“My Political Leaders Double-Crossed me”

Short Story by By D. Arróliga

 

The quiet of the full moon night was disturbed by the rumbling of the aging Ford truck.  It was past 10pm and it was headed to the fringes of the Capital.  Its cargo was fifteen soldiers and three men dressed in civilian clothes.  The three men sat gloomily in silence their backs against the cabin.  Only one of them, the short one, seemed to scrutinize the faces of the soldiers.  His piercing look made the soldiers uneasy.  This man was a living legend.  He had defeated the invaders with a handful of men, with very few weapons and a lot of courage.  He had survived countless attacks to his stronghold in the mountains.  He had shot down enemy planes with a homemade mortar originally designed for fireworks during Guadalupe’s festivities in the nearby towns of the north.

 

Yet, on this night, this man was traveling toward his death and that of his companions, his two most trusted generals.  He had always been lucky commanding his men. Always escaping and cheating death...always winning against all odds...always living on the edge, for he was a man of cunning and resolve, a man of courage and audacity.  Accordingly, he could not believe this was the end, a very anticlimactic end.  That is why, on this very night, under the bright moon and the heaving of the old truck he seeks for a friendly face, for a sign that would deliver him yet again from the clutches of death.

Suddenly, the truck stopped.  The troops dismounted.  The three men are pushed off the truck.  They found themselves in a lonely dusty road in the middle of nowhere.  Tracks of oxen carts could be seen and the solidified cake of dry mud piled up on the sides of the ancient road, because it was the end of February and the rains had stopped in October.

The soldiers lined out forming a firing squad.  They would go on to kill the three men. In frenzy, they would rob them of all possessions, taking rings, watches and cigarettes as souvenirs. They would kick the body of the short man even on his privates. Later, they would take the corpses to a nondescript grave and interred them anonymously.  The world would never know where, but it would know why.  The Chief of the new army would later acknowledge the killing in a dinner when he was drunk.  The short man’s dream would be shattered and betrayed by those of his own blood.

Still, on that February night, at the very end, the short man in civilian clothes thought a miracle might yet happen.  He asked permission to pee in an attempt to run away.  One of the soldiers barked back at him and told him to make water right there.  When the man saw that, he dismayingly accepted his fate.  A simple soldier had insulted him, a general, in front of his superiors.  That could only mean that the die was cast.  Slowly, he turned and sat down on the side of the road with his two companions.  Bitterly, he exclaimed: “My political leaders double-crossed me...!”, and then... he died.