked up their radio. 

 

The floodlights of several boats began to shine on their enclosure. The tyrant’s flag fluttered in the salty wind as Randal took his last gaze upon the sea that had until now protected him so. Muscled men in black outfits carried guns, staring daggers into Randal’s fragile peace. Randal’s compatriots encircled him, wearily looking towards the front door. The door was drummed with something heavy, threatening to give way and let in the evil that oppressed it. Randal drew his pistol and fired blindly through the flimsy wooden door. The heavy object fell upon the porch as one of the black-suited men screamed in agony.

 

Randal rushed forward and opened the door. Immediately, he had set off a maelstrom of gunfire. He ducked back into the hallway as he watched one of charges fall down. Seated against the front wall, Randal watched David Jian recoil in pain. Jian was the man dropping to the floor, a young orphan that Randal himself had recruited for their failed coup. Jian crumpled and fired his handgun wildly at the open door. He was punished with a cacophony of shrapnel. Jian’s face disappeared into the floorboards.

 

“GRENADE!”

 

It was Kurt’s voice, yelling as he shielded his young brother. The black egg sailed through the window, landing on its bottom side and bouncing up. Chaz jumped into position and grabbed it, throwing it hammer-first through the open doorway. He scowled as a burst of light and sound rocked the soldiers on the outside. Randal raised his arm high, and his men jumped up and began sprinting towards the exit.

 

Randal rolled on his front after them, as their pistols popped off into the dazed assault team. Randal raised himself up with his off-hand as he sprinted forward. Three men fell as their flank was sprayed upon by late-arriving soldiers. Randal grabbed an assault rifle from one of the fallen black-shirts, firing wildly as his men ran into the forest. He followed them into the darkness.

 

The impossibility of their situation dawned on him. A squad of roughly 20 men armed with half-depleted pistols were trying to outrun dozens of men with body armor and assault rifles. They ran towards the road, miles away and likely unsafe anyway. Their contingency had been the cabin, the escape from that was thought to either be a boat to a new country, or a bullet to the brain. Chaz had joked that their handguns would likely never get the honor of downing an enemy soldier, only their owners.

 

The light from the cabin grew smaller and soon became a distant memory. The bright lights that had exposed their hiding place hadn’t descended upon the woods. Randal ordered “hold up”, and his men once again obeyed him. They looked back towards a vague spec of light that used to be their haven. Silence hung in the air, not a gunshot or footstep to be heard.

 

Perhaps the assault team had pulled back. Perhaps they were scouring the cabin for intelligence. Randal racked his brain… the silence continued. No footsteps. No gunshots.

 

“What now?” said Chaz

 

“They’re not following” Randal replied.

 

“Those cowards… they can’t stand a fight they might lose”

 

Randal searched his mind. He hadn’t noticed any goggles on the thugs they had downed earlier. Of course, they could have them packed in those vests somewhere… but perhaps they knew better than to charge into the woods with the light at their backs. Perhaps they weren’t the only soldiers sent to get the rebels.

 

“The road isn’t safe… they’re waiting for us there” said Randal.

 

“How do you know” said Curtis

 

Randal glared at the teenaged freedom fighter. Curtis was hugged close and silenced by his brother Kurt. Kurt’s hand was the only thing that kept a young and defiant boy in any order. It covered his mouth, as Curtis hissed “Keep it down, you’ll give us away” into his ear. Randal approached the young Curtis, and whispered into his other ear.

 

“I don’t know. But it’s what I would do if I was running a raid like this. The only way we get out of this is if they’re coming to us. If they chase us through the woods, we pick them off one by one. If we assault them where they wait, we die in a hail of gunfire out here”.

 

Randal looked towards the radio tucked into his waistband. He slid the bottom switch from scan to broadcast.

 

“This is Randal Kupchak from Halcyon Heights. Position has been compromised. All of those listening are advised to cease broadcasting unless I give the all-clear. Radio may be compromised shortly. Keep fighting.”

 

Randal slid the switch back into place as his men looked upon him. Randal pointed to the West… towards the mountain that was barely visible in the moonlight. He began walking towards it, his men following as silently as possible behind him. The months of hunting had done them well in this regard.

 

The rebels marched on in a somber quiet. Four of their allies were now down, finally resting. The fallen men had died just as Randal thought soldiers should die. They had laid down their lives for ideals that would outlive their mortal existences. Randal spotted Chaz gripping the golden cross around his chest. It was a gesture that Randal found nice, if unhelpful.

 

An old phrase had entered Randal’s thoughts. “There are no atheists in foxholes”. It was an old aphorism that society had churned over many times to discount the beliefs of people like Randal. Randal had occasionally brought it up to his squad, as a reminder of what their opposition really felt about outsiders. One of his favorite speeches by James Horace had been about that very subject. He told Randal that his worst fear was that some day he would live to see the Sheik lying about how Randal had prayed for absolution before being killed in action. It was a subtle reminder about how the victors are the ones that write history, feeling free to discount and disparage any of the conquered.

 

Randal gazed upon the mountainside, bathed in lunar light. The peak evoked an optimistic streak in him. He smirked as he saw its approaching serenity. This is where Randal was supposed to shine as a general. As the most trusted general of the resistance, a man that James Horace himself had called his left-hand man. The joke didn’t seem to resonate with the gathering of military strategists at the time, but Randal understood the reference. Horace had been accused by The Sheik of being a Satanist, as a way of trying to discredit Horace in the eyes of the public. Horace was actually a pagan, though he had long since given up explaining the difference to people. He liked to joke that The Sheik probably didn’t know the difference anyway. Some Satanists liked to call their ways the “left-hand path”. Randal, a left-handed person who had always felt a little different for a variety of reasons, liked the comparison. As a way of cementing that joke, Horace had tattooed Randal’s name on his left wrist.

 

Randal’s thoughts ground to a halt as the group heard the spinning of blades cutting through the evening air. The helicopter was growing louder. Randal searched his mind again.

 

“Down! Into the leaves!”

 

Randal’s thoughts raced. The noise was coming from two distinct directions. The choppers were likely armored, and perhaps armed with heavy machine guns. Their only hope would be to avoid detection.

 

“We’re screwed if they have thermal” said Chaz, laying nearest to Randal. The rhythmic beating of chopper wings soon drowned out any thoughts of conversation.

 

Randal didn’t have a counter argument anyway. It would be impossible to bring down an armored and armed helicopter with their half-depleted pistols. They could only hope to fight the passengers if and when they decided to land. Randal opened his eyes to his half-covered squad. A light came passing over them, nearly blinding. It left, and the noise began to recede.

 

“They missed us” Chaz remarked.

 

Randal listened intently, but the helicopter noise wasn’t getting softer. It was crescendoing once again. He peered up into the canopy, where it appeared the helicopter was turning around.

 

“They’re turning… they spotted us! Up!”

 

An orange light flickered from the bottom of the enemy’s helicopter. A missile came whistling through the canopy, landing a few hundred yards behind the group. The explosion rocked the ground from under them.

 

“They’re trying to drive us towards them… this way!” he yelled as he pointed towards the smoldering, fiery ruin that had been targeted. “They want us alive… don’t give in!”

 

It was the tactic that had made him famous. The Sheik’s guard had sent a few tanks over the only bridge that reached the island where a resistance group had successfully taken over. They had expected the group to flee via their boats, where submarines, gunboats and helicopters would be waiting to pick them off. Randal instead directed a van rigged with explosives to charge the tanks. The explosion blew a hole in their line, and allowed resistance members to cross the bridge into the waiting city. A city full of buildings and people that once harbored their every secret and every hope.

 

Randal led the charge through the flaming underbrush. The squad ran behind him, charging back into the shadows. But as Randal ran, he saw a flicker of lights ahead of him. He readied his pistol as he drew closer to the unfamiliar lights. He tossed aside his radio, hoping that perhaps it would never be found in the burning thicket. The lights now appeared on all sides. The helicopter droned on overhead. He fired his pistol towards on of the lights, but it remained. His men started firing as well, though even their gunshots were hard to hear over the nearby helicopter.

 

Randal was determined to empty his magazine into the chest of the first oppressor he saw. He trained his eyes towards the light he was racing towards, still so far away. A pain rushed through his arm, his pistol dropping to the ground reflexively. He planted his foot to try to slide to a stop, flailing for his weapon. Something hit him in the chest, driving him backwards and knocking the breath out of him. Randal reached for his chest… but found no blood. The rubber rounds being used were not meant to kill him. Their attackers had something else in mind.

 

Randal drew breath, and crawled towards his nearly exhausted handgun. The butt of a shotgun met him square in the forehead as he turned. His mind was turning incoherent. Where had they come from? What had hit him? Questions swirled, but Randal had no answers. He could only think to crane his head upwards as a soldier bound his hands behind his back. He saw the lights… they were simply standing light posts. The soldiers in black were descending from the trees. The one nearest was unloading his shotgun.

 

“We’ve got about 16, but the bird only holds about 12 total. Please advise.”

 

The man began loading a different-colored shell into his gun. A bag went over Randal’s head shortly before the sound of live rounds filled his ear.

 

 

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Several months later...

 

Randal’s lean body was tossed inside a helicopter. He struggled in his bonds, knowing that his strength had left him. In his time in the holding cells, he had been deprived of most meals and had become very ill. The drugs they had used to keep him complacent had changed him, he thought. He had become addicted, a feeling he had experienced before. He had learned how to get the drugs, by simply screaming and tearing at the walls like a rabid rodent. After a few months, they stopped indulging him. He was forced to suffer through withdrawal, alone in his cell. When he had finally shaken this demon, he had also found that he had shed so much of his body. His fat, his muscle and his hair had vanished from him. On the day of his exit, he examined himself in a mirror with horror and disgust.

 

Randal offered no resistance to them on this day. He felt that he had no strength for it. Looking around the cabin, he saw several of his former comrades from that night. They looked to be no better off than him. He looked at them expecting that their presence would be like medicine to his ailing being. He swallowed them in, and waited patiently for relief. After awhile, Randal noticed that they were all gagged, just as he was. They all looked dejected and defeated, and he imagined that he likely looked just the same. And soon, he put his head down and resigned himself to isolation, just as they all had.

 

The flight seemed to take days. Randal thought to himself that he only had three comrades here from the cabin. The rest had gone missing, possibly dead. He wondered what had happened to them. The two that were shot were probably dead. The other two were perhaps dead as well. Perhaps worse. The idea sickened Randal, and he forced himself to think of John and Eric. Those two had charged their intruders without fear. They died honorable deaths, he thought. Randal knew of no heaven, but for just a minute he hoped that they might have gone to it.

 

The last few months were a haze. Questions were asked, but nobody would answer. Randal couldn’t think of what the captors wanted out of him. The questions all seemed to be hummed at him, near incomprehensible. Were they even speaking the same language? The details of those months escaped him, trying to remember them only made them seem even further away. He would think of a question he was asked, and immediately could not be sure if he had really been asked it or if his mind had simply offered to fill in the blanks. The drugs… they left everything entirely hazy.

 

He looked at the three comrades. Curtis was the youngest, at only 15 years old. He might even be 16 by now. He had joined the rebels with his idealistic brother, Kurt. Kurt was one of the missing, which surely distressed Curtis. Damien was the oldest of the group. He was probably the best storyteller of the group, recounting some shenanigans he might have gotten into with his partner back on his home ranch. His partner was also one of the missing. Then there was Chaz. The man who had watched his parents die of preventable disease. The sickness that infected them and transmuted them into corpses had changed him as well.

 

Randal and his three fellow captives were tossed around like unsecured baggage. The helicopter raced across the sky without a care for its cargo. Finally, they felt themselves stabilize, landing in darkness. Randal began to plot. He was too weak to overpower the guards, and he had no idea where he was. If he was to start a battle with these men, he would have to do it another time, when he knew his surroundings, and could use his intellect to beat them down. When the door flew open, Randal took in his surroundings, committing them to memory. A vast expanse of sand and nothing else could be seen. A tower, painted red on one side, stood on top of the roof of the building they had landed on. Ahead of the prisoners, two guards carried a large cooler into the hatch leading into the building. Two guards grabbed Randal, then slammed the helicopter door behind him. The rest of the prisoners would have to wait.

 

Randal gingerly stepped down the steep stairs. The two guards from before were moving the cooler behind a locked door. Randal estimated that the wall they disappeared behind divided this building roughly in half. He was steered to the right, past some folded cots and into an empty cell. The guards threw him into the cell quickly, and slammed the barred door shut. The guards grabbed his feet through the slats, and dragged him to the door. Randal clawed and tore at them, gnawing at their restraints like they were wire. It was to no avail, as his arms were quickly tied behind his back, and to the cell door. His rabid bite was subdued by a cloth gag that forced his head against the metal bars. Randal was left to stare at the opposite end of his tiny cage. Just outside of the cage was a giant mirror. Randal recoiled at his hideous form, staring at him with judgment.

 

One by one his fellow comrades were marched into their cells and restrained. Randal could hear their breathing and muffled cries, but could not see them. The side walls of his cage were opaque cement, suffocating him from their presence. The fifth guard walked in front of the mirror. This man was decorated with medals earned with the blood of innocents. His boots were black and cleaned, though the laces were tinged crimson with the lost innocence of many rebels. He was grayed and fat, clearly not the type of man that Randal would fight alongside. He was the kind of man that would bark out orders and wash his hands of the atrocities he had inflicted on the world.

 

“Alright gentlemen, I’ll start by telling you that we don’t have much time here. If you hadn’t noticed, we’re in the middle of goddamned nowhere. The Sahara Desert, if you want to be precise. Nobody knows you’re here… or that there’s anything even here… except for us and the Sheik. You’ve been brought here because the people in charge believe that you have certain information that could help us win the war, and put an end to all of this needless violence. The Sheik has ordered you here, and has placed me with very specific instructions.”

 

Randal felt his mouth run dry, his saliva bleeding into the cotton gag. He began to lust for water, another stupid bodily want that would try to betray him. Not to this man, he resolved.

 

“I need you to tell me where your leader, James Horace, has holed himself up. The Sheik believes that if Horace is killed, the rebel movement will die and we can finally go back to peace. When you four were captured, we had no idea that you were some of his highest-ranking officers. Now that we know that, we need you to cooperate. But I’m not stupid. I know you don’t want to. The sheik has had us transported out here with one week in rations. If I have failed, then you will all die out here, and I shall return home and face disciplinary action.”

 

“Why was this fool telling us this? Surely he knows that he’s given us a goal. Surely he knows we’d love to see him suffer!” Randal thought.

 

“So I have to use any means necessary. But let me tell you what you earn if you assist me. You will go back, but not to that terrible war criminal’s prison that you were in before. You’ll be in regular prison. You’ll get all the exercise you want, and plenty of food. You’ll build back up your strength, and perhaps someday you’ll even be set free once you’ve served your time. In fact, if you help us… we may no longer need those horrible camps you’ve been exposed to. The war will be over. Lives will be saved, and our country will begin to heal. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

 

“This man is devious. He has been trained well by the best psychologists that tyrant can afford. He hopes to instill in us a trust in him, and trick us into betraying the cause. He underestimates me. I am smart enough to see through this act.”

 

“My name is Chester. Now, I’m going to ask you all for some cooperation. Starting with you...” Chester motioned to the cell to Randal’s right. The guards worked in silence behind Randal, retrieving their pet from his cage. Chester walked off to the side, and their conversation could be overheard by all.

 

“Let me out of these damn cuffs” yelled Chaz, almost immediately after his gag was removed.

 

“I can’t do that, Charles. I have to follow the guidelines set by the Sheik himself” Chester said warmly, as if he were actually sad to tell Chaz this news.

 

“Bullshit. This is torture, you a*****e. I see what you’ve got on that wall. What will you use on me? The prod? The rack? That’s a lovely set of brass knuckles…”

 

“I hope to use none of them. And you have my word that I won’t for at least these next three days. After that, though, well… I have to get results. By any means necessary. I really don’t want to do that though. I would take no joy in it.”

 

“Sure you wouldn’t. Just as I’m sure you take no joy in making us sit up uncomfortably in these cells. I saw those damn cots. They clearly would fit in these cells! You just removed them because you like seeing us suffer!”

 

“No, I can’t put those in because those are the rules. I can’t give you those cots unless you start cooperating. Everything I do here is videotaped, and sent to the Sheik’s palace. I can’t be breaking the rules around here.”

 

There was a silence. Randal looked up in his cell, searching for any cameras. He spotted one beyond the giant mirror, pivoting to the right and left. It was monitoring the prisoners, though Randal thought the feed must be very boring to watch.

 

Chaz spoke up, a palpable rage simmering in his voice. “Just another reason I’ll never… EVER… give into that a*****e. You can fry me, you can beat me and you can make me cry. But I will never rat on my comrades.”

 

Randal could hear a fumbling, and then a muffled yell. The guards were putting their disobedient subject back in his cage. Chester walked back in front of the mirror, wandering in front of every cell.

 

“I’m not here to talk politics. I don’t care what you think of the Sheik, just as I’m sure you don’t give a damn what I think of that a*****e. I am here because I am trying to do what is right for my countrymen. You can hate the Sheik all you want. It is of no concern to me, and I’m not here to convince you otherwise. My purpose is to put a stop to all of this. So next up we will have… Curtis.” Chester motioned to the guards, and the familiar shuffling resumed as Chester walked back to the interrogation area.

 

“F**K YOU!” screamed Curtis, his voice breaking as he screamed. Randal tried to smile through his gag. The spite his comrades showed this evil deceiver warmed his heart.

 

“Curtis Barrett, right? You’ll be happy to know that your brother Kurt is doing just fine.”

 

“What did you monsters do to him?”

 

“Nothing, really. He told one of the guards the story of how you and he joined the rebellion. The information he gave was what brings you all here today. He’s in civilian prison right now.”

 

“LIAR!”

 

“I understand that you have no reason to believe me, so understand that I have no reason to say it other than the fact that it’s true. And from what I understand, if I can bring you back… you’ll be placed in the same cell as him in that nice prison. You’ll both be in for a few years for being part of the rebellion, but you’ll be out and in the free world in no time. At least, that’s what the Sheik has promised.”

 

“You lie… and the Sheik… always lies.” Curtis’ voice broke and trailed off. The young man wasn’t possibly ready for all of this, Randal thought. They had found their weak link, and Randal could only pray that Curtis would not break. Except that Randal could not even find that solace, thinking that there was no god to rescue him.

 

“Listen… it’s late. I shall finish interviewing you all tomorrow. For now, I’m going to turn in.” Chester proclaimed, rising from his seat. The shuffling commenced again, as Randal knew that Curtis was being returned to his cage.

 

Chester eyed Randal as he walked on by. His gaze held on his last prisoner for a few moments. Randal did all he could to flare his nostrils, widen his eyes and contort his face into a gag-obscured snarl. Chester shook his head wearily and wandered out of sight. Soon after, the lights went out, leaving only the tiny green light from the camera, reflected in the mirror.

 

Randal slept uneasily that night, the pain in his shoulders flaring up occasionally to bring him back to reality. He hated his body, and all the suffering it caused him. His mind would float away into dreams of lab rats pressing levers for food.

 

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6 Days Later

 

Randal’s muzzle was removed without ceremony. The gruel that he had hungrily devoured was pasted all over his chin and face. This was the last day that Randal would ever be forced to eat like some tamed horse. His body ached for the nourishment, but he hated accepting anything from these deceivers. He just knew that they would attempt to use it against him.

 

The gag was still moist from the last time he wore it. Behind him, the familiar shuffling of prisoners resumed. This time it was Curtis being brought to the table. The past few days had been mostly silent. Ever since Randal had declared that Chester and his goons were not worthy of his words, the rest of his men had fallen completely silent. Chester begged them to talk, pleading with them in pathetic tones. He would leave in distress, and his unnamed men would pummel the prisoners. They didn’t ask questions, they just stuck them with clubs and fists and black boots.

 

Chester sighed and began. “Will you at least talk to me today? I’ve been told that I have to put you on the rack if I don’t start getting anything out of you.”

 

“Please don’t,” replied Curtis, with a note of desperation.

 

Randal seethed. He looked at his wild eyes in the mirror. He thought that he resembled a crazed animal. The thought disgusted him and gave him strength. He had formulated a plan.

 

“That’s a good sign. I know it doesn’t sound fun. To be honest, I don’t even think it’s that effective. But the Sheik is growing angry. Apparently, the rebels recently took one of the smaller villages hostage, and killed the Sheik’s mother.”

 

“LIES” Randal screamed into his gag. The words were lost on the outside world.

 

“I just need you to tell me something about James Horace. Where he is, where he might be… anything.”

 

“I never met him. I don’t know him, just of him”

 

“That’s fine. I believe you, Curtis. Your brother said he didn’t know him, either. Do you know anyone that does know James Horace?”

 

The sound of sobbing filled their cramped prison. Randal imagined that Chester must be smiling at his handiwork. Then he thought that Chester was too smooth to let his sadistic streak be revealed so easily. If anything, Chester was probably running his hands over Curtis, pretending to comfort him. The thought made Randal ill. If only Curtis had Randal there to reassure him, to remind him of all that they fought for. If only Randal was given equal footing with that b*****d Chester, Randal thought he would come out ahead easily.

 

“If you tell me, I’ll let you and all of your buddies go. This whole nightmare will all be over. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

 

“Ra… Randal. He’s one of Horace’s right hand men. He’s our leader. Please don’t hurt him…”

 

“I won’t. You have my word. Listen, I’m going to let you and your friends out. We’re going to the roof, and we’re having a nice picnic up there, with really nice food. Microwaved sandwiches and canned fruit… much better than that sticky gruel you’ve been eating, right?”

 

“Yeah”

 

“Let’s go, then.”

 

Randal heard them shuffling onto the roof. The place was silent, save for the two guards who returned for him. They led him back to the familiar metal table, walking him like their obedient pet. They leashed his arms to the cold steel chair. Chester walked from behind him to his usual seat across the table. He stared at his pet.

 

“Randal, I imagine you are as tough as they come. But understand that you don’t have to like me. This seems very clear to me. Tomorrow is our last day. If I don’t have my answers by noon, I have no choice but to kill you and your friends.”

 

“Then we shall die”

 

“Will you feel comfortable answering to god, knowing that your actions will have killed 3 very fine men who would have otherwise lived? Knowing that your stubbornness will have continued this pointless war?”

 

“There is no god to answer to. I would rather die tomorrow in the sand than live with the shame of selling out the greatest idealist our country has ever seen.”

 

“Horace? He is a dead man walking. With or without your help, he will perish. He’s too stubborn to retreat, and he’s too outmanned to win. His fate is already sealed, Randal. You only control the fates of your men, and the fates of the citizens.”

 

“I see through your deceptions. I know better than to make friends with snakes like you.”

 

Chester rose, and silently moved to Randal’s rear. Him and the other guard dragged him to his cell, and locked him in place once more.

 

“You will be awoken early in the morning. Think it over. Please do not disappoint your comrades.”

 

 

Several Hours Later

 

Randal awoke as his shoulder blades screamed in agony. He shifted violently against the sturdy wall to gain some temporary relief. After awhile, he rested again. He felt the touch of feathers on his weathered and dirty skin. He looked up at the porcelain face of a muscle-bound angel. He looked in the mirror, and saw only his lowly self.

 

“I must be losing my mind” Randal thought.

 

“Perhaps. But I am here.” The angel’s voice boomed, the strength of it infected Randal’s week frame with power.

 

“I… who are you” Randal’s thoughts communicated what his gagged mouth could not.

 

“I am Raphael”

 

“You’re… an angel”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you want with me?”

 

“I come to give you strength. Tomorrow is the most important day of your life, Randal.”

 

“I know that. But what can I do?”

 

“You are a soldier. You know how to fight. Tomorrow you will be granted an opportunity to strike. You must recognize it and be ready.”

 

“What about my friends?”

 

“They are already dead. Chester had them shot as soon as he took them to the roof.”

 

Randal went over it in his mind. In his eagerness to sleep, he hadn’t listened for the sounds of his cellmates returning. It was too late and too dark, they wouldn’t be making any noise now. He hadn’t heard them returned, but perhaps they would have been put in the other rooms. Perhaps

 

“Then my choice is clear…”

 

Randal raised his head. The Angel was gone. Instead, he heard the boots of the guards. They undid his restraints and unlocked the door. They made no effort to put him back into the restraints. Merely, they motioned him towards the table. Randal stole a look towards the dividing wall, where the cots were now missing. Had the others been allowed to stay with the guards? Or was this a ruse? Randal plodded towards the table. Chester was already waiting. The electric prod sat on the desk, hissing with its threats of violence.

“Since this is your last chance, there’s no need for the cuffs. Either we take you back and you live happily ever after, or… we have to kill you. That’s… pretty much all there is to it. So just tell me… where is James Horace?”

 

“I… I can’t live with the shame.”

 

Randal dropped to his knees and sobbed. The plan went racing through his brain. “This will get them to think that I am just as pathetic as they want me to be. Let them think it. I am their pet. Let them think that they have broken me, that they are training me. They do not understand that I am training them. I am getting exactly what I want… their trust. Then… I will betray it.”

 

Chester spoke up to be heard over Randal’s crying. “You can do it, Randy. For them.”

 

“I… I’ll tell you. On one condition… you have to kill me.”

 

Randal raised his head. A smirk crossed the face of Chester, confirming everything that Randal thought about him. Randal saw the gun attached to his leg. Randal crawled towards them, like the dog they thought he was.

 

“If that’s your wish, I’m in no position to deny it. Just tell me where Horace is…”

 

Randal sobbed once more, inhaling deep with resolve. He quickly lunged, and snatched the gun, loose in its holster. Chester had not expected such swiftness from Randal. He fired into Chester’s heart, and rolled under the table as the guards fumbled for their weapons. He fired a round into both of their left ankles. They both doubled over in reflex, allowing Randal to pop off a killing round into their torsos.

 

Randal had never been more proud of his accursed body. The training he underwent had not been forgotten. Randal spun to his feet, looking around the compound. The only sound he heard was the hatch slamming shut. Two guards remained, and he needed to get to the helicopter before they did.

 

Randal ran around the corner, knowing that neither guard was waiting for him. He ascended the stairs but found the hatch had been barricaded by something heavy. He thought that in his state, he couldn’t possibly be strong enough to throw this off. He heard the loud whirring of the helicopter blades as he struggled to lift the hatch. He had raised it slightly, before being able to poke out his skinny arm. A metal ladder had been thrown over the hatch.

 

Randal took a deep breath. Working hard against his tortured shoulders, he leveraged the ladder off of the top of the hatch. The hatch flung open to reveal the clear blue sky. In the distance, the black helicopter sped away. He was too late. Randal looked out into the expanse, a sparse desert with no civilization for miles. The compound, with the radio tower on its roof, was the only sign of human handiwork in sight. Randal fired a shot at the helicopter, but knew it would be no use. Even if he managed to bring it down, it would be of no help to him ruined. Randal ducked back inside, climbing back down the stairs to the compound.

 

His mind scrambled. Clearly he couldn’t stay here, where the sheik could simply send more men to kill him. He needed to make it back home. But wandering the desert would be tricky… especially if he didn’t know where he was going. Perhaps there would be some supplies inside the compound.

 

Randal opened the door to the other side of the compound. The cots were strewn about, 9 of them in total. Four of them were littered with blankets and pillows, but the other five remained folded and unused. The b******s had moved them in just to fool Randal. Randal looked to the coolers. Four of them hung open, almost completely empty. They didn’t even contain ice. There were only 2 bottles of water and a half-empty bag of potato chips.

 

He took one of the blankets and wrapped himself. He would need this in the desert. He tucked one of the water bottles into his blanket, and hastily drank down the other bottle. He devoured the chips as well. There was nothing else in this prison, save for a map on the wall. The map had a single red dot that indicated the prison’s location. It was hundreds of miles from any civilization. The closest one was approximately 200 miles due north. A sense of dread overcame Randal. The hike would be a long one for a man with only 12 ounces of water, and was probably impossible.

 

But he could not stay here. He could not wait for them to return to kill him. If he was sentenced to die, then he would die on his own terms. Perhaps some good would come of that.

 

Randall stepped outside that night and watched the stars. He watched them all move slowly, before spotting the single star that stayed still. Polaris would guide him by night. In the evening he would keep the setting sun on his left shoulder. In the morning, the sun would have to stay to his right. When the sun got too high, he would bury himself in the sand and rest. He lied to himself, convincing himself that it would only last a few days. That perhaps the rebels would meet him halfway.

 

He jumped off of the roof. He landed on the corpses of his three former comrades. They were dried and rotting skeletons now, and of no use to him. He buried his digust and set forth, heading North into the unknown.

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Three Days Later

 

Randal knew that men would simply begin to travel in circles without direction. But he was confident that he was heading mostly north. The doubt couldn’t help but creep in, though. How could he know that he was still on course? Where was he even running to? The city he encountered would likely be under the control of that tyrant. Horace couldn’t mount a good enough offensive the first time… why would he suddenly succeed?

 

His lust for water consumed his thoughts occasionally. He checked his water bottle, knowing it was empty, but hoping that he had been mistaken. He fantasized about rain. It would soak his body and his blanket-robe. He would wring the sweet moisture from his cloth into the bottle, and drink for hours. He would drink until he wanted to vomit from it. But Randal knew that no rain would come for him here.

 

He thought about the city to the north. Perhaps it would fly Horace’s flag. Perhaps it would fly the tyrant’s flag. Randal didn’t care anymore. He would steal himself into safety. His appearance was likely so altered that nobody would recognize him. He would claim that the rebels left him in the desert to die, and would be nursed back to health by an unwitting loyalist. Perhaps after his strength returned, he would consider returning to revolutionary matters.

 

If Horace had won, Randal thought he might be a war hero. He fought tooth and nail, taking out the Sheik’s secret torture facility. The Sheik’s men probably were scared shitless of Randal. To them, he must have disappeared, like a ghost that would come back to haunt them. The video of his assault on the guards would probably seem like a nightmare to them. Perhaps Randal was something of a boogeyman, or a legend.

 

The sun was high, too high to tell which way was East. Randal spotted a hole, and crawled into the darkness. Sleep would come, but Randal thought that perhaps he would not last this day. Perhaps he would not wake from this, and the last of his strength would give out.

 

The angel appeared again, pressed to his face, glowing in the darkness.

 

“You have done well”

 

“Are you… real?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“Am I… dying?”

 

“Yes”

 

“Will I meet god?”

 

“I cannot say. I cannot tell you your fate.”

 

“My fate is already made, I think.”

 

“I abide by the rules that god has set. I cannot tell you anything of your future.”

 

“What is god like?”

 

“A curious question. I shall answer. God works in reverse. God has built this universe from its end, towards its beginning.”

 

“Could you… explain?”

 

“He started quite abstract, and then he made you. Old at first, wrinkled and fat and full of details. Slowly, he would take away from them to create new ones. He would smooth their skin and make them skinnier. Eventually, he would shrink them until they were small enough to combine with a newer human.”

 

“That’s… odd”

 

“He did this for millennia. Then he grew bored, and made more exotic animals. He made dinosaurs to spike his enthusiasm. Then he grew bored again, allowing the planet to just sit there in a stew. He then would explode this world in a spectacular show of fire, before crumpling the universe up and discarding it.”

 

“That’s just so… unsatisfying.”

 

The angel looked out, and Randal blinked. When he awoke, the angel was gone again.

 

Randal was still weary, so he thought it shouldn’t be time to travel again. That, or he was starting to die. He felt his pulse, his blood was racing through his veins. This, Randal knew to be a sign of advanced dehydration. As was his lethargic manner. The angel, he thought, was a hallucination brought on from starvation. An atheist being visited by an angel… why would god send an angel after a non-believer?

 

He thought back to the strength. In some writings, Raphael was a sort of healer. And perhaps he had been tempted to think that some sort of divine presence had given him strength. The truth was that Randal knew that he was strong. He was a trained soldier, taking advantage of sloppy security guards. The strength that was granted to him… it was granted by himself, after years of training.

 

Randal grew convinced. He was a man of principles and beliefs. He believed in the freedom of men. He believed that people created this world, shaped it and owned it. To abandon his beliefs now, he thought, seemed unreasonable. It was his ideals that brought him here, through 99 percent of his life. Why should he turn on his ideals now?

 

It had only been 3 days, but Randal knew he could travel no longer. He knew that most men could walk about 35 miles per day at most. He had traveled at most 100 miles he figured, and didn’t have the strength left to travel another 100. He would die here, and there was no changing that. The desert would devour this escaped rat, and perhaps one day his remains would be discovered. Randal wished he had something to write on, to tell his story, so that some day an archaeologist could better understand the remains he or she came across. To know the significance of this man, who so boldly lived in defiance.

 

Overhead, he could hear the familiar sounds of a helicopter. Perhaps the tyrant’s men were searching for him, or perhaps they were trying to reclaim their prison. Perhaps Horace had sent them. It did not matter now. Randal didn’t have the strength to pull himself out of the hole. He thought again about how he would never be found in his time. Not by anyone, his existence would remain a mystery forever. The Sheik, in his paranoia, would probably come to fear that somehow Randal had escaped and found his way back somewhere. Somewhere, Randal would be plotting revenge in the shadows of that idiot’s mind. It would consume him, Randal thought.

 

He thought of Horace, the old b*****d whose struggle would continue on. Randal had no idea where that fight stood, how things might have changed in the months of capture. He would die without this knowledge. He would die without knowing if Horace would ever overthrow the Sheik. Perhaps he would be captured. Perhaps he would die in battle. Just as sad to Randal, Horace would never know the fate of his best friend. The two men, both so important to each other in life and war, would know nothing about each other in death.

 

Randal was happy here. He had lived without compromise, and had escaped the Skinner boxes that governed his life for too long. He had created his own happiness, by his own will. He would die here happy, and that was all that he ever wanted in life. To be satisfied by a life well lived, to be entirely remorseless in death. He would die without a single regret. He would waste away here, the atheist in the foxhole.

Author's Note

If you're seeing any political messages in this, they are - strictly speaking - unintentional. But completely welcome, and I'd like to know what you thought of it. I've never written anything significant before, so I'm curious to know what I can improve upon, if the messages I'm trying to convey are being conveyed, etc.