The Crimson Dawn

Many people take two very important things for granted- Hope, and freedom. A world devoid of these two things can be a horrible place. In the Second World War, hundreds were persecuted because of their beliefs; they were led to be poisoned, gassed, burned.

Yet still, somehow, they retained hope.

What if they hadn’t?

What if there hadn’t been an army there to rescue them, but a small group of rebels, of partisans? Do you think the same outcome would have occurred? So what if it had?

What if there were a corporation that ruled over the world with an iron fist, instantaneously snuffing out any hope, cutting off trade routes, closing ports, isolating there tyranny from the rest of the world? What if they had the power, money, and cruelty to do the unthinkable?

Imprisoning hundred of once free citizens and murdering any who dared to open their mouths in protest?

Do you think they would take Hope, the one the carrying them towards freedom, for granted?

Now that you have imagined a world with no hope, imagine a world that had once thrived on nothing but it. Imagine living in fear, running your whole life. Imagine having your little hope slowly trickle away, like water sifting through desperate parched hands. Imagine holding on to your last glimmer of hope, that one spark that kept you from giving up. Imagine, now, the agony and pain as your last hope slipped away from you, and you gave up.

No longer were you a person, had a name. You were a number. No more John, no more Mark, now you were #324-98.You’re dragged off into the unimaginable, no longer were you worth anything.

The year was forgotten long ago, the city streets are polluted and grim as the black-clouded sky forgot the last time the sun had shone through the blanket of putrid smog caused by the refineries and factories that made weapons of mass destruction day after day, week after week. This was the setting of the great Civil War, though it was more a massacre and conquering, for what small defiance was offered was, for the most part, swept away by the more powerful figureheads. The Silver Blade islolated their territory, shutting ports and locking borders, ruling with fear within their ever-growing boundaries.

Empty houses stand crumbling, their blank windows casting a sad expression over the nameless street. A patrol of scarlet-clad guards walk down a far street, one with a scimitar, the other a rifle. A floating transport hums by overhead as you duck behind another building, a drop of cold sweat dripping down your forehead. You had to get there, you had to reach the rebels, the small group that called themselves the Crimson Dawn, the only speck of hope in this land so cold and hard.


In the basement of a run-down warehouse, a small group meets in the dim glow of a series of naked light bulbs strung hastily to the ceiling and connected to a generator which resides two floors down, connected to the three-level Headquarters that served as the Crimson Dawn’s base of operation. The first floor was just below ground-level, small, barred windows were covered with plywood and soundproofed as best as they could be, though it didn’t really matter. The enemy- SB, the silver blade, had long ago cleansed this sector of the city, imprisoning all the inhabitants in camps far away, closer to the citadel, the heart of their operation. This floor served as their mess hall- a large piece of chipboard was placed on two or three stacks of cement blocks was their table, a deck of cards and a cribbage board were found there currently, the pegs scattered hastily.

In the corner was a large electric grill, salvaged from a restaurant. It was big enough to cook quickly, but it required enough power that everything except the lights had to be turned off in order to use it. Some food items- mostly canned- were stored in an un-refrigerated cabinet beside it. A dartboard and a pool table were on the other side of the room.

The second level was their dormitory, bunk beds littered most of the level, some wooden, some steel, and several duffle-bags were slid underneath of the first several beds. Behind a concrete divider was a small faucet and a basin, a dusty mirror which was cracked down from the top center to the side, and layers of dust had caked upon the surface.

The last level that had been utilized henceforth by the rebels housed all the arms and the generator, which had been wired to the other levels by use of pillaged extension cords. Racks had been stuck into the walls from the same hardware store, and on them sat three shotguns, two sniper rifles and several handguns. A vintage Tommy gun leaned against the concrete wall, and a stand which had once held pool cues in a bar now housed a scimitar, three daggers, two hunting knives, a machete and a katana. Two more duffle bags were stacked opposite them, presumably holding ammunition.

One crate bore particular interest, bolstering red letters which had not originally been there-

‘Caution’

Inside were sticks of dynamite and some hand grenades, though there was probably more, because it had only ever been glanced into once.

A rickety door fashioned from corrugated steel whipped open, and two figures ducked inside amidst a howling wind and a barrage of white snowflakes. The first removed a leather-gloved hand from its throat, and removed the hood of the battered trench coat he ported. Matted brown hair lay underneath, slightly curly, and blue eyes glittered slightly before the door was closed. An electric flashlight was lit by the other, who ducked down the crumbling stairs. Moments later a slight grumbling was heard from below and the lights flickered on, again revealing the first man, who was seated at the table, shuffling the cards. A silver dog tag hung around his neck, the words ‘Alexis Skybard’ written on it. Several more tags hung next to it, totaling four. They belonged to his Brother, and two of their friends who had all once been part of the small group.

Even smaller now, only two members remained.

On the back of the tags were numbers- 7-4, 7-8, 7-18, and the last was different. Instead, in flowing writing, was written ‘Black Tide’, for reasons that only several other people knew. Above this, a computer had printed, in blocky writing, ‘#47, first class’. This was a mark of SB’s most distinguished soldiers. One of which Alexis had once been. Below, fastened to the wall, dozens of tags like his own, all on hooks. All different, yet all strikingly similar. Alexis was a wonderful shot, and always took the tag of the men he killed.

The other man did something different from Alexis: Instead of keeping the tags of the ones he took down, he put them in a small box. The box had been a cedar box, once meant for holding cigars. Even now, it held the sweet smell in it. Aitrus would place the tags inside and trek out into the snow. He always walked to the town’s center, next to the flag. After digging to the earth, he would bury it about six inches down. The soldiers he killed were not originally evil, but had been taken, beaten, and forced into military service. Therefore, Aitrus gave them the proper burial.

The whir of the cards split the silence as light after light came on.

The final switch flipped, the other man slowly crept up the stairs. The dim lights had turned on, and fogged light shone through the dirt caked on the lights. The stairs creaked with each step; the cloaked figure ascended the stairs to the top, finally reaching the floor. He walked over the dirty floor, scratched and filled with the termites that filled each wrecked house.

Finally reaching the table where Alexis sat, the figure pulled an old chair up. The back had fallen off, the seat was torn, and almost all of the foam had been eaten away by the chemicals that stanched the air.

The cloak was removed, and set aside on a cement block, stirring up a bit of dust. Where the hood once was, there was semi-length black hair. His eyes were a stormy gray-blue, but still held hope.

He sat down across from Alexis, and they were silent, the air only broken by the soft whirr of the shuffling cards. Alexis’s tag glinted once, and the other man shook his head. He grabbed at the side of his neck and pulled out a similar tag, reading ‘Aitrus D’Archangelis.’ Aitrus grabbed the tag, and cursed at it. On the back was once inscribed with #1-4. The first “sector,” which SB had named the different areas, was where Aitrus had been in the first raided city, and four, the fourth person claimed. The first three were his brother, father, and mother. They had all fought, but had been killed instantly. Aitrus had narrowly escaped, but was scarred with the loss. That day, a little hope had been lost.

Where the number once had been, it was scratched out. Above and below it was carved, “The Last Hope.”

With a nod from Alexis, the cards were silently dealt. They picked up the cards simultaneously.

The game they played, just a simple game of poker, represented so much to them. The game was played by skill, but also with luck. Hope. Risks must be taken. If not, you would surely fall behind. If you were lucky, you got the card you hoped you would receive. But too much of a risk could lead you astray, and end up worse then where you started. Such was the way of the game, and was also how you lived your life.

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