Winner of the Page Turner
Short Story Contest
The Firing Squad
by Anastazia Rudolph
I stare straight ahead, my eyes resting on the face of a crumbling concrete wall. It must have been smooth at one time; now it bears the bullet holes and dark red stains of countless extinguished lives. My rifle grows heavy in my hands as I wait, one man of five standing shoulder to shoulder in a rigid line. Our weapons stay aimed at the ground for the time being. One of us has the bullet, but we do not know who. I suppose it’s better that way. As far as any of us knows, we will only fire a blank.
I cast a furtive glance to each side, seeing only the expressionless black masks drawn tightly across the faces of those whom I call my brothers. Even our eyes are covered by mirrored sunglasses. I hear a scuffling off to the left as the prisoner is brought before us. I snap my head forward, my eyes resting once again on the bloody grey wall.
“Stand up straight.”
The guard gives the prisoner a violent shove, her head cracking against the brick with a sickening thud. With the ropes binding her wrists together she falls to her knees unable to catch herself. She appears almost childlike as she kneels on the ground. I realize with a bit of shock that she can’t be much older than sixteen. A torn orange jumpsuit dwarfs her narrow frame, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows and the ankles rolled high above her bare and blistered feet. With a growl of disgust, the guard grips her by the shoulder and pulls her back up against the wall.
“Remove the blindfold, please,” the prisoner says in a voice clear and strong as crystal. “I want to see the bullet coming.”
The guard tears the cloth from across her eyes, spitting in the prisoner’s face as he does. I wonder what she did to be brought before us like this. She seems so innocent; her eyes betray the fear she kept from her voice. Pure blue like the ocean, they shine from beneath her dark and matted hair.
But of course, I am never to know what she has done. It would humanize her. She is merely a prisoner, and my job is to deliver the final blow. Shoulder to shoulder, the five of us stand in silence, waiting for our command. The prisoner stares ahead, scanning across our covered faces before locking her eyes directly onto mine.
I am no stranger to executions. Hundreds of lives have been cut short by our rifles. I have seen grown men beg for mercy at our feet, sniveling like babies. I have seen the bravest warriors brought to their knees, and those akin to monks in their wisdom praying for salvation. We have seen them all, and together we have ended their pleas for help. And yet--despite knowing that this prisoner sees only my mask--I feel her eyes reach into the darkest corners of my soul.
“Do you have any final words?”
The prisoner raises her head slightly, seeming to enjoy the warm sunlight washing over her face. I can’t help but feel a hint of pity for the young girl.
“God is coming for you,” she whispers, spitting her words like poison. “You believe yourselves to be the saviors, to be ridding this world of evil. And yet it is you who torture the innocent--you who take pleasure in watching them writhe in agony."
I can feel a cold sweat breaking out beneath my helmet and dripping through my hair. Keeping my head still, I glance down at the rifle in my hands. I can feel a knot forming in my stomach as the girl continues with her speech.
“I beg you to shoot me. Death is preferable to living in this nation destroyed by your violence. Kill me so that I may escape. But know this: God is coming for you, and you will be dragged down into the vilest pits of Hell for the things that you have done. Now kill me! Kill me, you rotten cowards!”
“Enough!” barks the guard, his face having grown red with rage. “Firing squad, ready!”
All at once we snap to attention, our boots hitting together with a synchronized thud.
“Aim!”
I raise the site on my rifle to my eye, centering the young girl’s face in the crosshairs. She closes her eyes, anticipating her fate with dignity. The knot in my stomach grows tighter. I feel a bit nauseous; no prisoner has ever begged for death before. I wonder if my brothers are thinking the same. Are we really so brave for what we do?
I think about the girl’s life before she was brought here. I know I’m not supposed to. But who is she, really? I’m sure she has family, friends, maybe even a dog. I don’t think she’s from around here--her accent sounds Southern, from near the coast. My family traveled there once when I was young before the fighting began. She would have been an infant still. Maybe I saw her in passing, being carried in a bundle close to her mother’s bosom. There is no way to know, but the thought nags at me.
In all my years as an executioner, it never occurred to me that anyone would mourn the loss of those brought before us. I feel a bit dizzy thinking about the prisoners before her. How many lives have I taken? How many times did I have the bullet, pulling the trigger without a hint of remorse? The girl is right. If there is a God, He is coming for us. And I will be at His mercy.
“Fire!”
I know what I have to do. My finger rests upon the trigger of my rifle, one that I have fired a thousand times. It will be fired no more. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I lower my rifle as shots ring out around me. The silence that follows is deafening.
I open my eyes. The girl remains standing before me, her eyes open and wide. I look down at the rifle in my hands, growing heavy with the weight of a single bullet left unfired. How many lives could I have saved?
“What the hell?!”
The sound of panicked shouting resonates in my ears, dozens of voices blending together into an all-consuming hurricane. I stare ahead blankly, watching as a handful of guards rush towards the prisoner, forcing her onto her knees as they form a protective circle around her. I open my mouth in protest, yet the only sound that escapes my throat is that of a choked gasp. A firm hand wraps around my shoulder pulling me along with the others on the firing squad. I clutch my rifle tightly against my chest.
We reach the building’s iron door, filing through it one by one. Cool air from indoors brushes my face offering relief from the harsh desert sun and momentarily clearing my head of innumerable thoughts fighting to be heard. Everything is happening so fast. It feels the world is spinning around me. I step across the threshold, the hard sole of my boot hitting the concrete floor at the exact moment that a single gunshot rings out from behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know that they’ve killed her.
“Mission accomplished”
Laughter.
“Did she really expect we’d let her go after that?”
My heart begins to beat out of my chest, forcing my breath to come in short and convulsive bursts. I can’t help but be grateful for having my face covered. It hides a thousand-yard stare formed of guilt and fear. I follow along with the crowd, getting pushed and bumped along the corridor as we make our way into the conference room. It’s just like all the other rooms in this compound--a bare concrete floor, peeling paint on crumbling walls, and a couple of exposed light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The only thing that sets it apart is a large plywood table surrounded by an assortment of chairs and framed by dozens of maps taped to the walls.
We gather around the table, laying our rifles down on its splintery surface. Everyone else remains standing as I collapse into the nearest chair. My heart is still pounding. Gasping for breath, I tear the mask from my face and wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. There's no point in hiding my distress, I suppose. They’ll know anyway. They’ll check our rifles, and they’ll find the bullet in mine.
I wonder what they’ll do. Shoot me, probably. But not before making me a public spectacle. It’s not often that an executioner of seven years loses his nerve. Who was the coward that refused to pull the trigger? At best, I’ll be labeled as a traitor and locked up for good, wasting away in a cramped and unsanitary cell for the rest of my life.
“What’s the matter with you?
I snap my head up sharply, locking eyes with the only man who’s been here longer than I have. He’s known as the Old Man, a title seldom given in a place where the bravest men tend to die young. Though his silky silver hair and doughy middle might suggest a life of comfort, the sharp look in his eyes reveal his savage past. I manage to pull myself together enough to form a coherent answer, keeping the fear from my voice.
“I’m fine. Just kinda out of it, I guess.
“You guess?” He reaches forward, pulling my rifle across the table. My breath catches in my throat as he lifts it off the table, tossing the strap over his shoulders. “You took my rifle this morning, idiot. My initials are on the back.”
He turns the butt of the rifle towards me, revealing three letters sloppily scratched into its surface. A sudden clatter on the table startles me out of my trance as my own rifle is tossed before me. I reach out a shaky hand, running my fingers over its cold metallic surface before pulling it off the table and holding it in my lap. It feels foreign to me. Not only lighter, but somehow more innocent than the rifle I held today. Of course my own rifle has surely fired many live bullets. And yet, I can’t help but feel as though my hands leave a sort of invisible stain as they pass over it.
An angry voice rises above the chatter, jolting me from my hypnotic trance. I realize that the Old Man has long since walked away, and sits now at the opposite end of the table. The commander stands at the front of the room. Every face is turned towards him, looking up in varying stages of fear and respect. Even the Old Man pays close attention.
“Someone in here is a God damned coward!” His voice echos off of the concrete walls, resonating in my chest. “I loaded the rifles myself this morning, and I didn’t make a mistake. One of you still has the bullet.”
Looks of suspicion are cast around the room. I keep my own gaze turned towards the table, though I can feel more and more sets of eyes resting upon me as the room grows quiet.
“No one leaves this room until we find that bullet, and put it through someone’s head. Open your chambers.”
The room fills with a series of clicks as the commander walks around the table, peering down into one empty chamber after another. He passes behind me, giving only a subtle nod before moving on to the next seat. I can feel my skin turn cold and clammy as he moves closer and closer to the Old Man. The guilt is almost unbearable. I want to leap from my chair, proclaiming my guilt for the world to hear. I want to stop him before he finds the bullet, but I remain frozen to my seat as he slowly approaches the Old Man.
He stops behind the chair, staring down towards the open rifle with his hands clasped behind his back. The room takes on an air of deadly suspense, every man waiting for the commander to speak. They can’t see the bullet--only the expression of shock on the Old Man’s leathery face.
“Well,” he says softly. “I have to say, you are not the one I had placed my suspicions on.”
Everyone is frozen except the Old Man who looks from his rifle, to the commander, and then to me.
Then the Old Man slams down his rifle, leaps from his seat and throws himself across the table towards me. I recoil, tipping the chair backwards and cracking my head against the cement. A sharp jolt of pain blurs my vision and renders my body useless. Dazed, I can make out the scuffle above me as a half dozen people rush against the Old Man, throwing him back across the room. My head begins to clear as I’m lifted to my feet.
“You framed me! You framed me, you coward!” The Old Man screams at the top of his lungs, his voice growing raspier by the second. “Let go of me! Let go of me so I can kill him!”
“Sit down!”
The room goes silent, save for the soft sounds of the Old Man sinking down into his chair as the others release him. I can feel the rage emanating from him as he stares into my eyes. Someone places a gentle hand on my shoulder, steadying me once again.
“I know that everyone here is in a state of shock," the commander says, "It’s not often that someone in a profession such as ours fails to act.” He turns towards me before continuing. “And even less common that an innocent man is accused of the crime. We have always been family here, willing to give our lives to protect one another. Our bond is one of blood, making it all the more startling when such things do occur.”
He pauses for a moment, standing at the head of the conference table. He beckons towards the back of the room, a gesture so ordinary it looks out of place given the circumstances. Two men enter through the doorway. They move silently through the room, coming to a stop on either side of the Old Man. With a single swift movement the Old Man is pulled to his feet. The commander steps forward. Slowly, he picks up the rifle from the table and snaps the two halves back into place. “Gentlemen. Let’s continue this discussion outside.”
The commander leads the procession to the door, followed closely by the Old Man and his guards, with the rest of us bustling behind. I'm certain I’ve got a concussion. We step out into the execution yard, the bright light of the sun blinding my eyes and worsening the pain in my head. The Old Man is led to stand against the wall. At his feet is a fresh red stain--the blood from that girl. I can see the tracks in the dirt where they dragged her body out.
The commander stands in place of the firing squad, rifle raised to the Old Man’s head. His finger inches closer to the trigger. Burdened by guilt and shame, I stand in back of the crowd. Finally, I push my way past the crowd and rush towards the commander.
“Wait!”
My voice comes out with startling clarity. Silence overtakes the crowd, the only sound being that of my hurried footsteps. The commander turns towards me, lowering the rifle as I approach.
“Yes?”
“Sir… I..."
I try to talk, but all that comes out are a few gasps. The commander eyes me with impatience before taking a step forward. He unhooks the rifle strap from around his shoulders, letting it hang loosely towards the ground before thrusting it into my hands.
“I suppose it’s only fair for you to do the honors here, being the wrongfully accused.”
He brushes past me, taking position just apart from the crowd. Everyone is watching me. Everyone is waiting for the traitor to be executed. I have no choice. The Old Man stands against the wall, waiting for me to pull the trigger. I turn to face the him, slinging the strap across my body and raising the sight up to my eye. His face is positioned perfectly in the crosshairs, standing out against the backdrop of blood and bullet holes.
My finger rests on the trigger. Mere fractions of an inch are all that separate life and death for the Old Man. If I shoot him no one will ever learn the truth. He’ll be remembered as a coward and a traitor, passing off his crimes to avoid judgment. If I back down now, they’ll know it was me. Instead of being praised for defending my honor, I’ll be the one standing against that wall, staring into the barrel’s gaping void. I squeeze my eyes shut, draw in a deep breath, and prepare to tighten my finger against the trigger.
I can’t do it.
Seven years and countless lives taken, and I couldn’t shoot that girl—and I can’t do this. I lower the rifle with shaking hands, sinking down to one knee on the dusty ground. The others begin to murmur as the Old Man and the commander approach from opposite sides of the yard. I keep my gaze pointed to the ground as they stand close beside me, staring down in disgust.
The rifle is torn from my hands as the two guards roughly hoist me to my feet. They bind my wrists together, though I've no intention of trying to escape. I’m forced towards the wall, dragging my feet through the dirt. I’ve never seen the wall this close before—each stain is a different shade of red, the darkest ones having been there for years. I suppose this brings my life to a full-circle close. The commander comes to stand beside me, leaning his face close to whisper in my ear as the Old Man readies his rifle for my execution.
“Look down at your feet.”
I look down, realizing now that the soles of my boots have been coated in the blood of the young girl, a bloody puddle spreading out from beneath my feet. It makes me want to puke.
“You probably wondered why that girl was here in the first place. Do you want me to tell you?”
Tears begin to run down my face. I can’t wipe them away, though I guess it doesn’t matter.
“She was a lot like you--an executioner. Much younger to be sure, but with a deadly reputation. It’s sad, really. She simply lost her nerve.” He leans his face closer to mine; his hot breath brushes my skin. “We don’t tolerate cowardice here. You should know that by now.”
He turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back. The Old Man stands in front of me, the site placed carefully in front of his right eye. They say you’ll never hear the shot that kills you. I stand up as straight as I can, letting the tears run down my face as I scream out my final words, a tribute to the young girl whose life was so violently extinguished:
“God is coming for you! Now kill me! Kill me, you rotten coward!"
I cast a furtive glance to each side, seeing only the expressionless black masks drawn tightly across the faces of those whom I call my brothers. Even our eyes are covered by mirrored sunglasses. I hear a scuffling off to the left as the prisoner is brought before us. I snap my head forward, my eyes resting once again on the bloody grey wall.
“Stand up straight.”
The guard gives the prisoner a violent shove, her head cracking against the brick with a sickening thud. With the ropes binding her wrists together she falls to her knees unable to catch herself. She appears almost childlike as she kneels on the ground. I realize with a bit of shock that she can’t be much older than sixteen. A torn orange jumpsuit dwarfs her narrow frame, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows and the ankles rolled high above her bare and blistered feet. With a growl of disgust, the guard grips her by the shoulder and pulls her back up against the wall.
“Remove the blindfold, please,” the prisoner says in a voice clear and strong as crystal. “I want to see the bullet coming.”
The guard tears the cloth from across her eyes, spitting in the prisoner’s face as he does. I wonder what she did to be brought before us like this. She seems so innocent; her eyes betray the fear she kept from her voice. Pure blue like the ocean, they shine from beneath her dark and matted hair.
But of course, I am never to know what she has done. It would humanize her. She is merely a prisoner, and my job is to deliver the final blow. Shoulder to shoulder, the five of us stand in silence, waiting for our command. The prisoner stares ahead, scanning across our covered faces before locking her eyes directly onto mine.
I am no stranger to executions. Hundreds of lives have been cut short by our rifles. I have seen grown men beg for mercy at our feet, sniveling like babies. I have seen the bravest warriors brought to their knees, and those akin to monks in their wisdom praying for salvation. We have seen them all, and together we have ended their pleas for help. And yet--despite knowing that this prisoner sees only my mask--I feel her eyes reach into the darkest corners of my soul.
“Do you have any final words?”
The prisoner raises her head slightly, seeming to enjoy the warm sunlight washing over her face. I can’t help but feel a hint of pity for the young girl.
“God is coming for you,” she whispers, spitting her words like poison. “You believe yourselves to be the saviors, to be ridding this world of evil. And yet it is you who torture the innocent--you who take pleasure in watching them writhe in agony."
I can feel a cold sweat breaking out beneath my helmet and dripping through my hair. Keeping my head still, I glance down at the rifle in my hands. I can feel a knot forming in my stomach as the girl continues with her speech.
“I beg you to shoot me. Death is preferable to living in this nation destroyed by your violence. Kill me so that I may escape. But know this: God is coming for you, and you will be dragged down into the vilest pits of Hell for the things that you have done. Now kill me! Kill me, you rotten cowards!”
“Enough!” barks the guard, his face having grown red with rage. “Firing squad, ready!”
All at once we snap to attention, our boots hitting together with a synchronized thud.
“Aim!”
I raise the site on my rifle to my eye, centering the young girl’s face in the crosshairs. She closes her eyes, anticipating her fate with dignity. The knot in my stomach grows tighter. I feel a bit nauseous; no prisoner has ever begged for death before. I wonder if my brothers are thinking the same. Are we really so brave for what we do?
I think about the girl’s life before she was brought here. I know I’m not supposed to. But who is she, really? I’m sure she has family, friends, maybe even a dog. I don’t think she’s from around here--her accent sounds Southern, from near the coast. My family traveled there once when I was young before the fighting began. She would have been an infant still. Maybe I saw her in passing, being carried in a bundle close to her mother’s bosom. There is no way to know, but the thought nags at me.
In all my years as an executioner, it never occurred to me that anyone would mourn the loss of those brought before us. I feel a bit dizzy thinking about the prisoners before her. How many lives have I taken? How many times did I have the bullet, pulling the trigger without a hint of remorse? The girl is right. If there is a God, He is coming for us. And I will be at His mercy.
“Fire!”
I know what I have to do. My finger rests upon the trigger of my rifle, one that I have fired a thousand times. It will be fired no more. Squeezing my eyes shut tight, I lower my rifle as shots ring out around me. The silence that follows is deafening.
I open my eyes. The girl remains standing before me, her eyes open and wide. I look down at the rifle in my hands, growing heavy with the weight of a single bullet left unfired. How many lives could I have saved?
“What the hell?!”
The sound of panicked shouting resonates in my ears, dozens of voices blending together into an all-consuming hurricane. I stare ahead blankly, watching as a handful of guards rush towards the prisoner, forcing her onto her knees as they form a protective circle around her. I open my mouth in protest, yet the only sound that escapes my throat is that of a choked gasp. A firm hand wraps around my shoulder pulling me along with the others on the firing squad. I clutch my rifle tightly against my chest.
We reach the building’s iron door, filing through it one by one. Cool air from indoors brushes my face offering relief from the harsh desert sun and momentarily clearing my head of innumerable thoughts fighting to be heard. Everything is happening so fast. It feels the world is spinning around me. I step across the threshold, the hard sole of my boot hitting the concrete floor at the exact moment that a single gunshot rings out from behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know that they’ve killed her.
“Mission accomplished”
Laughter.
“Did she really expect we’d let her go after that?”
My heart begins to beat out of my chest, forcing my breath to come in short and convulsive bursts. I can’t help but be grateful for having my face covered. It hides a thousand-yard stare formed of guilt and fear. I follow along with the crowd, getting pushed and bumped along the corridor as we make our way into the conference room. It’s just like all the other rooms in this compound--a bare concrete floor, peeling paint on crumbling walls, and a couple of exposed light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The only thing that sets it apart is a large plywood table surrounded by an assortment of chairs and framed by dozens of maps taped to the walls.
We gather around the table, laying our rifles down on its splintery surface. Everyone else remains standing as I collapse into the nearest chair. My heart is still pounding. Gasping for breath, I tear the mask from my face and wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. There's no point in hiding my distress, I suppose. They’ll know anyway. They’ll check our rifles, and they’ll find the bullet in mine.
I wonder what they’ll do. Shoot me, probably. But not before making me a public spectacle. It’s not often that an executioner of seven years loses his nerve. Who was the coward that refused to pull the trigger? At best, I’ll be labeled as a traitor and locked up for good, wasting away in a cramped and unsanitary cell for the rest of my life.
“What’s the matter with you?
I snap my head up sharply, locking eyes with the only man who’s been here longer than I have. He’s known as the Old Man, a title seldom given in a place where the bravest men tend to die young. Though his silky silver hair and doughy middle might suggest a life of comfort, the sharp look in his eyes reveal his savage past. I manage to pull myself together enough to form a coherent answer, keeping the fear from my voice.
“I’m fine. Just kinda out of it, I guess.
“You guess?” He reaches forward, pulling my rifle across the table. My breath catches in my throat as he lifts it off the table, tossing the strap over his shoulders. “You took my rifle this morning, idiot. My initials are on the back.”
He turns the butt of the rifle towards me, revealing three letters sloppily scratched into its surface. A sudden clatter on the table startles me out of my trance as my own rifle is tossed before me. I reach out a shaky hand, running my fingers over its cold metallic surface before pulling it off the table and holding it in my lap. It feels foreign to me. Not only lighter, but somehow more innocent than the rifle I held today. Of course my own rifle has surely fired many live bullets. And yet, I can’t help but feel as though my hands leave a sort of invisible stain as they pass over it.
An angry voice rises above the chatter, jolting me from my hypnotic trance. I realize that the Old Man has long since walked away, and sits now at the opposite end of the table. The commander stands at the front of the room. Every face is turned towards him, looking up in varying stages of fear and respect. Even the Old Man pays close attention.
“Someone in here is a God damned coward!” His voice echos off of the concrete walls, resonating in my chest. “I loaded the rifles myself this morning, and I didn’t make a mistake. One of you still has the bullet.”
Looks of suspicion are cast around the room. I keep my own gaze turned towards the table, though I can feel more and more sets of eyes resting upon me as the room grows quiet.
“No one leaves this room until we find that bullet, and put it through someone’s head. Open your chambers.”
The room fills with a series of clicks as the commander walks around the table, peering down into one empty chamber after another. He passes behind me, giving only a subtle nod before moving on to the next seat. I can feel my skin turn cold and clammy as he moves closer and closer to the Old Man. The guilt is almost unbearable. I want to leap from my chair, proclaiming my guilt for the world to hear. I want to stop him before he finds the bullet, but I remain frozen to my seat as he slowly approaches the Old Man.
He stops behind the chair, staring down towards the open rifle with his hands clasped behind his back. The room takes on an air of deadly suspense, every man waiting for the commander to speak. They can’t see the bullet--only the expression of shock on the Old Man’s leathery face.
“Well,” he says softly. “I have to say, you are not the one I had placed my suspicions on.”
Everyone is frozen except the Old Man who looks from his rifle, to the commander, and then to me.
Then the Old Man slams down his rifle, leaps from his seat and throws himself across the table towards me. I recoil, tipping the chair backwards and cracking my head against the cement. A sharp jolt of pain blurs my vision and renders my body useless. Dazed, I can make out the scuffle above me as a half dozen people rush against the Old Man, throwing him back across the room. My head begins to clear as I’m lifted to my feet.
“You framed me! You framed me, you coward!” The Old Man screams at the top of his lungs, his voice growing raspier by the second. “Let go of me! Let go of me so I can kill him!”
“Sit down!”
The room goes silent, save for the soft sounds of the Old Man sinking down into his chair as the others release him. I can feel the rage emanating from him as he stares into my eyes. Someone places a gentle hand on my shoulder, steadying me once again.
“I know that everyone here is in a state of shock," the commander says, "It’s not often that someone in a profession such as ours fails to act.” He turns towards me before continuing. “And even less common that an innocent man is accused of the crime. We have always been family here, willing to give our lives to protect one another. Our bond is one of blood, making it all the more startling when such things do occur.”
He pauses for a moment, standing at the head of the conference table. He beckons towards the back of the room, a gesture so ordinary it looks out of place given the circumstances. Two men enter through the doorway. They move silently through the room, coming to a stop on either side of the Old Man. With a single swift movement the Old Man is pulled to his feet. The commander steps forward. Slowly, he picks up the rifle from the table and snaps the two halves back into place. “Gentlemen. Let’s continue this discussion outside.”
The commander leads the procession to the door, followed closely by the Old Man and his guards, with the rest of us bustling behind. I'm certain I’ve got a concussion. We step out into the execution yard, the bright light of the sun blinding my eyes and worsening the pain in my head. The Old Man is led to stand against the wall. At his feet is a fresh red stain--the blood from that girl. I can see the tracks in the dirt where they dragged her body out.
The commander stands in place of the firing squad, rifle raised to the Old Man’s head. His finger inches closer to the trigger. Burdened by guilt and shame, I stand in back of the crowd. Finally, I push my way past the crowd and rush towards the commander.
“Wait!”
My voice comes out with startling clarity. Silence overtakes the crowd, the only sound being that of my hurried footsteps. The commander turns towards me, lowering the rifle as I approach.
“Yes?”
“Sir… I..."
I try to talk, but all that comes out are a few gasps. The commander eyes me with impatience before taking a step forward. He unhooks the rifle strap from around his shoulders, letting it hang loosely towards the ground before thrusting it into my hands.
“I suppose it’s only fair for you to do the honors here, being the wrongfully accused.”
He brushes past me, taking position just apart from the crowd. Everyone is watching me. Everyone is waiting for the traitor to be executed. I have no choice. The Old Man stands against the wall, waiting for me to pull the trigger. I turn to face the him, slinging the strap across my body and raising the sight up to my eye. His face is positioned perfectly in the crosshairs, standing out against the backdrop of blood and bullet holes.
My finger rests on the trigger. Mere fractions of an inch are all that separate life and death for the Old Man. If I shoot him no one will ever learn the truth. He’ll be remembered as a coward and a traitor, passing off his crimes to avoid judgment. If I back down now, they’ll know it was me. Instead of being praised for defending my honor, I’ll be the one standing against that wall, staring into the barrel’s gaping void. I squeeze my eyes shut, draw in a deep breath, and prepare to tighten my finger against the trigger.
I can’t do it.
Seven years and countless lives taken, and I couldn’t shoot that girl—and I can’t do this. I lower the rifle with shaking hands, sinking down to one knee on the dusty ground. The others begin to murmur as the Old Man and the commander approach from opposite sides of the yard. I keep my gaze pointed to the ground as they stand close beside me, staring down in disgust.
The rifle is torn from my hands as the two guards roughly hoist me to my feet. They bind my wrists together, though I've no intention of trying to escape. I’m forced towards the wall, dragging my feet through the dirt. I’ve never seen the wall this close before—each stain is a different shade of red, the darkest ones having been there for years. I suppose this brings my life to a full-circle close. The commander comes to stand beside me, leaning his face close to whisper in my ear as the Old Man readies his rifle for my execution.
“Look down at your feet.”
I look down, realizing now that the soles of my boots have been coated in the blood of the young girl, a bloody puddle spreading out from beneath my feet. It makes me want to puke.
“You probably wondered why that girl was here in the first place. Do you want me to tell you?”
Tears begin to run down my face. I can’t wipe them away, though I guess it doesn’t matter.
“She was a lot like you--an executioner. Much younger to be sure, but with a deadly reputation. It’s sad, really. She simply lost her nerve.” He leans his face closer to mine; his hot breath brushes my skin. “We don’t tolerate cowardice here. You should know that by now.”
He turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back. The Old Man stands in front of me, the site placed carefully in front of his right eye. They say you’ll never hear the shot that kills you. I stand up as straight as I can, letting the tears run down my face as I scream out my final words, a tribute to the young girl whose life was so violently extinguished:
“God is coming for you! Now kill me! Kill me, you rotten coward!"
Anastazia Rudolph is a college freshman from Nevada, studying criminal justice while working as a hospital security officer. In her free time, she enjoys practicing martial arts and studying foreign languages, including Spanish, Russian, and Mandarin. She has been in the Civil Air Patrol for four years, participating in the cadet program as well as search and rescue exercises. Read more of Anastazia's work HERE.
If you would like to contact the author with comments, compliments, or questions use the form below. Please understand that this is a project of love and support for our authors and our young readers, so negativity will not get you in touch with any of our authors.
If you would like to contact the author with comments, compliments, or questions use the form below. Please understand that this is a project of love and support for our authors and our young readers, so negativity will not get you in touch with any of our authors.
About the Author
Copyright notice: The Firing Squad by Anastazia Rudolph - © 2021 All rights reserved.
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