Short Story - War Torn

            War Torn 

by L.A. Erickson

(2011)

Palms sweating I lick my lips, nerves coiling like a heavy snake in the pit of my stomach.  The tension in the air is palpable, and only the sounds of anxious feet shifting fills the weighted air as the two of them lock gazes across the warehouse floor.

     It has taken years for this meeting to come together, years of a bloody war fought in streets and homes--a war that has taken its toll in the bodies of innocents and soldiers alike.  It has almost destroyed life as we know it, tearing down foundations and ideals as it rages unchecked.  Sometimes I find I can’t remember why we’re fighting, when it started.   All the reason we need is in this room, in the form of the two men that have inspired thousands.

     Now here we stand, our warlords locking gazes across a space narrow enough that one grenade could kill them both, and I am forgetting to breathe.   I am frozen, and around me I feel the same ice holding the others in place.  By all rights this is to be a final bargain for peace, but both men have brought small armies with them, their handpicked guards.  And we are loaded to the teeth.  We are so much kindling, and the smallest spark could start a raging fire in this contained space.  The thought that our deaths will almost certainly end the war is far from comforting.   For an instant I close my eyes, force a deep and shaking breath into my paralyzed lungs.  If I live through this day, it is one I need to remember.  Frozen in ice, preserved like an ant in amber.  The moment that changes our future. 

     They face each other across a concrete floor, and we are arranged in an arc behind our leader.  Each of us carries our weapons tensely, afraid to raise them and start a battle, afraid to hold them at ease and be unprepared.  Beside me I hear my second in command shift, his boots scuffing faintly across the dusty floor.  I don’t look his way--I am too involved in watching our enemy.  There are fewer of them than of us.  He has only brought five, an honor guard.  They look so composed, so serene.  I wonder if they are as nervous as we are.  Maybe to them we look equally stoic.  I hope so.  Then, perhaps they feel safer than we do.  He won’t have them killed if they fail.

     Some people say that in war there is no right side, no wrong side, only the side you are on.  It’s bullshit.  Revisionist history, political correctness, call it what you want.  It's a way of making our descendants feel better about their stupid, stupid ancestors.  In this war I know I am on the wrong side. I’m one of the bad guys. 

     I have the position of honor, just behind his right shoulder.  He has told me before, I’m the only one he really trusts.  He’s not very trusting.  Brishen, our warlord.  His arms are crossed,  his body relaxed in a lupine grace.  Though his back is to me I can imagine the faint smile that plays at his full lips and in the dark unrelenting eyes.  I know he’s not really here to make peace, at least not the kind where both sides walk away alive.  That’s what makes our two sides different. 

     I look across the tense space to the other side, to the man that leads them.  Carrick, their charismatic general. The last time I saw him he was four years younger, his hair was longer, and he didn’t have that jagged scar over his temple.   He is everything that Brishen is not--Golden instead of dark, hot-tempered instead of patient, passionate instead of cool.  He is also kind.  I have heard stories--stories of him fighting side by side with his men, putting himself in the line of fire for them.  He builds hospitals, he encourages, he laughs.  He trusts.  He even treats his foes with honor, with respect.  He probably thinks that peace can be obtained here, that there is a way to work things out.  I know better.

My gaze drifts back to the wide spread of Brishen’s shoulders, dark against the stark light that fills the warehouse from the huge industrial lamps overhead.  He too, has put his life on the line for us.  I can still remember his blood staining my uniform as he covers me, taking a bullet that should have ended my life.  He still bears the scar and many more like it.  But I can also remember the cold detachment on his face when he found out that one of his lieutenants had betrayed us.  He had the man brought to him and broke his fingers one by one.  He listened to the screams, the pleas, the shameless begging.  He listened calmly, and then he put a gun to the man’s temple and blew his brains out.  Like I said, we’re the bad guys.  I have no delusions about that. If things go his way, this will be a bloodbath. 

Carrick makes the first move, golden hair shimmering in the lights as he holds out open hands.  Weaponless hands.  His men are silent and still behind him.  I watch their faces, waiting anxiously. 

“You finally agreed to meet,” he says quietly, a gentleness in his voice that I have never heard in Brishen’s words.

“It’s time to end this.”  When Brishen speaks, his words are like honey--thick and golden.  I feel like a fly, trapped in the web of two great spiders.  If there is one thing that these two men share beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s charisma.  No lesser men could have dragged so many lives through blood-stained years so effortlessly. 

     I should be listening, but I’m not.  They are speaking, but in the words I hear no content--they are both testing the waters.  I am focused on what is around us, on making sure that things go as planned.  This is what Brishen has entrusted to me.  If I betray him… I push back thoughts of his fury.  There is no point in letting my mind wonder down that path--it will only incapacitate me. To betray him will break my heart.

     I take stock again.  Eleven of us, six of them.  Brishen and Carrick do not carry weapons.  Well, they promised not to, and that means most likely Carrick does not.  I know Brishen has a microgun nestled against the small of his back.  You don’t go to a coup unarmed.  

      The time is coming.  I can feel it in the pressure of heightened nerves around me.  The soldiers arrayed to either side of me are projecting their tension.  I wish I could snap at them to stand down, to look calm.  I can see that Carrick’s guard is picking up on our nerves, their gaze flicking down to our weapons more than I would like.  Their hands are tightening over the grips of their guns, and I want to scream at our men that they are giving us away.  This day could go so many ways, but very few ways in which we all walk out alive.  I go over the names of the men in the room with us--each and every one of them.  I call up their faces, and I wonder which of them will die today. 

     The words being spoken begin to make sense to me again, and I hear the command coming.  He has prepared us well. 

     “We need peace,” Brishen says softly, and I strain to catch the words.  “Peace in the world that I plan to create.”  It is our signal. Our weapons are ready--they are already lifting, straps swinging off our shoulders.  Carrick’s men are reacting as well, and they are moving too fast.  They were expecting this. 

     Time slows to a crawl, and I see everything.  Brishen has drawn his gun, and it is trained on Carrick’s beautiful face.  They both still seem so calm, and I wonder how they can be so aloof when everything is about to fall apart around us.  Brishen snaps a hand out to hold our fire, and Carrick does the same.  We are frozen, so many toy soldiers with our lifespan marked in seconds on our breasts.  I am staring down the barrel of the long gun one of Carrick’s guard has trained on me, and he is focused on mine.  An eighteenth presence has entered the room.  It is death, and he is impatient.  I can hear my heart thudding in my ears.  My hands are slick with sweat on the grip of my gun.  We are a frozen tableau.  All it will take is the twitch of one finger prematurely, and we all die.  We are held back by Brishen’s lifted hand.  Carrick’s men are in check because of the gun pointed at their leader’s precious forehead. 

     “Who makes the first move?”  Carrick finally breaks the deadly silence, and his eyes flick to me.  Blue eyes, piercing eyes, knowing eyes.  My mouth goes dry.  I never wanted this day to come. 

     “Oh, I think you should tell your men to stand down.”  Brishen answers with a laugh in his voice.  He never doubted himself--he never does.  “After all, it only takes one bullet for me to end your fight, and I have double your numbers.”

     “You never meant to sue for peace.”  There is regret in Carrick’s voice, and a flash of anger in his eyes.

     Brishen shrugs.  “This can be peaceful.  We can all walk away alive.  Well, except for you perhaps.”

     I am moving slowly to Brishen’s side.  I am numb, but I can feel the heavy gazes of the soldiers facing me weighing their options.  If they shoot, their leader dies.  But they can’t know what I plan, why I dare to move.  My men are frozen in place ready to coat the floor in brilliant blood. 

     Brishen hears me moving up beside him, and he flashes a quick smile in my direction.  We have won, That smile says, you and I. I want to smile back--I want to see his expressive eyes watch me in pride.  I want to hold that smile in my mind forever, but he has already trained his gaze back onto Carrick’s face, and it is now Carrick who watches me.  His blue eyes are calm, and the almost imperceptible smile that graces his lips is like forgiveness.  My heart is breaking. 

     I am moving, but I don’t feel the movements.  I am automatic.  I am taking the step I thought I was prepared for.  I am dropping the heavy automatic weapon.  I am reaching for the holstered handgun at my hip.  I feel like the motions take a thousand years, but I know I am moving faster than anyone in the room can adapt.  The gun has never seemed so cold, so heavy.  I have never hated it so much.  I see Brishen’s dark hair move as the barrel of the gun presses against the back of his head, the sudden tension in his shoulders as he understands what I have done.   We are frozen.  I have shattered the only trust he had to give, and I have betrayed the man I came to love.  I still think it is the right thing to do--I don’t want to see the world that Brishen would create.  It would destroy us all.  Carrick’s world will be bright, will be full of life.  But I know I will never be able to live in it.  Not after today.

“Drop the gun,” I say thickly, forcing my voice to remain ice to stifle the searing pain that is all I have left.  I can hear the shift of panic and confusion in the team behind me, suddenly unsure, suddenly confused.  They don’t understand.  Surely it’s a trick, a ploy of some kind.  “All of you!”  I scream, voice harsh in the frozen air.  They are used to my commands.  They are baffled, and I hear half of their guns fall away in some panicked instinctive response.

Carrick’s men are closing in around us now, and though Brishen has not moved, I can feel the furious cold that is closing over his features.  Slowly he drops his hand, and with a calm precision he uncurls his long fingers from around the microgun that clatters to the floor.  From behind me I hear the rest of our weapons falling, the stalemate ending.  Bloodlessly.  It is more than I could have hoped for, but it’s killing me. 

     “You can’t do this.”  I hear Brishen’s voice from far away, and there is amusement in his tone under his carefully coiled anger.  It’s not an accusation--it’s a statement of fact.  He knows me too well.  He knows I can’t pull the trigger.  He knows that I will falter, that I can’t take his life.  He is starting to turn, and I know that if I see his face my resolve will waver.   I will forget my ideals--I will throw myself at him and beg him to forgive me.  If he turns, I will have to kill him or lose myself.  If he turns maybe I will give him the gun, and then Carrick’s men will have to fire.  I will have to see his body at my feet, blood pooling, the vibrant life draining from his dark eyes.  With the speed and strength of a trained soldier I flip my hold, bringing the butt of the gun down in a sharp strike against his skull.  He drops like a stone at my feet, and I am shaking.  I can’t look down at him, at the limp unconscious form that holds a ruthless soul that I would die for.  I can’t see him broken.  I meet Carrick’s eyes and wonder what he sees there.  I wonder if he knows what it has cost me to follow his orders.  I wonder if he knew what I would become when he sent me behind enemy lines all those years ago.  I wonder if he doubted me.  I hold the gun out to him, my hands steadier than I ever thought they could be. 

     “Don’t kill him,” I say softly, and as Carrick’s hand closes over the gun in mine, he holds my fingers against his for a moment.  He meets my eyes, and he nods.  This is what I have betrayed myself for, a man who keeps his promises and fights for what is right.

     “There has been enough bloodshed,” he says, sadness in his voice, and for a moment I think he has seen through me.  He realizes what my cost has been.

     I turn away, and they let me pass.  Brishen’s men watch me with mixed hate and confusion, with betrayal written across their faces.  They will never forgive me, and I know that what they feel is nothing but a shadow of what Brishen will feel when he wakes.  Carrick’s men salute as I walk away, and I wonder if they know who I am.  I am the one who loved two men and betrayed one to save them both.  I am the one who gave my life to stop a war.