Sebate Matlo, 32
Special Infantry Force no. 3, Corporal

“No more war! No more war!” shouted a young man. He bore a wooden, crude sign that waved into the air like the ocean to the shore.

Tightening my grip on my shield and my eyes darting about, I dig my feet into the hard, black tarmac. I watch as the protestors throw rocks at us, our shields denting and thumping under the pressure. The cars nearby are torched, the embers dancing like flies.

I could only wish the shouting would stop. My head was dizzy, I was dazed by the chaos, and I couldn’t tell what was going on. We brace ourselves for another volley of stones and insults.

“Stop the draft! Stop the draft! No more war!” the crowd chants, almost like a group of cultists. Their booming voices and the pounding of the stones upon our riot shields create a chaotic, yet oddly soothing rhythm.

As the pounding and chaos intensifies, I hear my radio click to life with an iconic beep melody.

“22-5, I want all units on standby for a push order. How copy?”

Instinctively, I grip the button on my radio and respond. “22-12 responding, solid copy.”

Everyone in our squad knew exactly what we were going for. A push order was usually another word for charge straight into the rioters and hope for the best. The squad unfastens their baton holsters, the velcros ripping and tearing against the plastic sticks of discipline. Clutching our shields on our left, and gripping the batons on our right, we inch forward at the protestors.

The crowd of people, almost like a container of viscous fluid, reacts violently to the sight of riot control officers creeping at their bubble of rock-throwing range. Abruptly, seemingly all of the protestors charge forward, running at the thin line of riot officers with bricks and wooden clubs.

The backlit stage of fire and orange, and the distant shouts and police sirens wailing in the background create an ambience, a backdrop, to the battle that’s to commence.

“Here they come!” cried an officer.

I could feel the blunt impact of the protestors’ bodies, pushing against the thin line of officers. My feet drag along the tarmac, as I try desperately to control the crowd physically, pushing back with my own body. The crowd heaved and shouted, their arms and signs flailing amongst the noise.

Instinctively, I swept my shield aside and swung my baton, striking an unfortunate protestor in the cheekbone. She falls hard onto the concrete, and I could’ve sworn I heard some cracking sounds. Regardless, I knew it was nothing too lethal. At least, not yet.

Taking advantage of the opening in the crowd, I rush into the sea of bodies, swinging my baton violently at every interval. I could hear my comrades doing the same, their violence opening wider and wider cracks in the ocean of people. The protestors responded by giving us their own knuckle sandwiches, using fisticuffs and wooden clubs to pummel at our polycarbonate shields. Eventually, our squad loses its formation and the whole road devolves into a 1-on-1 every-man-for-himself kind of fight.

I lock eyes with another protester, he’s wearing a hoodie and some jeans. The protester hesitates for a moment, contemplating if he should run or fight. In a split second, he charges at me, and lunges a sharp stick like a javelin at my shield.

The javelin-like spear punches straight through my shield, piercing through my right abdomen. The throw made him lose balance and drop onto the dead grass, his body recoiling from the blunt trauma. Instinctively, I locked him onto the ground and aimed for his legs. Fueled by adrenaline and dazed by the fight-or-flight instincts, I lunge in for the kill, swinging my baton violently like a pendulum. My training doesn’t matter now, it’s either kill or die.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The man’s screaming, he’s begging for mercy. I can’t stop, the adrenaline is cold down my spine.

“Stop! I beg you! Stop! No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry-”

I strafe his cheekbones repeatedly, hammering his skull with my standard issue baton. The protester’s teeth fragment out, his blood painting my weapon.

“Stop! Please! It hurts! No! Have mercy!”

His screams become more distant and weak, and his arms begin to strain out.

“No… please… it hurts…” he whimpers, his body giving out on the last ounce of strength he had.

The man doesn’t respond to the beatings anymore, his face is as cold as winter. The pained and grief-stricken face fades into a blank stare, his eyes glaring down a thousand studs and his jaw loosens to reveal some missing teeth and a bloodied mouth.

Taken aback, I stood up and raised my visor so I could wipe the sweat off my forehead. Amidst the chaos, I can’t help but take a moment to see the poor man’s face mutilated and mangled by my own hands. The adrenaline dries up quick, my body coming to the senses of a javelin in my stomach. The pain in my stomach, the maimed face and the realization swept in, and my eyes became teary and quivered.

Stumbling a few steps back, my tears flow down my cheeks. My right arm is trembling from the exercise of beating another being to death, all while witnessing their pleads of mercy.

What have I done?

4 YEARS LATER

The basement is damp and moist, the lights working overtime to light the hazy and dead room. A dense moss coats the walls, the paint peeling off to reveal the insulation foam inside.

My rent’s due in 2 days, my parents have left me to die here, my friends have cut all my contacts off. I know why. That’s because nobody in this world wants me, not even my landlord or my neighbors. I’m living in the cheapest housing possible, living off of social services, and relying on food banks to live. Why even try anymore? I’m leeching off society, I can’t contribute anything useful. I can never see myself in the same light ever again. That face… his pleads of mercy… Why, oh why didn’t I ever stop? Why did I keep beating him? Was the begging not enough to get my foolish mind to stop?

I’ve long gotten rid of my uniform and badge, I’ve sold them away for rent money. I can’t live with regret anymore. People around me know it, I know they’re aware that I’m a murderer. The news stories, the interviews, and his relatives. I’ve contemplated moving away into the woods to live the rest of my life in solitary isolation. I think that’d be better for me and society.

I take another swig of treated water and feel the burning fluid run down my throat. My mind hasn’t gotten any number, I’ve grown a resistance to the effects.

The basement entry door rings a chirping tune. Someone’s at the door.

I drag myself to the stairs, my legs are weak and my mind is dazed. Arriving at the wilted door, I am shocked to see my landlord. He’s dressed in a tank top and a pair of boxers, sandals in slippers and a stubble. He reeks of rat urine and smoke.

“Heya, just letting you know I’ll be raising the rent soon.” his raspy voice ushers, the odor of his breath spilling into my already filthy room.

“Wha…? Why? How much?”

“You don’t question landlords buddy, after all, I’m the guy who’s giving you decent housing in this hellhole of a city.”

“And the rent..?”

“Uh, well if you don’t mind, it’ll be around… what… 210%?”

My eyes widen, and for the first time in months I can finally feel some emotion. “210%?! How the hell am I supposed to pay that off by the day after tomorrow? I’m barely scraping by-”

“If you’re relying on the UBI government assistance program to pay your rent, you know you’ve gotta get a job. I’ll see you later.”

The stump old man waddles away, seemingly immune to the blistering cold outside. Great. My living situation has only gotten worse.

At this point, I’m already packing my things. Grabbing my shabby fake-leather suitcase and my trench coat, I step outside the door. The air around me breezes, but I can’t be bothered to take in a deep breath. The air doesn’t deserve me either, everyone wants me gone. Should I even be breathing the same air as those who deserve it more than I do?

Before I can even take a whiff of the surrounding dead landscape, I collapse onto the concrete. My mind goes blank and my vision turns dark.

I wake up on a stretcher, with the fluorescent lamps buzzing at maximum volume. There are other people like me, all sleeping and snoring like lumberjacks. I can’t find my suitcase of belongings anywhere, just the plain white walls and stretchers of this strange room.

Getting up from the stretcher, I take a few steps upon the plastic-laminated floor. Making my way to the door and opening it, it reveals another room, but this time filled with people in military uniforms. One of them approaches me, seemingly recognizing my face.

“Mr. Matlo?” he asks, reaching for a slip of paper in a box.

“Uh… firstly… What is this place?”

“A homeless shelter.”

“I’m not homeless… well, only 1 day away from homelessness, at the very least.”

“Your mouth still works, especially for someone who especially loves treated drinks.”

“Did you raid my place?”

“No. We can tell.”

“Okay, what about that piece of paper you got from the box?”

“Oh, about that.” he hands me a slip of paper and turns off to chat with another person in military attire.

I scoff. Whatever, I just need to get out of here and go live off the grid. What’s on the paper anyway? I take a moment to straighten the slip of paper, squinting my eyes at the printed letters.

Draft notice: Report by recruitment office by 5pm on December 27th, 2041. Non-compliance is a capital offense and may lead to prosecution and court fines of up to 500,000 Nolics.

Dear god.