Everyone’s a Martyr

By J4ke

“If we can effectively kill the national pride and patriotism of just one generation, we have won that country. By making readily available drugs of various kinds, by giving a teenager alcohol, by praising his wildness, by strangling him with sex literature, and by advertising to his or her psycho-political preperation, we create the necessary attitude of chaos, idleness, and worthlessness.” --Joseph Stalin

Chapter 1: Starve the Old, Feed the New

Sometimes, when people get in gunfights, they won’t even concentrate on the fight.

Their mind will be elsewhere.

Thinking about more important things.

Thinking: “Why am I doing what I’m doing?”

Thinking: “What have I done with myself?”

Thinking: “What is MY legacy?”

But this is just sometimes.

Usually, when people get in gunfights, they will completely concentrate on the fight.

Their mind will be right there.

Their mind will be focused on the most important thing:

Themselves.

The streets are vacant and it’s a freezing Saturday night. Everyone with half a brain is inside keeping themselves warm with hot chocolate or chicken noodle soup. Everyone without a brain is out partying and enjoying the one night of freedom a week.

Bleak is kind of a weak word when describing the future.

Hell, maybe.

That seems a little harsh though.

Somewhere between Bleak and Hell, and you can go ahead and decide for yourself.

It is a regime that has arisen from the ashes of the United States of America. Led by a nearly fascist dictator named Nicholas Kassin, the country has been mass executing the older generation of people who still supported democracy. Of course, there are still revolts and rebellions by aging democrats and republicans to this day, but for the most part, no one left even remembers the pre-regime days….

The war basically went down like this:

Freedom Fighters against Future Foreign Involvement and the once current US Government found themselves in a bloody urban brawl among the streets of major United States Cities. It had started out as simple riots and had escalated all the way to full scale war, in which the already struggling government lost, and power was seized by Kassin himself. I’d rather not go into details, because, hey, you’ve probably heard that story before. You can go ahead and fill in the damned blanks.

And basically that’s where that leaves America. An iron-fisted dictator, enforcing harsh laws and destroying any remembrance of the old ways, controls everything.

Now the Country sucks.

What some people have noted is that Kassin is breeding a future army among the youth.

Some people have compared him to Stalin himself.

Some people have compared him to Hitler.

The thing is it doesn’t matter who he’s like in the past.

The Past is Nothing, The Future is Undecided, and The Present is Everything.

Hah, I sound like some stupid Motivational Speaker.

In the dreary capital of the state of Illinois, East Brook, lies a strip of mall.

There are three stores in this strip mall.

One is a Pizza Place.

One is a Drycleaner.

One is a Convenience Store.

The Convenience Store is the important one; it’s called The Run In.

Inside sits our little hero, Mr. Kail. The man that stood up to Kassin himself to keep his store independently owned.

Mr. Kail, who fought along Kassin in the war.

Kail, who killed over two hundred US Soldiers.

Well, maybe hero isn’t the best word for him.

He’s crippled, quiet, and old. Every movement to him seems like a chore that takes hours to complete and that he is no rush to finish. But he is kind. There’s probably not a person on Earth who wouldn’t like him.

Think of that one really sweet, loving Grandfather…

Except with a really dark and shady past that he never speaks of.

Yeah, that’s Mr. Kail.

At 2:00 AM, tonight’s read is Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. Well, written by William Shakespeare if you still believe the myth. It was proven two years ago that he wasn’t truly the one who wrote his books….then again, there’s always a chance.

Just one, itty-bitty chance.

Or maybe not.

Mr. Kail sits, pouring over the fine literature, unsuspecting, vulnerable.

Outside are four dark shapes, huddled together in the cold.

One in a red jacket.

One in a blue jacket.

One in a red jacket.

One in a pink jacket.

That’s four.

They are freezing, covered in snow. It would appear to a passerby that they were together a marvelous, unmoving ice sculpture crafted from some brilliant artist. But this is not the case. These four frost-bitten sculptures are not marvelous.

They are whatever the opposite of marvelous is.

They are Anti-Marvelous.

Each wears a ski-mask.

And not to stay warm.

They are all armed with a pistol.

And not for shooting fake mannequins anymore.

Ill intent clouds them.

“Ready?” The one in blue whispers.

Ready, the other three answer.

Showtime, baby.

Four dark silhouettes emerged at the door of The Run In. Old Mr. Kail and his bad vision could barely make them out, even with his glasses on. The snow was coming down in the Chistmas-esque backdrop behind them, when the buzzer rang.

Ah, The Unmistakable noise of the buzzer.

Someone is home.

The Front Door has been opened.

Watch out.

“Ah, gentlemen! What can I do for you?” Mr. Kail asks in his raspy, beaten voice.

But Wait.

Something’s not right here.

They have guns.

Panic.

Pan-ic: noun, adjective, verb: -icked, -icking.

A sudden overwhelming fear, with or without cause, that produces hysterical or irrational behavior, and that often spreads quickly through a group of persons or animals.

Kail takes a second to think:

“Grab the handgun under the counter?”

“Well….there are four of them.”

“Can I take them?”

“These are probably a bunch of punk kids who have never shot a gun.”

“But then again, maybe they aren’t.”

He takes another second to get a good look at the kids:

The one in red seems to be leading the crusade. He looks pretty average, not very strong.

The one in blue looks athletic.

The one in pink is obviously female, or are they doing that to throw me off?

She’s probably dating one these other kids.

The other in red looks like a fucking idiot.

Two seconds later, Kail throws his hands up into the air.

“All the money is in the safe in the back. Combo is 08-12-18.”

The one in red, eyes him.

He’s definitely the leader.

“08-12-18? Great day in history for you, huh? The day you dicks won the war. Wooptyfuckingdoo. And I already knew your combination, Kail. I think I’d be surprised if that WASN’T your combination.”

His voice is deep, a little frightening. It doesn’t match his body.

This sounds like a guy who knows what he’s doing, not some punk teenager.

But he definitely is a punk teenager.

At this point, the one in blue and the second one in red retreated to the back and the leader and the girl in pink stayed where they were.

Kail studied the girl in pink.

She was small, a few inches taller than the boy.

She was obviously pretty, Kail could tell even with her black ski mask on her face.

Her eyes are some brilliant green.

He just stood there and stared into those eyes.

You can tell so much just by looking someone right in the eye.

Some people can see straight through others just by looking straight at them.

Mr. Kail: aging, balding, dying; he is one of these people.

In this girl’s eyes he sees pain.

These kids have seen more hell than that of any generation before them, and are now faced with the greatest evils that Satan has to offer.

She is plagued by doubt of what she’s doing, but she doesn’t show it.

She is doing the only thing that makes her feel OK inside, rebelling.

Her mind isn’t clouded by the shit that Nicholas Kassin spits out.

She’s completely lost and doesn’t know what to do.

What the hell are you looking at?! She spits in his face.

Nothing! Nothing, I’m sorry! He replies.

The gun is still stuck in his face. The leader boy is glaring at him. Kail avoids eye-contact with him. He doesn’t WANT to know what the kid is going through.

Then the front door opens up.

Minutes following that front door opening up could best be described by the following words:

-Chaos

-Bloody

-Explosive

-ACTION-PACKED

Two armed men, accompanied by the stench of alcohol of weed, entered The Run In. It took the pair half a moment to realize that the joint they were about the rob was already getting robbed.

It seems like the set-up for the first little battle of the story, doesn’t it?

That’s kind of funny because that’s basically what it is.

Junkie and Cowboy.

James Crowe and Gary Veece

The two biggest fuck-ups in East Brook.

Wait, no.

Junkie and Cowboy.

James Crowe and Gary Veece.

The two biggest fuck-ups on Earth.

The elite pair of James ‘Junkie’ Crowe and ‘Cowboy’ Gary Veece has been together since 2019. Since the establishment of the capital of Illinois, East Brook. Since freshman year of high school. Together, the two have stirred up more trouble than anyone in the state. Junkie is the most notorious and obvious dealer to ever exist, as well as the brains of the unit. Cowboy is the biggest, dumbest kid in the city. He’s the obvious brawn of the unit.

A little cliché, huh?

Unfortunately, neither brains nor brawn would help them in the ensuing firefight.

The second after that front door opened, bullets started flying.

One conveniently smashing the glass of the refrigerator in the back.

One knocking into a Pretzel Machine.

One exploding into the chip aisle, sending delicious bits of crap all over the room.

One straight into a Snickers bar.

One bounced off the metal counter and into the cigarettes and tobacco.

One strayed from the path and nailed Mr. Kail right in the neck.

Ouch.

Mr. Kail is dying on the floor, blood spewing from a bullet hole in his neck. He’s gasping for air that he’s never going to get and his life is flashing right before his eyes.

Every person he’s ever killed…their face flashes before his eyes.

Every sin he has ever committed is laughing in his face.

And then, in an instant:

Nothing.

Oblivion.

But nonetheless, the battle rages on. The two kids from the back came flying in, firing their various handguns at the two hiding in the aisle window of the store.

“Eric! Move up, take these faggots out!” The leader in red yells to the other.

“We’ll cover you!” The girl reassures.

Eric Gold.

16.

Athletic.

Two things are flying through his mind.

He’s thinking about Katie.

And he’s thinking about how the hell he’s going to kill these idiots.

As he’s thinking this, bullets shred through canned foods and ricochet off walls.

The scene is complete chaos, yet Eric cannot help but think about her.

“I love you.”

He doesn’t get a response.

She loves me too, right?

Why am I thinking about this?

It seems like 5 seconds ago this was going fine and now we’re killing each other.

Where the hell did Mr. Kail go?

Who are we even shooting at?

I could go for a Coke.

I love her.

Out of all these little heists, this is the only one that didn’t work…

It smells pretty weird in here.

WAIT.

NO.

ME.

FOCUS, MAN, FOCUS.

FOCUS

Eric takes one last glance at the beauty that is Katie Dillon before diving from the back aisle into another aisle and beginning his advance.

He slowly creeps forward through the chaos and imagines some epic fight song playing as he continues on his way. He thinks that if this were a movie he would be the hero.

But everything that heroes do comes at a price.

A bullet rips up a box of cereal on the shelf, and for a moment it is raining Lucky Charms.

He slips into another aisle. From this angle, he can see the feet of dead Mr. Kail sticking out from behind the counter, Poor Bastard.

One aisle to go.

Eric stops for a second and takes a deep breath before rounding the corner.

He says a quick prayer.

God, If you’re out there, If you are real, Please help me.

Whoever’s out there, I need you now.

Two kids, bigger than he, are crouched down in this last aisle. They don’t see Eric at first. Then, suddenly, the window behind them exploded into a catastrophe of flying glass from one of Katie’s stray bullets back on the other side of the store.

Such a far way away…

Then they turn. Two evil eyes staring directly into Eric.

Then, three shots.

Three shots.

All from one gun.

Three bullets.

All from one gun.

Two bullets that slammed into the right leg and thigh of the infamous Cowboy.

One final shot exploding into the lower stomach of the demon Junkie Crowe.

Junkie hit the ground in an instant, screaming in pain.

But Cowboy didn’t.

Eric’s eyes went wide.

Then came the first punch.

A slam right into his face.

A concentrated explosion.

And then Eric hit the ground.

Then another punch, straight into the chest.

Then another, right in the face again.

Then came the unmasking.

Furious Gary Veece ripping off Gold’s ski-mask.

“YOU!” He screams. Then lets go another punch.

Now Eric’s eyes are closing.

Everything seems like it’s going black.

Or is that white?

PUNCH.

One eye on Cowboy.

One eye on the security camera.

PUNCH.

One eye on Cowboy.

One eye on the security camera.

PUNCH.

Gunshot.

Gunshot.

Nothing.