Thirteen still flags Draped over thirteen boxes cold Carrying thirteen still hearts That once bore souls of gold.
A rumbling steel tomb Bears them through the sky; The solemn warrior sentries Weeps through watchful eye.
Throughout his vigil he considers The kind of life he’s led; Ponders the cold truth that he Could’ve been among the dead.
Children made to grow too soon Chosen to stand with their brothers; Killed while saving innocent lives, Deaths price paid for the sins of others.
The sentry thinks of the families, Hearts torn by dreaded call That’s gives new meaning to the phrase: “All gave some; some gave all.”
Fallen warriors slain in The closing salvo of their father’s war. A bitter reminder that when you give, Still yet is expected more.
But that’s the life they life, the path they swear, The debt they choose to pay; We can only pray we rise as well, When we are called one day.
So rest easy noble fallen, You have no cause for fear; Your sacrifice carries us day to day, We have the watch from here.
He stood in the back of the small church, the mournful organ music not penetrating his wandering mind. It felt WRONG. Wrong to be here, but not able to make himself known. This had been his best friend, had held him as he died, but he could not say a word, nor participate in the procession, nor comfort the mother of the deceased. He had to remain in the back, obscured by shadow. Because his own funeral had been last week.
As 2020 came to an end, I saw people all over the world celebrating. The worst year in recent memory was finally over. It felt wrong to begrudge them this, but I did. They were glad for the year to end, but I wanted above all else for it to go on just a little longer. When I saw him emerge from the shadows in the corner of my room, I new the terms of the deal had expired, my year was up, and the devil had come to collect.
The choice, forced upon me by those I have sworn to oppose, stared me in the face like an arrogant enemy who believes he has one. Two options, neither of them good. On the one hand: revealing my identity to my foe, severely impeding my ability to combat him and to keep the city I love safe. On the other: I watch as Ava bleeds onto the concrete, unable to reach her in time. The choice is hard, the ramifications far-reaching and clouded from sight. All I know now is that if I don’t remove my cowl in the next moment, the woman I love will die on my account. I look at her, lock onto her eyes. Only 5 paces away, I can practically smell her fear. I think about her perspective. She doesn’t see the face of the man who loves her, who would give anything to trade places with her. She sees the dark cowl of the vigilante, so often stained with blood after visiting violence on violent men. I lift my gaze, stare into the unblinking pinpoints of the muzzles that could instantly cut me down. Six of them. Two on the right of the leader, three on the left. Lock onto the one directed at the back of my love’s head. Look into the eyes of the man wielding it, the mob boss who has proffered this hellish dilemma. And I make my choice. I reach up, slowly, and unfasten the clasps on my armored cowl. I lift it from my head, see the sadistic glee on my rival’s face, see the horrified realization on the face of my darling. I see the shift in attention on the gang leader’s face, his gaze shifting from my face to my lover. I see the tensing of muscles in his wrist, preparing for the recoil of his large handgun. But it is too late, I am already in motion. I leap, hurling my cowl at his vulnerable weapon hand, my own hands darting to secure his wrist. My cowl connects just as he pulls the trigger, sending a ball of flame exploding past my lovers face. I grab the wrist of his dominant hand with my right, my left grabbing a fist full of his well groomed hair. I take a violent step forward, maneuvering his body in conjunction with mine, and as his men open fire on me from both sides, I pivot, shielding one side from harm using the body of my adversary. As the bullets slam into his back, his grip on his weapon loosens. I wrench the magnum from his grasp and snap it up, zeroing in on the two armed men to the boss’s right. I squeeze the trigger and the big gun booms, snapping the goons head back in a spray of blood and brain matter. The second henchman releases a wild spray of lead from his submachine gun just as the next slug from my revolver smashes him just below the nose, folding him like a cheap lawn chair. The life fading from his once haughty eyes, the mortally wounded mob boss sinks to the floor, exposing my left side to the three gun thugs on the left. Three rounds left in the cylinder, three targets to put down. I turn to swing the hefty weapon at the first shooter, but my arm is slow in responding. I glance down, and see that it is torn open just above the elbow. I desperately transition to my left hand and aim, but in my panic my first shot goes wide, striking my opponent in the arm and requiring a follow up shot to put him down. The final two shooters have taken cover, concealed from my eyes and weapon, but still revealed to my ears. I can hear their ragged breathing, the panic in their voice as they realize I have torn through 3 of their associates and now have my sights set on them. I run in a low crouch, moving in on the closest sounds of breathing. I round the corner of the skylight the man has taken cover behind, coming face to face with him. I see his eyes widen in terror as I extend my arm until the muzzle nearly rests on his nose and pull the trigger, sending gore cascading in every direction. As his body collapses to the ground, the final gunman stands, directing his muzzle at me. I rush at him, rapidly closing the distance as his Beretta pops one, two, three times. I feel the impacts, but I feel no pain, and I doubt I would stop if I did, the hate and desperation coursing through my veins are so strong. As soon as I am in arms reach I swing the long barrel of the revolver, striking his gun hand with enough force to knock the weapon from his grasp and likely to break several fingers. My next swing brings the barrel down across the crown of his head, sending him staggering into the side of the HVAC unit beside him. I swing again and again, until he slumps to the ground, life fading from his face. I take a step toward my stunned love and stumble, dropping to a knee. I look down at my body. Two rounds are embedded in the Kevlar on my chest, but there is a gunshot wound to my left thigh, in addition to the one on my right bicep. I just want to drop to the ground and close my eyes.. Before I can, however, I am met by an embrace of the kind only the most desperate of circumstances can. She wraps me in her arms, supporting me as she guides to the fire escape. No frail damsel, she has the presence of mind to secure my cowl to my face before supporting me to safety. As I look into her eyes, lit up with a determination I can’t match right now, I know I made the right choice.
A few more steps. Just a few more desperate steps to safety. Then peace, quiet at last. But those steps? Sheer pandemonium. People yelling, bodies jostling, the stress and release palpable. The smell of fear and unwashed bodies settles over the rabble like a mantle of decay as they attempt to jostle closer to sanctuary, their primitive instincts taking precedence over civilized behavior. You are so close to refuge you can smell the sweet aroma of freedom. Five steps, now three. Just as you are crossing the threshold, you hear the booming voice of your coming doom. You recognize the voice, perceive what it means. It is Knoetgen, king of the gods, destroyer of worlds and devourer of souls. He calls out that you have been found in contempt of his decrees, and you shall be cast out of paradise. Once you are back in the wide dangerous expanse, he begins to exact his holy retribution. He vehemently informs you that the very earth, Gaea herself, bleeds for your iniquities, and that only by your sacrifice can the desecration be atoned for. You are to remain here for perpetuity, holding in the very lifeblood the essence of the earth with your bare hands. And there you reside in purgatory , in agony making penance for your fatal haste. You think longingly of your brothers in arms, those fortunate enough to escape the dreaded fury of Knoetgen. It is futile, you know, to wish for any fate but that which you have merited, for your chastisement is well deserved. This is your last rational thought before you slip away, your consciousness dissolving into the vast assemblage of those who have come and gone before you, all of your souls, your life essences being converted into glorious mass for the calves of Knoetgen.
