The General was coming.
It happened every weekday, punctually at 9:15 a.m., yet it was an event every time. Majors and colonels and all the other minor military figures ran frantically, a massive human hurricane that blew paperwork, prisoners, weaponry and dust to the right place. The effort to have everything perfect was Herculean, a true task that these loyal servants of the Crown executed daily, without complain.
The General was coming, after all, and it would not do if things were out of order.
The doors swung open promptly at 9:15 a.m., sprung by a magic that in a blink brought the whole room to ATTEN-HUT!! The General stepped through, in light gray camouflage pants and jacket. His fiery little eyes examined the room in a sweep, mathematically inspecting every crease. The bluish fluorescent lights of the mess hall screamed at his light terracotta skin.
The General was an oddity, the highest brown military officer to survive the cleansing of the government of “subversives.” He knew that the many of the ones that were purged were only minor dissenters or questioned the wrong person, but he understood that democracy, liberty and all that America represented were not easy things, felled leaves that one could trample with impunity because they were worthless. They meant something, they were worth something, and sometimes over-zealousness is necessary to preserve something precious.
He was a hard, small man, and even though his age started to slow him down, a lot more years would be necessary to make him feel inadequate. He was a Major in the beginning of the War, and he fought like a demon against those who would subvert law and order. He understood the need for it, better than any of these pink-nosed brats that spat these words around without a drop of sweat, without ever really understanding the terror of a lawless land, of anarchy.
He had been there. He saw men, good lawful men being gunned down by some leech, sucking the life out of his neighborhood for a fix or some car accessories. Those were people without God, without morality, to whom a human life was worth less than an ounce of chemicals. Worse than all of them were the Liberals and the Reds, those predators, that made those people to be victims of society, people that needed to be taken care of and cuddled.
What happens to good men in a society drenched in wickedness? If they stood up against it, if they tried to reclaim the right of law-abiding people to live not in fear but in prosperity, the laws of wicked society will turn against them. They will be corralled and marched to the Bastille, branded as criminals and shoved in the mud with rest of the rabble. They cannot prevail until society is cleansed, until society is purified of the moral degeneration brought about by permissiveness and impunity. His father was a one of these good man, a caring man, a man that put his family ahead of himself and tried his best to make of him and his siblings good people, fighting against the tide of crippling corruption that noosed all of their dreams. They threw him in the gallows and the mobs all railed outside for his head, the same mob that before would hold candle-light vigils to save the lives of murderers and child-rapists. He spent the rest of his natural life locked in a congested prison cell which slowly chewed away his sanity.
But this was not the time for reminiscing about lost fathers and impossible pasts – there had been no reports on the activities of the Warrior for almost four months now, and he knew that bitch well. She wouldn’t be hiding unless she was planning something big, and it would not do well for him to have another Saint Helena episode on his hands. He needed to flush her out, he needed her in the open, grazing for new recruits for her pitiful dreams of rebellion and chaos. He needed her fat and complacent, unaware of the bear trap under her feet. And then, one nice shot, and that would be it.