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Authors: Brian Cotton
Rebels & Lies (Rebels & Lies Trilogy Book 1)
REBELS & LIES
by
Brian Cotton
© 2012 Brian Cotton
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Cover Design © 2012 Greg Dejaynes
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This
is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or
organizations is purely coincidental and not to be construed a real.
Novels by Brian Cotton
Rebels & Lies
Patriots & Tyrants
For Chrissy,
My best friend and the
best wife a man could ask for.
“When bad men combine,
the good must associate; else they will fall one by one…”
-Edmund Burke
“This flag represents that same weakness that we
so easily defeated decades ago. The United Society of Reason has already freed
you from their tyranny, persecution, love of violence, child pornography, and
overall depravity. Let it be known that anyone who is seen supporting this flag
or harboring the terrorists who bear it: you will be found. We will give this
Society justice: publically. Let it also be known…”
Five weeks passed since John Paxton lost another
comrade. His name was Zach and he was a youngster nineteen years old by mere
days. The broadcast from the morning after still played out in his head. Over
and over again. The Consul, that smug evil bastard who always wore the best
clothing and looked like a forty year old man at sixty, stood before his slaves
and celebrated Zach’s death. He even had the audacity to mock a way of life
that far surpassed what the USR called great. His fallen comrade had ten times
the amount of courage to what the USR called brave. The time would come when
Williamson would know…when they all would know…
Stay focused on the mission.
A light mist started to fall from the black night
sky. The tiny droplets prompted Paxton to fit the hood of his sweatshirt
overtop his thinning salt and pepper hair. He looked down at the black digital
numbers against a blue indigo background on his wrist. His eyes caught the date
next to the time. For the first time today the milestone he reached started to
hit home. Sixty, it was his damned birthday again. When he was young the mere
thought of turning sixty seemed so far out of reach he thought it would never
happen to him. The hair that grew thinner everyday was not enough. Neither were
the aches and pains he felt when he got out of bed each morning. No, now he was
reminded once more: time ran short.
He began his walk down the deserted streets of
what used to be a hopping downtown. It was in a city, much like this one, that
Paxton proposed to his wife upon returning from the war. The joy he felt when she
said yes overwhelmed him to the point where he forgot about the damn ring in
his pocket. Back then, it seemed like life was easy, apart from fighting for
Uncle Sam.
Back then. Those hated words again. It was all he
could say about a time when there were things such as freedom, liberty, and
civil rights. What was left drove him to the point of madness. All around the
empty metropolis were armed guards on every corner. Every move, spoken word,
everything was now under heavy watch. What was wrong with these people? Paxton
knew that, in order for him to reach true happiness again, he must see it all
change. Not a day too…
“Watch where you’re walking!” an Agent in full
riot gear called out.
Paxton backed away. After several deep breaths,
he composed himself. He looked to the man he bumped into. The letters “USR” in
bold yellow across the chest: his enemy. The wheels inside the Agent’s head
began to turn. Paxton kept his composure and stared right back into the enemy’s
eyes. He wondered if an arrest, a beat down, or a warning was to come. The
Agent would take great joy in beating the shit out of a leftover, Paxton knew,
so he began to brace himself for the worst. Maybe a little common courtesy
would do the trick.
“Sorry about that.” Paxton said with a forced politeness.
“Stand up against that wall, citizen.”
Paxton obeyed. He turned and pressed his body and
the right side of his face against the concrete wall. The cold dampness of the
concrete caused a chill to run down the spine. Or, maybe it was fear. For a
person, no citizen, over a certain age, it didn’t matter what the Agent would
find. Old age was enough to get locked up in a cell for the rest of time.
Paxton cursed himself under his breath while the search began.
The first thing to come was the increased heart
rate as the Agent’s hands moved along both arms then down to his chest. The
hands moved down inside the pouch of the sweatshirt. Paxton took in a deep
breath as the Agent reached inside his khaki pants. The search was almost over
now. After a quick silent prayer the pair of hands went down along the legs of
his pants.
“Move along, citizen.” the Agent ordered while he
straightened his posture to resume his watch. “Be more careful next time.”
“Thank you, sir.” Paxton wanted to vomit. “Have a
nice night.”
The Agent reached for his night stick. “Just get
the fuck out of here, leftover.”
Luck was something not to be pressed, a lesson
learned long ago in the Marine Corps. Paxton didn’t say anything else and
continued his walk: his mission. Despite the momentary set back, he remained
confident in his steps. The mark for this mission was Ryan Kaspar. Kaspar, a
man in his mid-twenties, lived alone with his mother in a beat up old apartment
in the inner city. No other connections could be found during their initial
investigation. No close friends, girlfriend, nothing.
The part that excited Paxton was Kaspar’s
involvement in illegal, bare knuckle boxing. Throughout his career, or so
Paxton was told, this kid never suffered a defeat. A lot of the men he faced in
the ring had a distinct height and weight advantage. There were only a couple
of things that could keep him alive for so long. Kaspar had been blessed with
an unusual amount of grit and not to mention a refusal to lose. Perfect
attributes for a man about to be drafted into a guerilla war.
Something to the right caught Paxton’s eye as he
turned the corner at an intersection. A group of men and women were lined up
against the wall of a building. Three Agents were aggressive in their pat downs
of them. The USR’s search for the resistance had intensified of late. Deep
down, Paxton knew he was responsible for what was happening to them. His
initial impulse was to run over there, take the Agents out, and let the people
that he tried to save everyday go. Maybe he would give them a chance to make a
way for themselves in this messed up world. It was not feasible and all Paxton
could do was say a silent prayer for them. His mission took top priority.
He was almost there when a sudden urge attacked.
The old veteran’s brain sent out the signal. It craved nicotine and he was
lucky enough that the Agent missed the cigarettes hidden inside his hood. To
the left was a darkened alley. Paxton walked inside it and rested his back
against the brick wall. The cigarettes were taped to the inside of his hood. He
ripped the tape clean from the fuzzy cotton. He then pulled the box of
contraband to his eyes. Inside, three cigarettes and half used box of matches
rested.
Only three left…son of a bitch.
He broke off a match and lit one of the
cigarettes. He took in a deep drag and let the nicotine do its work. Paxton
kept a watchful eye on his surroundings. The ban on smoking initiated by the
USR resulted in extra caution. Not to mention the increase in price on smuggled
smokes. He did find a sense of revenge in it all, however. Each cigarette now
tasted all the sweeter. His attempt at another drag became interrupted by a
sound at the far end of the alley.
Three young men, gang members no doubt,
approached the aged veteran. One wore a red hooded sweatshirt, the biggest of
the three. His two cohorts, one in gray the other in blue, followed close
behind. The old soldier looked to them and a wave of disappointment overcame
him. These hoodwinks were about to ruin one of his last smokes.
“What up, old man?” Red asked.
“Just enjoying a smoke.” Paxton replied and then
he held the cigarette in the air. “Care for one?”
Red burst into laughter then looked to his
buddies on both sides and they joined in. While they laughed the instincts within
Paxton kicked in. He measured them up. Red would be the tough one, he looked to
weigh about one ninety-five, solid muscle. The two skinny ass clowns who
accompanied him, well, they didn’t pose a threat.
Red turned to Blue. “Check his wallet.”
“Let’s see what you got.” Blue said as he began
to move in.
Paxton kept shifting his gaze from Blue, to the
hoodlums behind. He caught a glimpse of Blue pulling out a knife from his
pocket. What little light that penetrated the alley flickered off of the rusted
blade.
Keep your cool.
His arms remained at his sides, the burning
cigarette in his lips. He waited for the punk to get close enough. Blue seemed
to be so cocky with that piece of shit blade in his hand that he approached
with little caution. The only thing he saw in front of him was an old man.
Blue, and the others, were about to learn a harsh lesson. Paxton was not an
ordinary old man.
It happened in an instant.
Blue extended the knife over his head and
prepared to strike. Paxton moved his left arm straight up. He caught the
enemy’s wrist with his forearm. He shifted his body weight forward and landed a
punch to the side of Blue’s face with his free fist.
He moved Blue’s knife hand backwards and
delivered his knee into Blue’s groin. The terrible snap of the wrist was
overshadowed by Blue’s cries. After grabbing the black handle of the knife from
Blue’s open hand, he stabbed the kid in the gut. The mugger fell to the ground
in agony. Paxton threw the blade to the pavement in anger.
Gray moved in next. He took a wild swing which
was easily ducked under. A fierce right hand strike to the exposed throat sent
Gray crashing to the pavement, gasping for breath. The tough one would be next.
Red ran in on Paxton and sucker punched him in
the left rib cage. The old man turned and was met by another punch to the
chest. Red grew cocky now and went in for the killing strike. Paxton blocked
the punch with his left forearm and, at that precise moment, hooked the back of
Red’s neck with his right arm. Paxton drove his knee into the attacker’s
midsection and let go of his grip. Unable to breathe, Red’s upper body bent
forward, and then his face made an acquaintance with Paxton’s knee.
The attacker fell to the pavement with his face a
bloodied mess. Paxton turned and looked to the ground for his cigarette. He
found it and was amazed to see that the cherry at the end still was still lit
and the cigarette intact. He noticed some debris on the filter and started to
rub it off with his thumb. A funny thought occurred to him: what did it matter
if the dirt from the pavement mixed itself with the carcinogens from the
tobacco?
Leaned up against the wall he took several drags
in quick succession. Sounds from the would be muggers scrambling around to his
left gave him a sense of fulfillment. He heard Gray telling Blue that they
would patch him up and that they wouldn’t let him die. Red, the supposed
leader, said nothing and ran the fastest out of the alley.
With the cigarette depleted, Paxton threw the
used butt to the pavement and put it out with the heel of his military boot.
The then refitted the hood over his head, slid box of smokes into the pouch of
his sweatshirt, and continued his walk. Two critical errors made already: one
because of his stupidity and the other because of his addiction.
He wondered if these mistakes were a prelude of
the mission still to come.