Legacy

Chapter 4

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" I awake to a wretched and painful noise; the battle cry of the Red Fists. I jump to my feet, staring down at the enemy through the sights of my gun before they can slit my throat.  All around me are men, boys, really, and girls holding daggers, handguns, and an assortment of assault rifles. Most of them are burly, arms large and thick. However, each one of them is adorned with a crude, scarlet painting of a fist across their chests.

"Art, get up." I say, kicking him in the side to awaken him from his undisturbed slumber.

"I don't want to....." He said, opening his eyes and coming face-to-face with the large feet of a Red Fist Platoon Commander. Art jumped up, scuttling back like a bug and cowering behind me,  a scrawny, slightly built fifteen-year-old.

"Now, now boys, let's not jump to the extremes," A man in a crimson leather jacket steps forward, flaunting a large, semi-automatic AR 15. "We merely are here to, whats the term, collect taxes, of sorts."

I glance around, sizing up both the leader and his henchmen. "These, taxes," I say, playing along with this frivolous idea that this god-forsaken place was in some way a governed state. "What might they entail?" 

"Oh, the usual, guns, ammunition, soldier's rations. And, inn rare cases, recruits." He said, a devilish grin spreading across his chiseled face.

"Look, let's get past the pleasantries, we both know how this works. What do you want?" I snipe, growing tired of his charisma.

"Now now, those are some pretty big words for someone as, small, as yourself." His eyes scanning me quickly. "But, if you're in a hurry, we want your gun, and, while we're here, pudgy over there." He directed with a wave to Art.

"Not happening." I spit, my saliva hitting him on his left cheek. His hand rises, slowly, dangerously, and wipes the spit from his cheek. 

"Wrong answer, boy." He growls, throwing his fist swiftly at my face. I dodge, catching his arm, twisting it, as i put him in a headlock. I raise my gun to his head, pressing the cold barrel to his temple. 

"Anyone moves, and he bites it." I growl, glancing around for any form of defiance. One girl shuffles, and I point then gun at her, quickly, sending the clear message, 'Don't even think about it.'

"I'll be collecting the taxes today. Lay the guns down at your feet, removing the magazine, and any others you have on your person, along with your knives and grenades. Art, collect them when I tell you to." He moves quickly for someone of his size, gathering the arms and munitions, piling them into a sack. "Art, take a two guns, four knives and all the ammo and shove them into my bag. The rest, well, lets take care of them. I say, a demonic grin spreading across my cheeks. I take one of the grenades, pul the pin, and chuck it into the sack. "Now, Art, we run." I sprint away, shoving their leader towards the sack. I hear screams, some high-pitched, others deeper as the Fists flee from the vicinity. An explosion rocks the ground beneath me, followed by an ear-splitting 'BOOM.' 

I can't remember for how long we ran, nor what time it was when we did finally stop. All I know is that when our legs finally gave out, we were near a river, the trees thick around the flowing water source. I could hear Art breathing heavily, his body on the ground, sprawled out in a soft pile of grass. 

"What... The.... Hell?" Is the last thing I hear from him, besides earth-shaking snoring. As I slowly drift off to sleep, I faintly whisper to him,

"That, my friend, was.. the .. Red Fists....." My voice trailing off into soft, light breathing.

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