The Sons of Liberty Read online

The girl, Nicole, then says with a scrunched face, as if she smelt something foul, “Just because I read it in a book doesn’t mean it’s true. Besides, I don’t like the idea that war mongers are still in power. It’s those who wanted war that brought the world in its state of chaos, so I doubt it’s the same mindset that got us out.” Several students seemed to consider and accept her response.

  Just before I continued, the auditorium doors opened. The sound echoed through the room and caused nearly everyone to look toward the back. An older man examined the auditorium as all of its inhabitants stared back. He had short graying brown hair and was dressed plainly in khakis and a white tee shirt. But I’m sure most of the crowd kept staring because of the many protruding scars on his arms and the massive scar on the left side of his face—looking as if he once lost his cheek, found it, and sewed it back on inside-out.

  I smiled and got back on track as fast as I could, “Well…more specifically, what do any of you know about the origins of this ‘Brotherhood?’”

  After few seconds had passed a young man, in the middle of the middle section, raised his hand. I made eye contact with him and smiled—a simple motion for him to proceed. He cleared his throat, “Hi, I’m Jake.” He then continued, “I’m familiar with two different theories, but I believe one to be more believable than the other.” I cocked my head to the side waiting for him to resume.

  “Well, why don’t you share with what you believe more likely?” I suggested.

  “I know of General Roy and Alyse Hound,” he started. People twisted in their seats to get a clearer look at Jake as he tried to find his words. Curiosity swam through the atmosphere. I’m always surprised by the lack of knowledge on the subject.

  He then preceded, “I believe General Roy and Alyse Hound were the leaders of the strongest rising faction at the time, called ‘St. Andrews Liberation Front.’ They frequently traveled, recruited, and grew massive numbers and eventually changed their name to ‘The Sons of Liberty.’” Most of the crowd continued to scribble Jake’s words on paper. I noticed the other half of the class gazing at me through narrowed eyes and cocked heads just waiting for my reaction.

  Jake’s theory was close; just a couple of real names in incorrect circumstances. “Soo close Jake,” I said with a smile. “But, no cigar I’m afraid.” I began to pace back and forth before adding, “So Jake let’s hear your other theory.”

  Jake didn’t like the spotlight. He hesitated for a second, “General Christopher Roy and Paul Reed?” he said with an upward inflection that suggested he wasn’t so sure about himself anymore. The crowd was still shifting around due to their curiosity.

  I smiled and shook my head, “Again Jake, close. I want earlier than ‘General Roy.’”

  When I said this, the scarred old man laughed. “Gabriel Reed,” he said. His deep voice echoed through the auditorium.

  I stood there, nodding, while letting them soak up the information. I continued even though my spectators had eyes of skepticism. “The roaming Reed brothers, who were not much older than you are now, grew legendary with their countless victories over The Army of the Apocalypse. Their heroism and bravery inspired many, and paved the way for rising factions like The St. Andrew Liberation Front whom Jake previously mentioned...”

  “I’m sorry…” a man in the middle of the middle section started. “But the Reed brothers are just a myth. A myth started by the people—of that era—who needed saviors, heroes, or anything that would give them hope. And the legend of the brothers did exactly that.” Several people agreed with this man.

  I’ve heard this one, many times. And like the times before, when somebody mentions this, I freeze with annoyance. His ignorance amazes me. I could only motion for the projectionist to do his part. He was sitting up on a balcony, behind the listeners, next to the projector. Once he turned it on, the enormous picture of Gabriel and Paul Reed appeared on the giant screen behind me.

  My favorite picture of them; the brothers stood in front of their famous flag: black with ‘Sons of Liberty’ sewed in large white letters, along the top in an arch, a white sun in the center, and ‘This is where we fight’ sewed in small white letters at the bottom. Gabriel stood to the left of the flag, while Paul was on the right. They were unmistakably brothers: same height, same lean muscular build, similar facial features. Though Paul was of fair skin with brown hair and hazel eyes, Gabriel was of a darker complexion, black hair and brown eyes. Gabriel stood with his hands in the pockets of his black cargo pants, wearing a gray tank top and a half-smile showing his dimples, complete with tired eyes. Paul was wearing the same thing, only a white tank top. Paul had his arm wrapped around Gabriel’s shoulders, and was showing his teeth through a wide smile.

  “They’re one in the same,” one might say by looking in the picture. And they wouldn’t be far off. By appearance, they were brothers. By blood, they were brothers. By spirit, they were brothers. Yet they were still so different. Two warriors, fighting for the same side, but standing in different corners…

  “Gabriel and Paul,” I announced indicating to the brothers. I heard someone in the crowd yell, “How old were they?”

  Anyone who glanced at the photo would assume Gabriel was older. His prominent brow, his strict posture, and his intense gaze made it obvious. Not to mention the severe scars that covered his arms, and the shining dog tags that lay around his neck.

  “In the photo, Gabriel is twenty-six and Paul is twenty-four,” I explained. This information sparked a flutter of conversations and gasps. No doubt, they expected a couple of geezers.

  “For those who haven’t realized yet, I’m here to inform you of their story.” I was glad to see that most of the students now looked alert and ready for the story I was going to share with them.

  “And so it goes…”

  Anger

  1. Preparation

  I bit into the peel, to start my indulgence before the hell to follow. With this orange, I reach my ultimate relaxing state—my high. The peel’s extract squirts in my mouth, and burns the fresh cuts lining the inside of my cheek.

  The bastard of a Russian got one lucky punch. If I hadn’t been too worried about how Paul was managing his guy, the Russian pig wouldn’t have gotten so lucky. This is beside the point. His one lucky punch ruined my orange. My high—disintegrated.

  This annoys me…

  Like thinking something is going to be one thing and it turns out to be something else entirely.

  Like a splitting headache on Christmas morning.

  A blister on your foot while walking through Disney World.

  Objects, both physical and mental, that is associated with the defining moments throughout our lives.

  At least the aroma of the orange drowns the repulsive smell of the uniforms Paul and I are wearing. Do these Russian soldiers bathe? The stench we now carried is similar to that of an old Men’s gas-station restroom; the ones that never seemed to be taken care of. Where the toilet seat is crusted with brown and yellow discolorations, the faucet looks as if it carries six different diseases, puddles of old piss covering the floor, and where people would rather use their fingers than the convenient toilet paper.

  Paul broke my concentration from the rotten smell. He was still weaving and head-bobbing to the ridiculous music flowing out of the hand-held radio he held close to his ear. He looked me and grinned.

  “This ain’t that bad.” I leaned over and smacked the radio out of his hands, and he scowled at me.

  “You’ll expose us.” I groaned.

  He laughed mockingly, “I doubt me dancing to some music is the least of our worries—considering we look nothing like Russians…they all look like robots. They’re probably Terminators. And we can’t speak a word of their language.”

  “Look…” I pressed, “Federov is right in front of us, so at least act like you know what you’re doing. This is big. Bigger than anything we’ve done before.”

  “Chill Gabriel,” he said reassuringly. “We’re naturals at this. It�
��s like the Big Man Upstairs himself approves of our actions. We got this!” he backhanded my shoulder playfully.

  Sergei Federov, one of the three leaders of The Army of the Apocalypse, brought massive numbers in soldiers and equipment, like this Russian Tiger we were riding in now. You can’t go anywhere without seeing a group of Red Army soldiers, in their ugly amoeba camouflage, wreaking havoc.

  The only other leader of ‘The Army’ that I knew of was Matthew Pollick. The notorious five star general of the U.S. Army. I’ve never seen the man in person. Only on T.V. when he’s promising to end the war on terror or giving some other speech on how he’ll ‘save’ us. Nobody would have guessed he was referring to his own countrymen while saying ‘terrorists.’ He was charismatic, and could have been President someday, but I never understood how he gained American supporters for his cause. His followers were more mercenaries than soldiers.

  The third leader has remained anonymous to Paul and me for the years that The Army has reigned. I’ve only heard stories about him and his origins; stories ranging from him being of British descent to Hitler’s reincarnation. The Nazi story is more believable; not so much the reincarnation part though. And I’ve heard it from several sources. Either way, the villains who remain in the shadows are always the worst.

  Project Apocalypse ruined everything. I can’t help but