"Fitz"

Damien Fitzgerald was a dependable, fickle man. He was twenty-five at the time in question, and he had a distinct way of doing things for such a young person. He seemed to regard women as neither ladies, nor equals, nor much of his business. He could issue orders to men almost twice his age and not seem pretentious or a chicken; he was simply precocious. By twenty he was wise, by twenty-three he was jaded. And he kept fighting anyway, a nonchalant cigarette draped across his bottom lip. That was his way. Scope to the eye, trigger in one hand, Scotch in the other, and always a smoke to settle the nerves. Nothing too hard though; Fitz always was scared of coke. 1

The people who ranked above ol' Fitz were few and far between. The pope was one. I suppose, the Church didn't have ranks equal to those of the Resistance. It'd be quite hard to say who on that side was a bigger wig than him. But, among his own, there was his teacher, Gerald Becke, the one they call the Dragon, and a few equal to him whose seniority helped them procure more respect than Fitzgerald. He was way up there, though. Power suited him; I imagine, he'd always had his head way up in the clouds. 2

His story, I regret to say, is tragic. We should start where it begins, since that's the way of the universe, but I apologize. There are things more important than starting at the start.3


----Wine in the Cellar4

Dear Human Race,5

What is it that we have come to? I face certain death not a day over nineteen, in a bright morning that I should be spending in bed, exhausted from studying and not from firing a blazing hot machine gun. It’s been fired innumerable times in the past half hour. The dawn was incredible but deadly, since it rose slowly and blinded our eyes. I am glad to have seen one beautiful thing before I die, though I should have liked to see my mother as well. Some men think it cowardly to want their mothers, but soldiers know better.6

And so here I sit in a muddy trench somewhere on this planet. That is specific enough for my message. I hope the paper is not torn or soaked before it is read, because even one person, one reader can make a huge difference. I know this by watching the men fall before my gun. I, one person, have greatly affected people’s lives. I have killed many brothers and fathers and sons, created many widows and orphans, and it is soon my time to join the former. But you can atone for my sins, and if these words reach you, I wish for you to give my life more meaning than the senseless murders of hundreds. Know that I am not of Britain, or America, or France, or Germany or Japan or Italy; I am of war, and I am tired. I have seen the worse half of men; show me the better."7

"It's not bad, Fitz," croaked the old man, "but it surely doesn't brush greatness. You could do better."8

"Sir, I poured everything I had into it. I dunno what I could've done better."9

"Exactly. You cared too much. Apathy is more shocking. To say things in this vein in an off the cuff manner, that's how you make an impact."10

The boy threw himself into a chair languidly and rubbed his eyes with vigor. 11

"I can't be apathetic about this stuff."12

"Boy, that's the attitude that prevents you from reaching your full potential as a rabble-rousing writer. The heart is a mechanism of the mind. It can be turned on and off. Consciously. If you will it."13

The old man sat himself down across the table. The rickety chair creaked. The man's fingernails found their way along grooves long impressed into the dark wood before him. He had the curious mannerism of concentrating on the mundane, most senseless things. The boy rubbed his eyes again. Colors were indistinct in the light of the few oil lamps in the dank, dingily colored room. 14

"You know I've always disagreed with that philosophy."15

"Well, we can't have you as a total clone of myself, now can we?" Truly, the old man was still concentrated on his fingers.16

"Sir, that's impossible, seeing as I'm not a complete hermit." The boy gave the man a stern look, almost willing him to anger.17

"Damien, you're no better than me, this side of the Atlantic." He seemed to take it humorously.18

"True. But there is the other side of the Atlantic."19

The old man smiled, as did the boy. "Ah yes. The ocean that separates you from me," the man sighed.20

The boy clutched the armrests and slid back in the chair. He yawned and contemplated the room. The ceiling was bare-beamed; it was a cellar after all. The walls were grey, commonplace stone. Half the houses in the countryside were like this one. A great cover for the greatest General the Resistance had ever seen, and the old man who taught him everything he knew. It was probable. Women died a lot these days.21

"Beckey," the boy said.22

"Yes?"23

"What d'you think the chances are for the two of us getting off this goddamn island alive?"24

"Don't swear. You've a one-way ticket to hell as it is."25

"Exactly. Why not just out with it, He can't worsen my fate, and if He was on my side to start with, I think He'd forgive a couple slips of the tongue." The boy grinned and closed his eyes. Precariously, he leaned back farther. "Wouldn't You, God?" he shouted upwards.26

"Like hell I would," shouted a woman from the ground floor. "Supper's been done forever, you lousy..."27

"Sir, I think Miranda wants us upstairs shortly."28

The old man was still examining the tabletop, eyes narrowed and furrowed. He pushed back on it and stood. Fully upright at this stage, he barely reached the sixth inch over five feet, though his eyes glimmered and he reached for no outstretched arm from the boy. In fact, he was already in the corner by the stairs, lifting the door in the ceiling that lead to the coat room above. All of their books and other heretical materials were, of course, contraband, and as well hidden as such a large archive could be. 29

Outside the cellar and the coat room, summerish daylight still abounded. The old man's blue and the boy's green eyes became apparent, and their white and ash brown hair gleamed. A breeze from the English countryside blew through the house, lifting the curtains like a ghost and making the wheat grass gossip quietly. It was the kind of nostalgia to make a grown man kneel.30

"Now that you've arisen from the grave," yelled Miranda from the kitchen, "would you mind not having your deaths from starvation land on my head?"31

"Oh come on, Miranda," quipped the boy, "we've eaten today, it's no dire situation or anything." His long legs wandered windingly towards the kitchen, where Miranda stood with turned back, facing the cast-iron stove. Bloodish curls tumbled to her waist.32

"That's what you say!" she said, whipping around, spatula raised. "Mr. Becke surely has a very different opinion!" Her freckled face was more Irish than the flag.33

"I have no opinion on the matter," the old man said, seating himself heavily on a chair. Sadly, this table had no marks to distract him. Miranda huffed and turned back to the stovetop. 34

"I was just asking old Beckey, what the probability is of our survival."35

"First off, don't refer to Mr. Becke like that. Second off, don't think fatalistically like that. Third off...God only knows." Miranda put the pan down on the unscarred table. "God only knows what will happen to any of us."36

"Miranda, you're part of the Resistance. There is no God." The boy looked at her.37

"Stop making fun of me, Fitz," she cawed. "I'm as well read and educated as you are. Just because I believe-"38

"Yes! Yes it does mean something!" Damien shouted, pointing his legendary accusing finger. "It means your mind is dependent on your heart - you're self-indulgent - you think there must be purpose! It's a small-minded concept! It's-"39

"Just because I believe actions have greater consequences than what we in the present can fathom-"40

"The Universe is not some balancing scale! It's messy. You divide and you get remainders; bad people end up on the top, we end up on the bottom, that's just the way-"41

"THERE WILL BE A RECON-"42

"CHILDREN!" cried Mr. Becke. "I am old. I have no time to listen to hotheads arguing over divinity. Damien, you are to respect fellow scholars. Miranda, you are to continue doing the duties that have been assigned to you. Do you want the Dragon to hear about what bratty children her most treasured commanders are?"43

"Of course, Mr. Becke."44

"Humph. 'Course, Beckey."45

Miranda shot Damien a look that could kill.46

"Some words, Miranda?" Mr. Becke sighed.47

"As soldiers far from home, may well all be back to our proper places soon enough."48

"I think we can agree, can't we, Damien?" The old man smiled again.49

"I've never seen her with so much as a pistol..." Damien murmured.50

"What's that then?" Miranda sighed sweetly.51

"Nothing 'tall, dear."52

"Good."53

The meal was served.54

----Dog in the Field55

The house was large for three people, but it was abandoned when Damien's soldiers had wandered upon it, and that made it perfect. Almost half of the rooms were essentially empty. They would be full, except for the constant search for and seizure of all books, save one. And like any other perfectly average family, Mr. Abel, Mrs. Abel, and her aging father had a throughly thumbed copy of the bible resting prominently on the mantle of the dingy parlor. 56

For the Resistance, it wasn't like this in most places. In London, in Oxford, huge conglomerations of neighborhoods and blocks had been fought over and won. But out there, they were at the mercy of the wolves. 57

The reason they fled was that the Church had gotten names. Damien Fitzgerald, born in the American West. Miranda Casey, run away from home in Ireland. And "Beckey", long thought to be a woman, was Gerald Becke, escaped from Germany. The elimination of these three could be the end of the English Resistance. So the safe house was established. Miranda dyed her blonde hair. Damien donned a fair-enough English accent. That was that.58

They lived like any other rural household. They woke early, before the sun. They went to bed late and exhausted. Although, they never touched the fields.59

"Miranda?" said Damien, peering out the window he faced.60

Her fork hit the table. The wood was finally scarred.61

"What?!"62

"There's a dog in the field again...want me to go get him?"63

She let out air like a popped balloon. "Will you eat first? I don't know how you don't weigh less than 8 stone..."64

"Well, ya see, whenever I go back home, we slaughter at least five goats, and usually a couple mustangs too. Ya know. Good cooking."65

Miranda growled deep in her chest, and the old man covered his eyes with his hand. "Damien, go take care of the dog."66

"S-sorry, sir."67

"Just go." He sighed and started eating, peaceful. Damien pushed the table back just like the one below, and walked over into the parlor. The gun cabinet was stowed away in the far corner. He opened both ornate doors and pulled out a rifle. The doors clicked shut, and Damien was out the doorway, out the door, and into the field. The whole house was surrounded by wild wheat growing in the untended field, with a dirt track leading straight through to the house from the road about half a mile away in the west. The sun stun his eyes as he neglected the stairs and jumped off the porch.68

The dog was a huge collie, with a full, long, ragged and muddy coat. Even from Damien's perspective about ten feet away, his eyes were foggy and runny. His owners were undeniably dead, and the poor thing had run off. He was running wildly in circles, panting crazedly. Damien shot a round into the dirt to his right.69

The dog froze with his nose up, legs in mid-step, and eyes locked on Damien. The boy took one step, then another towards the animal. The dog was a statue. Damien's arm flew out and grabbed the dog's coat at the scruff of his neck. Barely flinching, the dog lowered his eyes, like a deer consenting to its capture. Right arm still grasping the rifle, Damien lead the collie in the direction of the barn, back next to the farmhouse. The dog had been rather far out in the field. It wasn't far to run for a soldier like Damien, but it was far to walk hunched over, grasping a dog's neck and half-pulling over a hundred pounds of muscle and hair. 70

Damien slid open the barn door using the rifle. Inside were the other five dogs that Damien and Miranda had found outside wandering; there had been a sixth and seventh, but both had tried to kill either Damien or Miranda when approached, and Damien had shot them both, and buried them right where they died. The other five they took into the barn, fed them, and cared for them the best they had means to. The collie was the first one Damien had found in three weeks. Quite odd, seeing as this was only the fifth week spent in the farmhouse.71

Miranda heard footfalls on the porch, the creak and slam of the door, and the footfalls that went into the parlor. The dog had been quick to take care of, this time. She sighed and kept eating, both elbows on the table and a bored demeanor encompassing her face. Mr. Becke was tucking in fervently, oblivious when Damien walked back in. 72

"When can we go back to work?"73

Mr. Becke jumped and stared, mouth silhouetted in crumbs, while Miranda gazed up blankly.74

"What, Fitz?" she murmured.75

"When are we getting back to London? When can we start working again?"76

Mr. Becke composed himself. "You know that we just have to wait for orders. Leila said, 'indeterminate amount of time.'"77

"Yeah," piped in Miranda, "are you so rushed to get back to killing priests?"78

Damien ignored her and turned to the window. Being on amy sort of farm tortured him an 'indeterminate amount'.79

"Why can't we just go home if it's so dangerous?" He touched his forehead to the windowpane.80

"Because, we all need each other's protection. And no one here has a home left for them except for you." Miranda kicked back her chair. "Don't be so greedy. Just because it's boring doesn't mean it's not work that we need to win this war."81

Damien left the kitchen. Miranda heard footfalls on the stairs.82

Mr. Becke sighed heavily as Miranda righted her chair. "The boy's not bad, don't be so hard on him. He just misses his son; he's so young. Damien's so young too! He's so far -"83

"I'm as old as he is, Becke! He's not quite so young as you think," Miranda shouted, slamming her chair into the floor. Her hands were white and clenched on its back.84

Mr. Becke sighed again and covered his eyes. "Damien's right. We need to get out of this God forsaken house. It has us all going mad."85

Miranda shoved the chair in roughly. 86

"Go, Miranda. I'll take care of this."87

Mr. Becke, of sightly less acute hearing due to gunfire, did not hear the gentle footfalls Miranda made going up the stairs. She slipped into he room, slipped into her bed, and slipped into sleep within a few minutes. 88

Damien, across the hall, lay on his back with arms upward stretched. With both hands he held a brown-and-white photograph, worn and bent but cared for nonetheless. A young woman, tan, a young man, pale, and a very young boy. The sun was bright, and the man had shaded his eyes against it. The boy just squinted. Behind them was a house, a barn, three horses grazing, and a large collie with his head right next to the woman's knee.