Sanchez awoke, shivering, from a restless sleep on a damp, uncomfortable pallet. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and looked through the window at
the gray morning outside. Window. What a joke, he thought. It was more like a gaping hole in the side of the condemned building in which he slept. He
remembered the good times, when he didn’t have to worry about waking up cold and wet, and fight the rats for a few scraps of food. He had a family…and
a home, up until the previous year.
It was 2008, and the United states was under martial law, a result of the constant stream of terrorist attacks. George Bush ruled the country like
his own personal playground, and the US was on the verge of dropping into obscurity. Oppressive laws kept the people in constant fear of those in
power, but Sanchez was different. He did his best to hide from the authorities, but when the sun went down, it was an entirely different story. They
called him a revolutionary, a terrorist. His defiance was all that left hope in the hearts of the Americans.. During the day, he simply tried to avoid
the ‘anti-terrorism’ cameras that were everywhere, with their searching eyes, and identification systems. This so-called ‘temporary solution’ had
lasted three years already, and had shown no signs of being lifted anytime soon.
Sanchez walked over to the hole, and climbed out of the rickety, and abandoned building. He left the others who shared the building to sleep, and
tried to escape the choking odor in the relatively fresh air outside. He checked his watch, more out of habit than anything else, as it had long since
ceased to work. His eyes drifted to the horizon, where loomed his goal…The capital. He turned slowly, to look at what was behind him. Miles and miles
of scarcely habitable land, dotted here and there with abandoned buildings, and the occasional fire, naught but a thin tendril of smoke disappearing
into the sky.
Silently, another man joined Sanchez, and wordlessly nodded. He nodded in return, and the man silently disappeared back into the cluster of
buildings, once a small town. Sanchez heard the brazen note of a long blast on a dented, and well worn trumpet. Behind him, the sound of people
rustling from their sleep, and gathering their things. The sound of fires being quenched, the curses of men trying to rouse those that had not made it
through the night, and their hopeless cries when they realized what had happened. The silent man approached Sanchez, and handed him a chipped and
dirty bullhorn. He began to address the crowd, comprised of nearly a million ex-military personnel, and other revolutionaries such as he.
“My friends, the day has come!” He began. This statement was met with a half-hearted cry of approval. “Today, we, the people of this country will
take it back! We will return freedom to our land, the way our forefathers wanted, and envisioned” More applause, and cheering. “Tonight, my friends,
we unseat the tyrant!” A massive roar issued forth from the crowd. Sanchez watched his countrymen, and an overwhelming sense of pride swelled within
him. When the shouts of approval, and roars of support died down, he shouted but two words into the bullhorn. “Let’s Move!”
At those words, the sizeable army jumped into various contraptions that vaguely resembled automobiles, in various states of wear. Some were hardly
more than a chassis that was able to move troops. Others were more similar to large SUVs outfitted with various bits of metal strapped to them, and
stolen weapons stacked to the ceilings in all.
As he made his way to the convoy, Sanchez couldn’t help but pray he had enough firepower to do some damage. He had no illusions about the extremely
slim chances they faced. He was no fool. He knew that they, the oppressive force which he opposed, knew he was coming.
As they neared the city, he began to hear alarms sounding, much the same was as when he was a child, and the bomb drill claxons sounded while he was
in school. He chuckled at this. These alarms had been made originally to keep the American people safe from the ‘Commies’, and now, it kept the
tyrants that ruled the country safe from the people. Irony, it seemed, was in evidence here.
As they neared even closer, Sanchez began to hear the telltale thumping of low-flying helicopters coming near. He shouted something into the CB radio
in the dashboard, and the caravan behind him roared into life, as 12mm chain guns began rotating, propelling hundreds of high-speed projectiles at the
approaching threat. The metal tore into metal, and they dropped out of the sky like ducks shot in mid-flight. The caravan pressed on at high speeds,
pressing ever closer to the beltway, all the while, the flatbeds with mounted weapons fired at the enemy as they closed in.
Sanchez issued an order into the CB, and a very large and heavily modified Range rover pulled in front. It lowered in front of itself a large metal
plate that looked like a snowplow, and began to gain speed, nosing toward the upcoming roadblock. It bulled through it, and the rest of the caravan
passed through it with ease. Once they were inside the borders, the various troop transports unloaded, and troops began to fan out, taking buildings
by the score, while still other vehicles surged forward, passengers letting lose with various sorts of Molotov concoctions, setting flame to the city
that had stood unmolested for nearly 200 years.
The guerilla-style raid continued through the night, and the revolutionaries, terrorists, in the eyes of those who they opposed, inched their way
ever closer to the center of the city. Finally, at about an hour to dawn, Sanchez was at the gates of the White House. He issued the order to regroup,
and there they stood, hundreds upon thousands of the people whom the man who sat a mere few hundred yards away had ground under his boot for the last
3 years…it was time to take revenge. In short order, the gate was torn down, and they began to march up to the doors. Snipers on the roof took their
toll, but the single-mindedness of the mob prevailed.
Upon entering the opulence of the White House, they were greeted by a hail of gunfire from various places, but they attackers had the advantage of
passion in the heat of battle, and they once again prevailed.
The attack nearly faltered at the doors of the presidential suite, but once again, the attackers were spurred on by passion, and they forced entry
into the president’s chamber. There he sat. The man who had engineered their own suffering, sitting, smiling smugly, as they pressed their way in.
Sanchez moved to the front, and drew his weapon.
“George W. Bush,” he began. “I relieve you of command, on the behalf of all present, and by proxy of the people of the United States, you are hereby
dismissed.” He said in a brooding rage.
The president refused to move. It became apparent to Sanchez that he would have to take more drastic steps. He took a step forward, and raised his
weapon threateningly. It felt oddly satisfying as he squeezed the trigger, and the bullet left the chamber. He watched, in slow motion, as it struck
the president, slightly above his left eye, and ripped through his skull, to make a macabre splatter on the wall behind him. He holstered his 9mm
Beretta, and silently waked to the window. What he saw would be forever burned into his memory. And it was satisfying. Against all odds, and all that
opposed them, Washington burned before his eyes.
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