War Machine

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window, a glimmering flame on a moonless night, and why was it there? I circled stealthily around the cabin—in black clothing from head to toe. The resistance arranged a secret meeting at the cabin with Peter, my partner, to move homeless children to a safer place a few miles north. A candle was not part of the plan.

Detecting an ambush, nerves initiated a battle within me to run, but I stayed to warn Peter when he arrived with the children. I worried that soldiers or collaborators with the occupation discovered our covert operations. Had Peter and the children already arrived? Were we recklessly courageous out of desperation?

There were countless persecuted children. Injustice weighing heavily on our hearts, Peter and I joined the resistance with other teenagers. Our leader had called us an unlikely war machine, with youth, beauty, and gentle countenance. We were undetected spies that lured the enemy into deadly situations.

I hid among dense trees peering at that damn flame still burning in the window, observing no movement nor sound from the cabin—a strange and still night.

I shivered and slid my pistol from the holster, firm and steady. Peter and I learned to shoot three years ago at age 15. When I incessantly hit the target straight on during training, there was a big hush. I glanced at Peter to see if he was watching. He looked away. I didn’t realize such a hush was a harbinger of bleakness.

My first human target was supposed to be an enemy helmet, a name I attributed to those enemy troops who executed my neighbors and their children for hiding resistance fighters, fighters betrayed by collaborators we once called friends. Such was my child-like assessment of helmets, which hid murderous minds, or so I thought.

Back in the beginning, I will never forget the day a group of enemy troops had huddled on the cobblestone road surrounded by farms and meadows and one patch of woods that hid a labyrinth of beaten paths, one of which led to this cabin. Francisca, another teenage member of the resistance, and I approached the group. Air thick with a stench of smoke. Francisca slightly waived a perfumed laced scarf, letting it slip from her fingers in a breeze. Two enemy troops ran to retrieve her scarf and pushed each other until one laughed and snatched it.

When the soldier returned Francisca’s scarf to her, I was out of earshot but keenly watched Francisca snuggle against the enemy. His arm rested on her shoulders as they strolled into the woods. I followed like a child, wandering, bark snapping beneath my feet.

Sunlight streamed through dead branches as she lured him down a path of worn earth.

I don’t know if I would have been able to pull the trigger. But I had a flash memory of an infant smashed on stone, and then Francisca cried out and bolted away. He might have turned about in a different direction but chased her instead. Our leader stepped out from behind a tree and shot him. I never wanted to go back again, but there I was, hiding among the trees, watching the flame.

Thunder in the distance, rain starting to spit, and still no sign of Peter and the children.

I thought I heard a branch snap behind me. I swung around; pistol aimed. Nothing there. Was I losing my mind? I wanted to climb the tree and hide, but that wouldn’t work. The tree was dead, with no leaves. When I looked back at the cabin, the flame was gone.

I had to find out what was going on. What if the enemy had ambushed Peter and the children? What if they were in the cabin, injured?

I told myself over and over I am an impeccable shot. So, whatever or whoever is in the cabin should worry about me!

Indirect sunlight scattered the earth’s atmosphere. The cabin was distinguishable, just barely enough light to see, but still under comfortable darkness. I moved behind the cabin, pistol in hand. The back door squealed when I pushed it open.

The pistol shook in my hand. I had to hold it with both hands to steady it. Dark inside, but I moved forward. My eyes finally adjusted, and I jumped back. Something was dripping down the walls in the kitchen.

Heart pounding in my ears, I moved through the door to the next room. Fluid was seeping and oozing down those walls. I gasped when I realized it was blood and froze. It was like a trickling, red waterfall that started at the ceiling and ran the entire length and width of the walls to the floor. I just stood, stunned.

“If you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you.”

I jumped back. “Who said that?”

I held my shaking pistol up and pointed toward the voice.

“I am here to remind you for eternity just how worthless you are, it said.”

“Show yourself, coward,” I yelled.

“I’m right here in front of you.”

I squinted, trying to focus, and caught sight of movement on the mantle above the fireplace. It looked like a damn doll mocking me. I moved toward it.

“I will hurt everyone you care about and haunt them forever.”

I fired the pistol, but it didn’t faze the thing.

Laughter filled the room.

“You’re a failure,” it said.

“Where’s Peter,” I yelled.

“You thought Peter cared about you, but he bailed on you. That’s why you’re dead.”

Pain stabbed through my chest. “Peter would never abandon me. And I'm not dead," I yelled.

The thing screeched. "You're a ghost who won't give up. You've been dead for 20-years."

I fired the gun at the demon until I ran out of ammunition.

“I’m going to make you suffer,” it said again. “I’m going to remind you that no one on earth gave a shit about you.”

I rushed toward the demon and grabbed it from the mantle. Haunting laughter invaded the room as I ripped its head off, threw it to the floor, stomped on its head and fell to my knees. "I will never let you hurt anyone," I whispered. "This is my home, and these are my people."

As a ray of white sunlight traveled through the room, I lifted my head to see the cabin fade away and where the cabin once stood was a statue with my name on the base and an ornamental tablet that said, “She lost her life battling an ambush and driving evil from these grounds. Throughout the occupation during World War II, she risked her life daily to protect the innocent. She brought light to her home and to her people.”