Redshirts

“Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they’ve rebelled

they cannot become conscious”

                                                                   -George Orwell, 1984

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        I ran out of that ‘educational’ indoctrination facility as if I was a bat out of hell. Revolver in hand, I didn’t care if there was anything behind me, I didn’t care if the cameras spotted me, and I most certainly didn’t care to stay in that godforsaken place any longer! The one thought going through my head right now? Run. Back to my family as quickly as I can. If any of them are still human.

        I finally reached my destination, seeing a small road sign bearing the words Cedar Oak Lane and pointing to a sidestreet. There it is! I thought as I ran past the road sign and sped onto my own street. Once I was within 500 yards of my house, I slowed down and began to let my heartrate do the same. As I walked, I flicked open the cylinder of my weapon and fed in six rounds of 9mm.

        I slowly approached my front door, and noticed that there were no lights on in the house. Concerned, I took my key out of my pack and unlocked the door. I tightened my grip on the gun, and took aim at my main hallway as I twirled round’ the door. Finding nothing, I stepped fully inside and began to look around. I was genuinely confused by this point, my parents were usually here around this time, and there were always a few lights on regardless of the time.

        My train of thought left it’s station as I heard a faint beep sound break the silence. i glided slowly into the main room, and turned to the kitchen; to see the answering machine as the source of the beeping. I reached to press it, but hesitated. The Caller ID was one I didn’t recognize, and some fears which had been kept out of my head until now once again began circulating.

        I breathed in deeply,and hit Play All. Static lasted for a few seconds before a familiar voice greeted me. “Fred?” The voice of my sister questioned, “If you’re hearing this, then I’ve got some bad news.” I began to chill. She can't mean- I thought before the message interrupted again. Mom and Dad are gone, they left a while ago, and they didn’t come back, I called them, and they said they never wanted to see you or me again!”

        My jaw dropped. “I’m at the hideout, pleasepleaseplease be ok! And bring grandpa' box with you-

        I turned it off.

        I stood immobile for a good minute,trying to comprehend what I had just heard. They couldn't be gone. Dad’s a war vet and Mom does have quite some experience in martial arts. They would have fought back!

        I stood, disbelieving, then I finally gave in.

There was no going back.

After the shock, came rage. A surge of adrenaline came upon me and my face began to contort. I wanted to scream, I wanted to hit a wall, I just wanted to end it all right now. But I knew none of those options would help me.

        I put down rage, and exchanged it for fierce determination. I made a mad dash upstairs, averting my eyes so not to bring back the memories I can no longer bear. It was futile though, and as I opened my eyes, a wave of all forms of memories assaulted my senses. My thirteenth birthday, when Frank put dishwater in all the cups…

        I smiled for a moment, but I knew I would never see such a thing for a millenium. I came into my bedroom and looked around. Posters of famous rock artists, AC/DC, Led Zepplin, Sum 41 and the like were strewn across the walls. I remembered those times, listening to awesome music, partying with friends, it was all too easy, and sedated me. Leaving me oblivious to the world in my own little circle of school, home and friends.

        The memories relaxed, yet they stung. I cleared my head as I walked to my closet. Parting the doors, I gazed upon the coat had been given to me from my dad, after his father gave it to him. It was an East German officer’s uniform from the 50’s, one of their first models. I had always admired the ornate decorations, especially it’s epaulets.

        I put it on, it felt heavy and more than a bit dusty, the latter and the former both more than likely true. “If only Dad could have seen me wear this..” I thought, as I pulled the gauntlets up to meet my hands. I also found some comfort in the uniform’s attached saber, a feature my father had a hard time keeping my little curious arse away from all the time. I often pretend to swing it when I was younger, thinking of what it would feel like in my hands.

        With the uniform on, I went to fetch the next item I needed. My Grandfather’s “crate” was an old crate of military surplus weapons and ammunition he had brought after immigrating (illegally) to America at the end of his service in the Nationale Volksarmee. I ran back down the stairs, almost tripping over my trenchcoat-esque uniform a few times. I opened the door to the basement, and flicked the lights on. I found the aforementioned crate in the corner of the storage area in the back.

        It was covered in cobwebs and dust, which I spent a good amount of time getting off of it. Finally, I lifted the lid, and looked inside and couldn't help but mentally quote George Takei.

Oh My.. I thought as my retinas darted around,scanning it’s contents. Inside was a stack of Mauser K98k bolt-action rifles, as well as many a small heap of 7.92x57mm ammunition. I quit staring at it though, and began the arduous task of hauling the bloody thing up the stairs, each step being even more of a pain-in-the-ass then the last.

        I put it down in the middle of the hall, and then returned to my house’s landline phone.

I dialed the number of another good friend of mine, whose father had also come from the DDR;

and waited for what seemed like an eternity, my worry increasing with every second not answered. To my relief, a somewhat angry, but nethertheless reassuring voice came up on the other end.

        “I swear to god,if you’re another one of those animals, Ill come to your house and cut off your-!.”

“It’s me, John, I said, my voice seeming to give him some hope. Meet me at the hideout in thirty, I never thought I’d see the day, but it’s time.” I said.

“Time for what?” He asked.

“To send that xenophobic white bitch’s plot back to hell!”