No Shelter for the Complacent

By J. L. Young

This war of attrition has to end. This land used to be bountiful and vast. I dug in. Bombed-out buildings have become my home. Lamb’s quarters that had wildly grown in the sidewalk cracks as the day’s meal. I wear whatever clothing I had on my back the day the bombs fell. There was no known reason for the war.

I grow tired of breathing concrete dust and fiberglass. My makeshift mask has proven to be useless. When the world had gone silent, I walked past the rubble of once-beautiful buildings, hoping to hear someone calling for help from within the ruins. So far, nary a voice has caught my ear, yet I will continue to be vigilant.

A stand near one of the razed buildings is where I perused the shelves. One such periodical caught my eye. I took it to my shelter. It was a building on the verge of collapse. I figured it wouldn’t be targeted a second time. Inside, I settled into a found sleeping bag for some rest.

As I read, a magazine report about a race car piqued my interest. My thoughts beckoned back to when happiness was more than a memory. The lugging of the engines with massive camshafts approached the stage lines. With the illumination of the tree lights, the cars launched in a roar that drowned out the crowd.

I awoke to a subtle shift in the building, scrambled out of my bag, threw all my belongings into it, vacated, made my way across the street to a bricked-in park, climbed over the short wall, and caught my breath. When I peeked over the wall, I saw a tank had veered off the street and grazed the building. It wasn’t long until the remaining sections of the building collapsed.

The tank had trundled clear of the rubble. The commander sat atop the turret with binoculars to his eyes, scanning the area. He looked down into the turret hole and moved his mouth. The turret turned slowly until the main gun was aimed at me. I took flight as a barrage of machine gun fire erupted.

I sought refuge behind a bank. There, I caught my breath. It wasn’t long until I heard the tank’s engine approaching. I had to move and keep moving. My heart pounded painfully in my chest. The desire to vomit grew.

The commander must have an infrared device at his disposal as it tracked me at every turn. I found myself in an alley. The walls were too high to climb. I turn, the tank filling the gap between the buildings, its turret aimed at me. I dropped to my knees and closed my eyes. The sound of boots on the asphalt inspired my eyelids to spring open. The commander, not a man, stepped closer. She brandished a pistol.

I looked into her blue-gray eyes as she aimed across the iron sites. My heart calmed, but slightly. “Will you permit me a question?”

“You may ask,” she replied in English with no particular accent.

“Why have you attacked us?”

“The oligarchs have usurped power in your country. Your democracy has crumbled as this city has crumbled around you. On your watch, your country has waged war with the world. Your complacency is your undoing. Only the children are innocent.”

“You’re….” I prolonged my life even for a few seconds. “You’re right. And for that, I cannot atone for those you have lost. I ask for no mercy, for I now know there is none to give. Do what you must.”

She did.