Betrayal

Gray. The clouds that billowed from his mouth were a dull, muted gray. The stick in between his fingers burned a citrus orange as the white paper surrounding it charred into a black and white substance: his eyes, a dull blue, glazed over with relaxation and ecstasy. The first natural breath he could inhale all day through the numbing chemicals of a cigarette. He sifted his hands through his sandy yellow hair and leaned back into his chair. His eyes grew heavy, and he slowly allowed them to drift closed.

        The muted silence of the air wafted into his ears, lulling him to sleep. The only sound made was the faint squeaking of the ceiling fan above him. Even that was a lullaby to him. The coffee in the tin mug he placed beside his outstretched feet slowly lost the warm intensity it had a few minutes before. He didn’t care. Coffee wouldn’t be enough to get him from this stupor. He was just conscious enough, though, that if he didn’t finish the cigarette, he’d be liable to start a fire. In one last big chug, he hit the cigarette and allowed a large puff of smoke to escape violently out of his lungs. Stamping out the cigarette on the desk, he finally let the comfort of sleep waft over him.

        Suddenly, as if an explosion had gone off, the door burst open. Nearly falling backward, he pulled his pistol on the door. In the middle of it, there stood a man roughly seventy inches in height and with the smooth face of a boy in his late teens. His clothes were caked with dirt, and he was bleeding from the head slightly. His breath came out ragged and fast like he had been running for some time.

        “¡Señor!” cried the young man. “We need your help!”

        Exasperated, the man sat back up in his seat and put the pistol away.

        “What is it, Miguel?” he said curtly.

        “¡Las Nacionalistas!” he squeaked. “¡Las fascistas! They’ve broken the line!”

        The older man’s heart began to pound. Did they? Already? There was no way! Already?! Though he tried to compose himself (he was an officer in this army, after all, and he was speaking to a subordinate), his bewildered eyes said all. Miguel could see the fear in his captain’s eyes. It was the same in his own.

        “Where?”

        “Down the street. La Calle Ocho. The pigs broke through the defense!”

        The older man grabbed his pistol and holstered it to his thigh.

        “Then let’s go. They can’t hold out for too long without us.”

        The two raced down the track with the fanatic speed of a demon in heat. They heard the rattle of machine guns and the bewildered cries of men desperately trying to corral the others. A jumble of English, Spanish, and other languages he didn’t recognize filled the air. Some of them screamed the slogan ¡No Pasaran! as loud as they could over the chaos. The older man himself stayed quiet as much as he could through his labored breaths. As they came to the battle site, he could see them all; all of his men haphazardly strewn about the floor, trying to find as much cover as they could. They held their dinky and almost unusable rifles close to their chest. Some of them peaked out to fire back at the unseen enemy. Unholstering his pistol, the older man slid to the most senior man he could make out in the fog of battle.

        “How many?” he asked. “¿Cuántos de ellos?”

        “¡Yo no sé, señor!” the corporal responded. “Treinta o más, yo creo!” 

        “¿Cuantas armas tiene?”

        “Quizás tres ametralladoras a la lado norte de este edificio.”

        The older man grimaced slightly, three machine guns and thirty men on their side. Amid the fog, he could count only fifteen on his. Those machine guns most definitely tripled the amount of damage they could take. He had to take those machine guns out. Even if it meant losing his own life, he had to do it. Tapping Miguel on the shoulder, he used his hands to give his order; round up three or more, and we’re heading for the guns. Miguel looked at him, fear and confusion apparent on his face. But when he saw the grim determination his superior had, he breathed one good breath and followed suit. It would be a heavy price to pay, but worth it if he can scrounge those guns.

        Allowing his feet to take him as fast as he could, the older man sprinted through the corridor. As he did, a hail of bullets followed suit. As they did, he felt a slight smile grow across his face. Indeed, for an army that army much better equipped, they could’ve had much better training. He dove behind a cement wall and waited for the rest of his men. Though he had only a pistol, he tried to provide as much covering fire as he could. His smile brightened as he saw Miguel and three others following behind him. They crouched as low as they could as the machine gun fire centered on his position.

        “¡Grenada!” the older man replied. “Give me one, now!”

        One of the men, an older-looking man of about forty, gave him one of the grenades on his belt. Pulling the pin with one finger, he tossed as far as he could in the direction of the guns. The blast of the grenade hit the group almost as quickly as he pulled the pin. With renewed vigor, the men rushed on ahead. They set their guns on the nest as they sounded a loud war cry. The last of the opposing group dead, they pushed the bodies to the side and concentrated fire with their new weapon. The guns lined up in a row, and so it was easy to destroy them. The group sounded another cry as the gunfire dissipated. What was supposed to be a massacre was another small win for the Republicans.

        As they collected their dead and wounded, the older man felt a twinge of curiosity well up within him. Turning one of the bodies over, 

he discovered a patch on the dead man’s left arm. Looking closer, he realized to his horror what it was; it was a symbol of the POUM, a militia with whom they had allied themselves.