The Myriad Resistance (2 page)

A smothering dread crept to every extremity of my body as I considered what I believed to be a terrible certainty. They were influenced. There was no other explanation. I could picture my father and eight other armed soldiers with their weapons pointed at the justice's heads. Did it really happen like that? Maybe not in the literal sense but at least metaphorically. A well-placed subtle threat is all it would take. Two months ago, I would not have believed my father to be capable of sedition. However, now I wouldn't put anything past him.

I was sad that my father found himself on the wrong side of the moral equation. He believed himself to be absolute in his moral justification. In his mind, he was ridding the world of an abomination. His cause was just. Didn't every evil perpetrator in history believe they were doing the right thing? Atilla the Hun to Adolf Hitler believed they were doing the best thing for their people, even though their methods were sick and misguided. I hated to think of my father in the same vein, but there was no denying the similarities.

I don't have the luxury of blaming the president and claiming my father is just carrying out orders because it is not true. The president is a weak man. He reached office not by his ideals and accomplishments, instead it was a fat family bank account. He surrounded himself with those who he believed to be the best in their profession. This ensured the Executive branch would run effectively while he acted as a figurehead and cheerleader. I knew he would do whatever my father said when it came to dealing with Impals. The president was not a bad man; he was an idle one. In this case, idleness was just as terrible.

My father was raised a ‘hard-shell' Baptist. As a denomination, they traditionally hold a very narrow and literal interpretation of scripture. This was true in a number of beliefs taught by the church. None of the teachings were so relevant than what was occurring now. Any mention of the existence of ghosts is met with viral scorn and rebuke. It is not scriptural. When we die, we go to Heaven or Hell … end of story. Ghosts are nothing more than an attempt at deceit by Satan.

Years of this heavy-handed dogma left very little room in my father's heart for anything else. I understood where his hatred and motivation came from. Nevertheless, it still did not excuse his actions. I parted ways with this type of thinking years ago. I do not believe that God, in all his wisdom and glory, would expect us to have such a narrow and stubborn view of the universe, a view darkened by the lens of animosity. Religious idealism is probably the greatest contributor to atheism in the world.

I wasn't sure where God played into this now or if he was even a part of it at all. I don't believe God actively sends hurricanes, tornados or floods to destroy, kill and maim. He allows them to happen for a greater purpose. I believe he allowed this cosmic storm to come to Earth. For what purpose, I am not sure. If nothing else, I would say we have been given definitive proof of the existence of the soul. However, it has also given definitive proof of the atrocities human beings are capable of committing.

I said a short prayer as I lay there with my eyes closed. I prayed for the Impals, and more important, I prayed for my wife and daughters … they are now my primary concern. I didn't think my father would harm them to get to me. There was no doubt he would definitely use them. In all honesty, I had no idea how far his righteous indignation would take him.

I forgot about any pain in my nose as my heart ached. The vision of them sitting blissfully at home made me crazy. What would my actions bring down on them? I sat up with a jolt, my heart racing with panic in my chest as if I awoke from a terrible nightmare. What was I thinking? Did my own righteous arrogance made me lose sight of the potential consequences of my actions? The only honest answer was yes. I needed to get out of here … now.

I grasped the bars to my cell and yelled at my captors.

“Hey! Can someone tell me what time it is?”

The volume on the radio dropped and I heard faint whispering coming from down the hall. A moment later the heavy footsteps of my captors approached. Their footfalls echoed rapid and deliberate. They were not those of happy or carefree people. I stepped to the back of my cell to be out of striking distance when they arrived.

I felt as if I experienced a psychic premonition when the first one arrived at my door. He was definitely a dead ringer for the face of
Mad Magazine.
The second man was tall and slender with a receding hairline, which made his military cut seem somewhat ridiculous. His features were sharp all the way to his blade like nose. He held the rank of sergeant, while his
Mad Magazine
reject counterpart was a private. Two enlisted men tormenting an officer … I made their day. If looks could kill, I would be dead on the floor of my cell.

“Why the hell do you care, Major Turncoat?” the sergeant sneered.

“Yeah, why the hell do you care, Major Asshole?” the private asked then cackled with sadistic pleasure at his cleverness. The sergeant didn't think it was clever or funny and gave him a slap to the back of the head for his troubles.

I didn't know whether to laugh at my guards as they carried out their sadistic Laurel and Hardy routine or worry about their cruel unprofessionalism. The sadistically stupid could often be much more dangerous than the sadistically clever. In any case, I was not in a laughing mood.

“Stand at attention when you address me!” I barked, more testing the water than expecting compliance with my command. I soon had my answer when I saw the malevolent grins on their ugly faces. Their countenance did not show a shred of respect, only hatred. As far as they are concerned, I am guilty. In their eyes, I am no longer a human being, let alone their superior officer.

The sergeant raised his right hand and poked it through the bars while extending his middle finger.

“Address this,” he jeered before he took his nightstick in his left hand and smacked the bars for emphasis.

I returned the salute, which was a mistake. I was hot, I was angry and I was desperate to get to my family. If only I could get them to open the door and come after me, I might have a fighting chance to get away before it was too late.

His buddy didn't say anything as he gave me the
‘what, me worry?'
smile, only it was devoid of any humor. I realized trouble was eminent. He slowly reached in his pocket and retrieved the keys.

“Okay, Major Smart Ass, you want to play? We can accommodate you there.” He said with spittle flying from his lips. I could tell he wanted to hurt me, hurt me bad.

Even though they were about to smash my face in, I experienced a moment of pity for my captors. How had these two men arrived at such a frenzied state of hatred towards me? All I was guilty of was trying to save two lives, two possibly eternal lives. Now I am a traitor to the country I have loved all my life. I pitied the Impals in their current situation, yet I felt these two men deserved a modicum of my compassion. That feeling was short lived, however, as the private unlocked and threw open the door. The sergeant charged like a raging bull, knocking me into the wall. I straightened up, ready to respond, until the private clubbed me in the gut. I doubled over as every measure of air vacated my lungs.

The two men continued their barrage with alternating blows to my head and body. I collapsed to my hands and knees. I was beaten and kicked for what seemed an eternity. I was certain the fatal blow would crush the back of my head at any moment, ending my physical life.

Just as hope was about to leave my mind, along with consciousness, I heard two popping noises closely followed by high-pitched whines. A second later, the thud of two bodies hitting the floor echoed in my cell. I slowly raised my head, my vision swimming from my pounding head. The blood and sweat pouring over my eyes blinded me. I could just make out the blurry outline of two bodies lying in a V shape in front of me.

I managed to rise to my knees and then sat back on my haunches against the cell wall. Wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt, I tried to shake the cobwebs out of my head and focus on what was in front of me. When my vision cleared, I gasped through my throbbing, broken nose.

Lying face down in front of me were the sergeant and the private. A large bullet hole centered each man's back as their blood slowly pooled beneath them. My gaze was drawn upward with foreboding assurance of what I would see next. Standing beyond the feet of their respective body was the shimmering form of both men. They both wore mixed expressions of shock and horror on their faces. The men were now what they seemed to despise more than anything. They were Impals.

CHAPTER 2

JAILBREAK

“It's necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live.”

~Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

I tried to push myself off the floor to see the source of this attack, but my struggle to catch my breath left me dizzy. I fell in a heap beside my cot. I glanced up in time to see iron chains lasso the new Impals and then jerk them backwards with a violent tug through the door of my cell. Both men let out a tinny high-pitched scream making hackles stand up on the back of my neck. It was hard enough getting used to the way Impals talk; their screams were terrifying. I didn't think I would ever get used to it.

Two shadowy figures walked up behind the Impals and pulled the chains hard. The newly minted Impals let out a blood-curdling howl.

“Doesn't feel too good when you're on the other side of it, does it private?” a voice growled behind the Impal who was now
a former
private.

“I'm shocked at your behavior, sergeant,” another voice said with sarcasm.

The sergeant's chain tugged violently again. He let out another disturbing cry of agony.

“Don't you know that assaulting a superior officer in a time of war can carry the death penalty?” the sarcastic man said.

“We're not at war,” I croaked, finally regaining my breath.

“Maybe not declared,” the man said, this time his voice sounded a little more familiar. He walked in the cell door where I could see him.

“Make no mistake, this is a war, major,” he said.

My heart leapt when I saw my friend and colleague, Captain Burt Golden. He never liked the military hair cut so Burt kept his brown hair in a neat trim parted on the side. His blue eyes and square chin always reminded me of an old Alec Baldwin. We had been friends for years, having graduated West Point and then served two tours in the Middle East together. He served as my unit leader for the past two years.

Burt is a good man who can be over zealous, but he is loyal to a fault. The other man walked forward and stood beside him. He gave the Impal private's chains another hard yank. I didn't recognize him. His brown eyes, dark hair and olive complexion suggested he might have some Hispanic blood. He held the rank of first lieutenant; a lieutenant who was a little too familiar with an unknown superior officer.

“Geesh, you look like Hell,” he commented, staring at me and then at the bodies on the floor.

“You look like Hell, sir,” Burt reminded him with a sharp tone suggesting he quickly make amends.

“Sir, sorry, sir,” he said with a flushed face, and then reached out his hand in offering to help me up.

“What's your name soldier?” I asked through squinted eyes.

I was not trying to intimidate him; instead I fought back the pain of my broken nose. The throbbing now returned with a vengeance, not only to my nose, but also my body from the bruising my two captors inflicted.

“Sam, sir, Lieutenant Sam Andrews,” he responded withdrawing his hand and standing at attention.

“Will Sam, do?” I asked, holding out my hand.

“Yes sir!” he said with enthusiasm then took my hand and helped me to my feet.

I forgot about my nose as the rest of my body screamed in agony when he helped me up. The private and the sergeant did quite a number on me and, for a moment, I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to walk.

“Thank you, Sam,” I said as I steadied myself against the cell door.

He nodded and then reinforced his grip on the private's chain. I winced as my hand accidentally touched the Impal shoulder of the sergeant. The cold sent chills down my back for more reasons than one. In my limited experience with Impals, this was the first time I ever touched one. The best way I can describe the experience is like touching thick frozen air. The sergeant Impal shifted in his restraints, causing my hand to sink further into his form. It was the damnedest feeling, like putting my hand in a hot fudge sundae as warmth began to envelop my fingers the further they penetrated. I jerked back involuntarily and without thinking wiped my hand on my shirt, even though there was anything to wipe off. If my touch bothered the sergeant, he didn't show it. He continued to stare with a vacant expression at his lifeless body on the floor.

“Sam, put the sergeant's body on the cot in this cell and then put the private's a couple of cells down. Cover them up like they are asleep,” Burt ordered.

“What about the blood, sir?” he asked.

“We'll worry about that once the bodies are in place. Give Major Garrison the chain in the meantime.”

He thrust the chain in my hand and sprang into action. As he worked, I observed my two jailors. The two Impals were a stark contrast from their flesh-and-blood selves. They were quiet, still and docile, not a single shred of violence was evident on their shocked, shimmering faces.

“Where are we going, Burt?” I asked.

He regarded me with satisfaction.

“Somewhere we can do some good, my friend … somewhere we can do some good.”

Sam pulled the body of the private out of the cell then down the hallway. I watched the trail of blood smearing across the floor then turned and whispered to Burt.

“Was it necessary to kill them?” I asked.

Burt was shocked. “They were about to kill you, Cecil. I really don't think we had much choice.”