The last story

This is just a small story told between comrades; and one day it might even come to be true...

“Oh the Botox measles of it all,” said the shadow in the shadows of the hot sun that was beginning to beat down on the parade standing at attention.

“Cheer up, only another fifteen years and we’ll have our pension,” said cross-eyed curly his mate standing beside him and shifting his weight from side to side to ease his aching feet.

“You’d better tell us another one of your stories to help make the time go quicker,” said the shadow thinking he may have a stone in his boot.

“Well, the quicksilver funny was taking pictures in the dark, as you do when it’s dark, you know?” said Curly.
“Sure, I take pictures all the time in the dark,” said Deli sarcastically.

“If you’re going to be like that I won’t feel like going on,” said Curly in a bit of a huff.

“So stop asking me questions and get on with the story already,” said Deli brusquely.

“You’re in a bad mood this morning; maybe I should just be quiet,” said Curly and moved his eyes to the front.

“Suit your-self,” said Deli and moved his eyes to the front as well.

“Never mind him;” said Cecil Inbox from the other side, “he’s always grumpy first thing in the morning.

“Stop mumbling in the ranks,” growled the sergeant nearby.

All eyes turned to the front while the sergeant did his rounds and not a muscle was moved until he’d moved off. After he’d gone the men loosened up a bit, and although they wouldn’t be seen to move they transferred their weight from one leg to another and moved their eyes back and fore in relief.

Morning parade was always two hours at full attention in all weathers and with nothing better to do the men were glad of a good story, or any story for that matter to relieve the boredom.

The story would be whispered from man to man and occasionally would overlap with another story which made for some strange telling at times.

The sergeant knew what was going on of course but so long as the stories were told under the breath so the officers couldn’t hear them it was not stopped, and sometimes the sergeant would listen in too.

“This morning was no different from any other for the three hundred men of outpost 17 whose job it was to guard the gates of the last city of the elite to stand against the marauding gangs of starving humanity on the other side of the huge walls that enclosed the city.

The city was on half rations, the stockpiles of food in the warehouses finally running low and as none of the scavenging parties had returned was all the food there was for the dwindling inhabitants; the worry was that the food would run out soon and then the end would come.

It had been three months since the second to last city had exploded the bomb, not wanting to be taken alive after their food ran out, and now this was the last city still standing and the prospects didn’t look good.

Outside of the walls where only the rebels roamed were men on horseback scouring the land for patrols from the city and on finding one such patrol, gave chase.

When the last of them were rounded up and put to work clearing the fields of mines the detail was stood down for the day.

“A sorry looking bunch of misfits these and half-starved by the looks of them. If this is what it is like inside the city then it won’t be long before they give up,” said the large man sitting astride his horse and looking at the men from the city who were gingerly feeling for the small landmines that had been dropped by the drones long ago yet were still active and would dismember anyone who stood on one.

“They keep sending them out and we keep rounding them up,” said another man also on a horse and looking at the men in the field.

“When the city falls that’ll be the last of them and then we can get to finishing cleaning up their mess and put this world back together again,” said the first man beginning to turn his horse away.

“Let’s hope we’re not too late,” said the second man remaining to oversee the work in the field.

“Gaia will repair herself in time, she always has,” said the first man over his shoulder as he rode off to check on another project.

“It’s been too long a fight and far too many have died,” said the second man to him-self and nudged the hose to walk on around the field.

In the city words were being said by a gathering of the elite that were not so elite anymore:
“How did things come to this where we are surrounded and beaten by the very sheep that served us?”

“We owned all the banks and had all the power and every government was in our control.”

“The police and the armies marched at our every whim.”

“Nothing was denied us.”

“Body parts whenever ours wore out.”

“The slaves bowed to us and did all we told them to do.”

“We were so close to our dream of total world domination.”

“How could we fail?”

“I had a yacht crewed by two hundred just for me.”

“And I had a whole country to rule.”

“And I controlled the food.”

“And I controlled the water.”

“We were too big to fail. They have no right to treat us this way, we own them, they exist just to serve us as they have done these thousands of years gone.”

“We were too lenient with them; we should have started the third world war and that would have thinned them out just like the other two world wars we made happen.”

“We should have made more of their leaders disappear.”

“But we killed so many of them and they just kept coming back; they bred so fast and we were watered down too much by our inbreeding.”

“Now it looks like they will get it all.”

“We have the final bomb to end all life on the planet.”

“Yes, we have that.”

“As soon as the food runs out then.”

“One final party before the end?”

“Yes, we will have one final party before the end and then press the button to end everything.”

ANOTHER VIEWPOINT

The last day had arrived and the party was in full swing with champagne still in plentiful supply and the last of the food piled high on the tables that were set around ten thousand tons of gleaming gold in the middle of the huge bunker, and the bomb ticking away on the top of the heap.

The bomb was primed and ready and though forty years old now was guaranteed by the company to go off exactly as planned.

It was set to detonate at an unknown time on Christmas day;” to turn us all back into pumpkins,” said Ali Akbar, but no one laughed, it was the end of a way of life, in fact it would be the end of all life and that’s why it was called the final bomb.

It was made for just such a time as this that when overcome by the enemy everything could be destroyed, for it we can’t have it all then no one would. This was the thinking behind it and was the same thinking that had been going on for a very long time.

No bowing out gracefully; no forgive and forget; no Christian values and no preservation of life; nothing was sacred but money and no one but us can have it.

Outside on the parade ground of the big square inside of the high walls that enclosed the city, two hundred and ninety seven freedom fighters were lined up at attention for their daily ritual in the sun, but this day was different; there were no commanders to be seen.

The commanders had got wind of the impending event and had scarpered during the night and now only the fighters were left and one extremist to manage them all.

The buzz in the ranks was that something big was going on but no one knew what and as they stood to attention all ears turned to the story being told.

“This is a strange storey,” said Cecil Inbox scratching behind his ear with his rifle and not caring if he was seen or not.

“I have a strange feeling something’s wrong,” said Deli staring around the square and seeing only the men who were also staring around with worried looks on their faces.

“It’s possible this might be our last story,” said Curly looking up at the blue sky and seeing buzzards circling.

“OK lads, looks like I’m in charge now,” said the extremist loudly for all to hear.

“What’s up?” called out one man near the front.

“I think we’ve got a problem,” said the extremist.

The men became quiet at this and listened to hear what the extremist had to say.

“A long time ago when my father was the extremist he told me of a bomb, a big one, down in the bunker, and he told me that if things turned sour for them they’d set it off and kill us all. Well lads, things have turned sour and if we don’t do something we’ve had it,” said the extremist addressing all the men at once.

“Let’s make a run for it,” said one of the men.

“No use running lads, this bomb will get us wherever we are,” said the extremist.

“But it’s our job to blow things up with bombs,” said one, overly loud.

“Yes, but if this bomb goes off we all are gone and then we can’t do any more bombing,” said the extremist.

“So what do we do?” asked another from farther back.

“We get down into the bunker and diffuse the bomb is what,” said the extremist coming to a decision.

“But how do we get in?” said one.

“My father showed me a secret way in and if it’s still there that’s where we’re going,” said the extremist to all.

“We’re with you,” said several men together.

“Right lads, this masquerade is over, follow me.” With that the extremist led the men to the secret way in to the bunker.

Inside the impenetrable bunker the party was in full swing with everyone as drunk as lords and doing things only the elite in their disparity could think of. Slave girls screamed as the elite roared in laughter just like the old days; and thinking themselves untouchable in their bunker they played out their funereal dream to the end and not caring about what they’d done or were about to do.

After a long time trying to find it, finally the secret door was swung open on its rusty creaking hinges and allowed the extremist and his freedom fighters to pour into the bunker ready for a fight, only to find the party in its final stages with most everyone passed out on the floor and the few still on their feet staggering around in a drunken daze.

With no time to lose the extremist climbed to the top of the heap of gold and stared at the huge bomb there that was ticking down the final few seconds.

For a moment he could make no sense of the dials and gauges that were clicking and beeping and then his eyes fell on two buttons, one red and one green with no instructions to say what either one did.

“Green for go and red for stop,” said the extremist and pressed the red one.

Immediately after pressing it he thought: red for dead and green for clean. “Oh my god, what have I done?” he said out loud as the men looked at him appalled.

The bomb whirred and clicked and the countdown sped up until just zeros were seen, and then the bomb went quiet and made one last click.

Images from Pixabay

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_{Animation By @zord189}