Guerrilla
By: Ryan Riley
Tags: Short Story, Creative Writing, Fiction, Writing, Science Fiction

I took this year’s cards to the bar. All 165 of them. That included one UN Peacekeeper card, one Red Crescent Medic card and a soldier card for all 163 countries. That’s all the countries that were left after the New Great War. The others were absorbed into their much larger neighbors. The bulk of them went into the reformation of the Soviet Union. In hindsight, I think the Soviets wished they’d stayed divided. Then they’d have a much bigger coalition. But those are the rules: One country. One soldier.

It was a candidate’s idea. It’s unclear which one said it first. We just know that the guy who won wasn’t the one that thought of it. But the idea stuck. So many people around the world died in the war, it was the best way for us to feel secure with our future.

After the election, the new president presented the idea to the UN General Assembly. Global treaties were drafted. It wasn’t exactly peace but it won him the prize.

I flipped through my stack of cards, holding back the cards of the soldiers we’ve already lost this year. Like Dantes Medina from Venezuela. He was killed by Colombia’s Matias Rojas over oil imports. Greece also lost Alexis Alexiou to Germany’s Lea Fischer over a minor tourism debate that was blown out of proportion. In total, my death stack was twelve high. I sat it to the side.

Then I sorted the remaining cards into three piles. Pile one was for the countries who abstained from this war. Pile two was the Soviet coalition. Pile three was the American coalition. Pile one was the biggest. Pile two the second biggest with 37 and pile three was the smallest with 15.

I sat pile one next to the death pile. Then I laid out the cards from the other two piles into two distinct areas on the bar table. Pictures up. Then I sat the UN Peacekeeper and the Red Crescent Medic cards at the top. No real reason. It just gave all of this some sense of order.

“Getting ready?” Dad said as he sat on the stool next to mine. It was our tradition to watch the wars at the American Coalition bar. He said he needed to be with others. He couldn’t just sit at home. It was too hard.

“That’s your winner right there,” Uncle Jaime said, tapping on the American soldier card. Dad brought him to keep me company. Once the war started he’d usually lose himself in his beer. Uncle Jaime made sure I was taken care of.

Of course, we were all rooting for Beatrice Johnson. They called her the Guerrilla. Soldiers served until their death on the field or off. She was the longest serving soldier in the world at 15 years. There were posters for her all around the bar. Unopened Wheaties’ box with her face on them sat in a cabinet over the drinks. She was everywhere. There was even a flyer in the bathroom with her reminding us to wash our hands.

“It’s about to start,” I said.

Dad took a big drink of his beer, finishing it off. He waves to the bartender for another. They bring it fast. They know he gets nervous.

“She never fought in a coalition this lopsided,” I say.

“That’s true. But don’t much matter,” Uncle Jaime said. “She’s tough.”

“Why’re they even fighting this time?”

“Damn Soviets broke the treaty. They’re building new weapons. Armies.”

“Well, doesn’t that mean the world should be fighting them?”

“Usually, but there are a lot of people in this world that want to go back to the old ways.”

“Like who?”

“The people that make the weapons. There’s a lot of money in war, sweetie.”

“The military-industrial complex,” Dad interjected.

“What’s that?”

“That’s why I wasn’t using complicated terms. You’re confusing her,” Uncle Jaime said.

“Her mother and I don’t use kid gloves with her. You shouldn’t either.”

“Fine. So the military-industrial complex is a sort of coalition between a nation’s military and the companies that make their weapons. Because they’re so close, it’s hard to know how a war begins and why. Is it for profit or for a more just reason?”

“It’s time,” Dad said.

The bar falls silent as a countdown starts from 10.

Recordings were banned seven years ago when the Japanese were caught feeding their soldier enemy coalition locations.

9…

He was executed and the Japanese were banned from war for five years. Their enemies were quick to take advantage, with no defense, they lost nearly everything.

8…

Since then, the only information we were given was confirmed deaths from the Red Crescent Medics.

7…

Uncle Jaime took my hand. I squeezed it harder with each new number.

6…

Everyone in the bar was standing. Hats off. Hands over hearts as if we were about to sing a national anthem.

5…

4…

3…

2…

1…

Then a graphic appeared on the screen reading “The War Has Begun.” Everyone settled down for a long night. Wars can last anywhere from hours to days. No one had seen a war this big in a long time. So it’s unclear which side of the spectrum we’d fall on.

It wasn’t long until we heard the first announcement. Dad never looked up during announcements. He just listened to the names.

“We have Red Crescent American Coalition confirmed kills,” the announcer said over the screen. Then a picture of the soldier from Spain appeared. Dad took a drink. Then an image of the soldier from Uruguay. Dad took another drink.

“Killed by,” the announcer continued.

Then a picture of Guerrilla popped on screen. As soon as she appeared, the bar erupted in cheers. I could feel the ground shake below my feet. She was a god in those walls. There were hugs, kisses and high fives all around. My Dad even smiled.

I slid Spain and Uruguay’s cards under the Guerrilla’s. That’s how I kept track of everything. Kills went under the killers.

“That’s a pretty good start, don’t you think?” Uncle Jaime said.

“Yeah. Pretty good.”

Then the announcer breaks in again.

“We have a Red Crescent Soviet Coalition confirmed kill,” a voice said.

The bar fell silent. Dad squeezed his eyes shut and took a drink. We waited for the picture of the fallen soldier. Then it appeared: Fawaz Dieu-Donne of Benin. Dad took a drink. The bar took a collective breath, relieved to know Guerrilla was still alive.

“Poor bastards,” Uncle Jaime said. “We knew they didn’t have much of a chance.”

“Then why did they fight?”

“Honor. After the New Great War, Nigeria, their much bigger neighbor, tried to absorb them like they did Niger and Cameroon during the war. But we stood up for them. We protected their border. Since then, they’ve been loyal allies.”

The bartender climbed onto the bar and unrolled a Beninese flag.

“Someone better play it and they better play it now,” the bartender yelled.

I hopped from my seat and ran to the jukebox. I scanned the countries until I found Benin and L’Aube Nouvelle. I pressed the buttons and then the Beninese national anthem played. Everyone stood next to their tables. Hats off. Hearts over chests. The bartender waved the green, yellow and red flag.

It was in French, so no one really knew the lyrics or what they meant. But it was beautiful nevertheless. After that, announcements came almost hourly. With every kill, Dad drank a little more. He was finding it harder and harder to drown out the pain and fear. I wanted to say something to him. I wanted to tell him to stop but Uncle Jaime told me to just let him be.

Guerrilla’s card towered above the others. She had eighteen confirmed kills. Vasily Petrov, the Soviet, was in second place with seven. There were still nineteen soldiers left in the Soviet Coalition and only four in the American Coalition.

As the night carried on, more and more people found their way into the bar. The Fire Chief showed up at one point, not to shut the place down for obvious fire code violations, but instead to check on the war. He bought a round for everyone. Dad finished it and placed the empty with his growing collection. Just as the chief was leaving, three announcements came in.

“We have another set of American Coalition confirmed kills,” the announcer said. The pictures of the soldiers from Pakistan, Laos, and Algeria appeared. “Killed by,” the announcer said as Guerrilla’s image popped on screen.

Again the place erupted. Someone bumped the table and my cards spilled onto the floor. I dropped to the ground to collect them while Uncle Jaime made sure no one stepped on me.

I gathered all of my cards but noticed that Guerrilla was missing. I found her on the other side of the table under Dad’s boot. I tried to slide it out from under but his boot was too heavy. I tapped his leg.

“Daddy,” I said. “Daddy.”

Finally, he looked down under the table.

“What?” he said.

“You’re standing on her,” I said.

“What?”

“You’re standing on her.”

He saw the card under his boot.

“Can you lift your boot?”

He lifted his boot and I grabbed the card. I got back on my stool and arranged my cards again. I did it all from memory. When I was done, I counted the cards to see how many were left.

Soviet Coalition: 9

American Coalition: 2

“What happens if she loses?” I said to Uncle Jaime.

“That won’t happen,” he said.

“But what if it does.”

Uncle Jaime looks at my dad, then leans in close and speaks low so Dad can’t hear him.

“If we lose, we go back to how it was before. A time when millions of young men and women died for unjust causes. If she doesn’t win, you’ll be drafted to rebuild our army. And I know that’s not what she wants. It’s not what you dad wants. It’d kill him.”

“We have more confirmed kills. On both sides. We have three American Coalition confirmed kills and one Soviet Coalition confirmed kill.”

I looked at Dad as we waited for the pictures. He was crying. Then the pictures appear.

From the Soviet Coalition: Canada, Serbia, and Poland.

From the American Coalition: Ireland.

The bartender waved the Irish flag as their national anthem, The Soldier’s Song, played. A surprising amount of people knew the lyrics.

“Soldiers are we, whose lives are pledged to Ireland,” they sang together. Even my father mouthed the words between drinks. When the anthem ended, the chief left and those that could sit, did. We were all scared. Six of them against her. She’d fought at most three alone before today and she barely survived. We didn’t know what her health status. We didn’t know anything.

Two hours later, an announcement came in. She got Chile. An hour later, she got Egypt and Iraq. Thirty minutes after that, she got New Zealand and Burma.

It was just her and the Soviet now.

Dad could barely sit on his stool. Uncle Jaime was propping him up.

“Dad,” I said.

“Yes. Baby. Yes. You okay?” Dad said. He slurred his words.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

“Yeah, baby. Of course. I’m great. I just need to get a new beer. You wanna help your old man out?”

“Maybe I can get you some water.”

Dad slammed his hand on the table. A few empties fall and shatter on the floor.

“I want a beer.”

Uncle Jaime winks at me and gestures towards the bar. “Go ahead,” he said. “Your dad’s fine.”

At the bar, the bartender winked at me, too. “Don’t worry, girlie. We got his back.” He pours more than half a beer into a sink, then refills the bottle with water. He swished it around then handed it to me. “Just give him this. He hasn’t noticed in hours. Now go on.”

I gave dad the beer and he took the biggest drink I’ve ever seen him take. He nearly finished it. Uncle Jaime’s eyes grew big. Before any of us knew what to say, there was an announcement.

“We’re going to cut in live where the Red Crescent is examining a body. Once we have confirmation, we can declare an end to this war.”

Video cuts in on an urban battlefield. Bombed out buildings surrounded by rubble.

The camera moved in on a small team of medics all in red, working on a body. We couldn’t make out who it was. Dad stood up. “Well, who the fuck is it,” he said to the TV. “Who the fuck is it.”

I took Dad’s hand. It seemed to calm him a little. Suddenly, there’s another figure walking around. The camera pushed in and focused. It was her. Guerrilla. She’s waiting while the medics work on the Soviet.

Upon seeing her, Dad breaks down. He fell to his knees. Tears rolled down his face. Uncle Jaime rubbed his back.

“See, we knew she’d do it,” he said.

Guerrilla was limping. Blood covered her entire body. She noticed the camera then pulled an American flag from her pack. She draped it over her shoulders, covering up all her injuries, and blew kisses at the camera. I blew kisses back to her.

“Alright, it appears that we can confirm the final American Coalition kill. The Soviet is dead,” the announcer says. “We can declare an end to this war. The American Coalition has won.”

As soon as he said it, she fell. She was waiting for the victory. She was waiting for the end. Once it came, she could let go.

“It appears that Beatrice has collapsed. Medics are working on her now.”

The bar was silent except for my dad’s screams. Then I heard the whispers. I knew they were talking about us.

“That’s her husband.”

“Oh god, I think that’s her daughter.”

“That poor family.”

When it was clear she wasn’t getting up, everyone in the bar turned to face us. I was crying in my dad’s arms. The bartender climbed onto the bar and waved the American flag. Everyone else took off their hats and put their hands over their hearts. Then they sang The Star-Spangled Banner to us.

That was the day I knew I was going to grow up to be just like her.