Rebels & Lies, Page 2

  ***

   

  Five days passed since John Paxton lost another comrade. His name was Zach, a youngster barely nineteen years old. Paxton could still remember vividly the broadcast the next morning. He had to stop himself from throwing something at the television screen. The Consul, smug as ever, stood before his slaves and celebrated Zach’s death. Not only that, but he had the audacity to mock a way of life that far surpassed what the USR called great. His fallen comrade had ten times the amount of courage to what the USR called brave. The time would come when Williamson would know…when they all would know…

  Stay focused on the mission.

  A light mist started to fall from the black night sky. The tiny droplets prompted Paxton to fit the hood of his sweatshirt overtop his thinning salt and pepper hair. He checked the time on his blue indigo watch and the date next to it. For the first time in the day, the milestone he reached started to hit home. Sixty, it was his damned birthday again. When he was young, the mere thought of turning sixty seemed so far out of reach he thought it would never happen to him. The hair that grew thinner everyday was not enough. Neither were the aches and pains he felt when he got out of bed each morning. No, now he was reminded once more: time ran short.

  He began his walk down the deserted streets of what used to be a hopping downtown. It was in a city, much like this one, that Paxton proposed to his wife upon returning from the war. The joy he felt when she said yes overwhelmed him to the point where he forgot about the damn ring in his pocket. Back then, it seemed like life was easy, apart from fighting for Uncle Sam.

  Back then. Those hated words again, but it was all he could say about a time when there were things such as freedom, liberty, and civil rights. What was left drove him to the point of madness. All around the empty metropolis were armed guards on every corner. Every move, spoken word, everything was now under heavy watch. What was wrong with these people? Paxton knew that, in order for him to reach true happiness again, he must see it all change. Not a day too…

  “Watch where you’re walking!” an Agent in full riot gear called out.

  Paxton backed away. After several deep breaths, he composed himself. He looked to the man he bumped into. The letters “USR” in bold yellow across the chest: his enemy. The wheels inside the Agent’s head began to turn. Paxton kept his composure and stared right back into the enemy’s eyes. He wondered if an arrest, a beat down, or a warning was to come. The Agent would take great joy in beating the shit out of a leftover, Paxton knew, so he began to brace himself for the worst. Maybe a little common courtesy would do the trick.

  “Sorry about that,” Paxton said with a forced politeness.

  “Stand up against that wall, citizen.”

  Paxton obeyed. He turned and pressed his body and the right side of his face against the concrete wall. The cold dampness of the concrete caused a chill to run down the spine. Or, maybe it was fear. For a person, no citizen, over a certain age, it didn’t matter what the Agent would find. Old age was enough to get locked up in a cell for the rest of time. Paxton cursed himself under his breath while the search began.

  The first thing to come was the increased heart rate as the Agent’s hands moved along both arms then down to his chest. The hands moved down inside the pouch of the sweatshirt. Paxton took in a deep breath as the Agent reached inside his khaki pants. The search was almost over now. After a quick silent prayer the pair of hands went down along the legs of his pants.

  “Move along, citizen.” the Agent ordered. “Be more careful next time.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Paxton wanted to vomit. “Have a nice night.”

  The Agent reached for his night stick. “Just get the fuck out of here, leftover.”

  Luck was something not to be pressed, a lesson learned long ago in the Marine Corps. Paxton didn’t say anything else and continued his walk: his mission. Despite the momentary set back, he remained confident in his steps. The mark for this mission was Ryan Kaspar. Kaspar, a man in his mid-twenties, lived alone with his mother in a beat up old apartment in the inner city. No other connections could be found during their initial investigation. No close friends, girlfriend, nothing.

  The part that excited Paxton was Kaspar’s involvement in illegal, bare knuckle boxing. Throughout his career, or so Paxton was told, this kid never suffered a defeat. A lot of the men he faced in the ring had a distinct height and weight advantage. There were only a couple of things that could keep him alive for so long. Kaspar had been blessed with an unusual amount of grit, not to mention a refusal to lose. Perfect attributes for a man about to be drafted into a guerilla war.

  As he continued his walk, something to the right caught Paxton’s eye. A group of men and women were lined up against the wall of a building. Three Agents were aggressive in their pat downs of them. The USR’s search for the resistance had intensified of late. Deep down, Paxton knew he was ultimately responsible for what was happening to them. His initial impulse was to run over there, take the Agents out, and let the people that he tried to save everyday go. Maybe he would give them a chance to make a way for themselves in this messed up world. It was not feasible, so Paxton moved on.

  He was almost there when a sudden urge attacked. The old veteran’s brain sent out the signal. It craved nicotine and he was lucky enough that the Agent missed the cigarettes hidden inside his hood. To the left was a darkened alley. Paxton walked inside it and rested his back against the brick wall. The cigarettes were taped to the inside of his hood. He ripped the tape clean from the fuzzy cotton. He then pulled the box of contraband to his eyes. Inside, three cigarettes and half used box of matches rested.

  Only three left…son of a bitch.

  He broke off a match and lit one of the cigarettes. He took in a deep breath and let the nicotine do its work. Paxton kept a watchful eye on his surroundings. The ban on smoking initiated by the USR resulted in extra caution. Not to mention the increase in price on smuggled smokes. He did find a sense of revenge in it all, however. Each cigarette seemed all the sweeter. His attempt at another drag became interrupted by a sound at the far end of the alley.

  Three young men, gang members no doubt, approached the aged veteran. One wore a red hooded sweatshirt, the biggest of the three. His two cohorts, one in gray the other in blue, followed close behind. The old soldier looked to them and a wave of disappointment overcame him. These hoodwinks were about to ruin one of his last smokes.

  “What up, old man?” Red asked.

  “Just enjoying a smoke,” Paxton replied, holding the cigarette in the air. “Care for one?”

  Red burst into laughter then looked to his buddies on both sides and they joined in. While they laughed, the instincts within Paxton kicked in. He measured them up. Red would be the tough one, he looked to weigh about one ninety-five, solid muscle. The two skinny ass clowns who accompanied him, well, they didn’t pose a threat.

  Red turned to Blue. “Check his wallet.”

  “Let’s see what you got.” Blue said as he began to move in.

  Paxton kept shifting his gaze from Blue, to the hoodlums behind. He caught a glimpse of Blue pulling out a knife from his pocket. What little light that penetrated the alley flickered off of the rusted blade.

  Keep your cool.

  His arms remained at his sides, the burning cigarette in his lips. He waited for the punk to get close enough. Blue seemed to be so cocky with that piece of shit blade in his hand that he approached with little caution, seeing nothing but an old man. Blue, and the others, were about to learn a harsh lesson. Paxton was not an ordinary old man.

  It happened in an instant.

  Blue extended the knife over his head and prepared to strike. Paxton moved his left arm straight up. He caught the enemy’s wrist with his forearm. He shifted his body weight forward and landed a punch to the side of Blue’s face.

  He moved Blue’s knife hand backwards and delivered his knee into Blue’s groin. Paxton pushed the hoodlum’s wrist backwa
rd. The terrible snap was overshadowed by Blue’s cries. After grabbing the black handle of the knife from Blue’s open hand, he stabbed the kid in the gut. The mugger fell to the ground in agony. Paxton threw the blade to the pavement in anger.

  Gray moved in next, he took a wild swing which was easily ducked under. A fierce right hand punch to the exposed throat sent Gray crashing to the pavement, gasping for breath. The tough one would be next.

  Red ran in on Paxton and sucker punched him in the left rib cage. The old man turned and was met by another punch to the chest. Red grew cocky now and went in for the killing strike. Paxton blocked the punch with his left forearm and, at that precise moment, hooked the back of Red’s head with his right arm. Paxton drove his knee into the attacker’s midsection and let go of his grip. Unable to breathe, Red’s upper body bent forward, and his face made an acquaintance with Paxton’s knee.

  The attacker fell to the pavement, his face a bloodied mess. Paxton turned and looked to the ground for his cigarette. He found it and was amazed to see that the cherry at the end still lit and the cigarette still intact. He noticed some debris on the filter and started to rub it off with his thumb. A funny thought occurred to him: what did it matter if the dirt from the ground mixed itself with the carcinogens from the tobacco?

  Leaned up against the wall, he took several drags in quick succession. Sounds from the would be muggers scrambling around to his left gave him a sense of fulfillment. He heard Gray telling Blue that they would patch him up, that they wouldn’t let him die. Red, the supposed leader, said nothing and ran the fastest out of the alley.

  With the cigarette depleted, Paxton threw the used butt to the pavement and put it out with the heel of his military boot. After he taped the box of smokes, he refitted the hood over his head and continued his walk. Two critical errors made already: one because of his stupidity and the other because of his addiction.

  He wondered if these mistakes were a prelude of the mission still to come.